#they made it through their own labor without exploiting anyone so what EXACTLY is your problem

[captainjonnitkessler]

You guys know that capitalism doesn’t mean “involves money”, right? It is legitimately important that you all know that the problem with capitalism is not “uses currency”.

Capitalism is bad because it exploits people and puts profit over human life and dignity. It’s not bad or morally wrong for people to have lots of money, it’s wrong for them to make that money by exploiting workers. It’s not wrong to sell products and labor for money, it’s wrong to run everyone else out of business so you can form a monopoly and jack up prices once people have no choice but to buy from you.

It’s really starting to piss me off, the frequency with which I’m seeing people call others “capitalist scum” and “bootlickers” for things like “charging money for products and services”, “suggesting that laborers should be paid fairly”, and the classic “having more money than me”. Capitalism is a huge problem, but when you don’t understand what the problem actually is and just start assuming that any transaction involving money is “capitalism”, you are diluting and weakening the cause you claim to be fighting for.

The problem with capitalism is the exploitation of labor, not the existence of money. 

#this is SERIOUSLY pissing me off #like yeah. capitalism sucks. obviously #but people have been blaming it for EVERYTHING. and it's like . . . you are missing several points here #like a lot of what people have been blaming capitalism for is just general human nature #you think people are going to stop being jackasses under socialism? you think people are going to stop #lying and stealing and hoarding just because we changed economic systems? #*gestures wildly at all of human history* THE EVIDENCE SUGGESTS THEY WILL NOT #and don't even get me started on people claiming to be anti-capitalist and pro-worker and pro-union #and then getting FURIOUS when they find out how much union laborers make #and suddenly switching over to 'eat the rich' #bro. an electrician making $50 an hour isn't 'rich' and even if they were #they made it through their own labor without exploiting anyone so what EXACTLY is your problem

[decolonize-the-left]

This is the anon about why voting is important. Be mad at people who stop at voting. But if the gun wins, good luck protesting and getting something. This is coming from an European living in a country where the right wing government made it illegal to record the police. I have friends in legal battles and who might end up in prison for being in protests. Historically, think Thatcher vs. the Miners. Vote the knife AND protest. It only works if you do both.

P.S: Also, I understand you're replying to the side you think I'm on and not to me personally. But I'm pro violent protests, pro strikes, pro boycotting, pro sabotage, pro self-organized autonomous zones... etc. In fact I've been actively involved in everything I've mentioned. And I still fucking vote. Because low voter turnout always, ALWAYS benefits the right. So again, it's not vote OR protest. You can do both, and you fucking should.

Hey anon. Today is Orange Shirt day.

You may know it as the day where we think about how Every Single President (both red AND blue), prime minister, and monarchy regardless of their beliefs allowed residential schools to function and kill natives, even FDR the most social Democrat this country ever had and even the same man who created the minimum wage and asked corporations to stop bleeding workers dry.

Yeah he didn't do shit. Neither did our "allies" who constantly wanted our vote but didn't want anything to do with us when elections are over.

Decades later look at you. Still using the same bullshit, gaslighting tactics.

Anyway did you know attendance was mandatory at the residential schools til 1947? You may recognize this as the year WW2 officially ended. Y'all remember what inspired Hitler? Yeah I guess keeping mandatory attendance at the 'schools' that inspired Hitler's concentration camps must have been a bad look for allies. They kept functioning tho. The last one didn't even close until 1997.

And what have yall done about those schools since? In the 70 years since. What have yall done about the treatment of natives besides pretend to care for a week whenever it's trendy? Besides try guilting us to be the bigger person & vote your way every time the guy you don't like seems like he might win? Which of the 13 presidents you've had since then has given a singular shit about anyone who wasn't a settler? How many times have y'all demanded your president to give a shit about us?

Exactly.

Not one. And you voters haven't done a damn thing about it except bitch at us to accept the slow death you've sentenced us to over and over again. You refuse to recognize your participation in our genocide. Voting doesn't help. It never has. It's something you tell yourselves is reducing harm when the opposite is true. To placate your own conscience.

Maybe if you spent less time trying to recruit votes that Do Nothing then we'd have more to show for 200 years of "progress" than reservations still without running water and an ignored national MMIW crisis spanning 2 countries.

Hell, we still have to beg your goverments to give our kids back. Over 200 years of asking to be considered humans worth respect and you still want me to vote for the guys who killed our sons, our daughters, our elders and won't even do us the decency of admitting it, let alone return them to us.

Voter turnout has enabled white supremacists and has helped uphold white supremacy. In fact, that's literally why laws were created. Reminder that prison labor was created specifically to be a form of ongoing slavery in the same exact article where slavery as a whole was abolished. That article still allows slavery through the prison system and in fact it's used and abused all the time to exploit prisoners to do shit they have no business doing (like fighting fires). And that's just One Law. Just one example. Nevermind the thousands of others that sought to harm specifically BIPOC, some even passed this year.

So fuck you, your knife, and the horse you rode in on.

"vote for the knife that's stabbing you in the throat"

When settlers show me they give an actual shit about brown people, I'll start to give an actual shit about your half formed colonizer opinions.

#asked #answered #voting #ndn #Indigenous #white audacity #vote blue #anti Indigenous #reblog #just Colonizer things

[darlington-v]

I know different interpretations of a work are generally enriching and cool... but c!dream villan interpretations is like how to tell me you only watch Tommy without saying you only watch tommy.... which would be fine but its not a great place to be making statements about the whole nature of the dsmp lol

Wild speculation, but sometimes I wonder if like, because the dsmp didn't really start as a narrative, and a lot of fans don't nessecarily enter it expecting a narrative, but then there is one and the fandom is really discourse heavy and everyone is sort of excpeted to have an opinion while maybe not expecting to form one from the begining or not having a ton of experience with narrative in a way that would "expect" them to have an opinion or not take things at face value??, I don't know if I explained that well at all... and I don't really even think thats right nessecarily... but like wow sometimes some of the takes about power and government and villany...

Honestly, it makes sense!!!

I think something interesting is like.... looking at how animatics have shaped the like tone and culture of the fandom essentially. Like, an interesting fact that I didn't really fully grasp until SUPER recently is like...

c!Wilbur out the gate admits he is manipulating c!Tommy. Like his first youtube video on the Dream SMP he admits his goal is to manipulate c!Tommy and people like c!Tommy into helping him achieve a potion ("drug") empire to monopolize on potions because there were a lot of people on the server who like to min-max, which is to put all of your effort into this one specific skill essentially. so like... i know minecraft doesnt have a skill tree but if it did, it would be putting all your points into that one specific branch of a skill tree. So he wanted to exploit the labor of all the TommyInnits to.... maintain a Potion Empire.

THIS IS A LONG POST BC I GOT CARRIED AWAY SO BUCKLE UP

And I don't think a lot of the fandom who joined later on knows this. I certainly didn't until like a week or so ago? Like... I knew c!Wilbur had been manipulative from the start because I'm a mod of (shameless self promo incoming) @dsmpanalysis and we have a lot of different POVs in that mod team and discord and we talk about it really frequently. I joined the fandom as someone who was really big on L'manburg ESPECIALLY crimeboys, and have turned into.... *gestures vaguely to my blog*

And ngl I owe a lot of it to @1-michibiki-1 in terms of c!Dream "Apologism" but all of the mods there have expanded my thoughts and views on the storylines of this narrative.

My application consisted of like largely essays about like... how I think Dream was the villain but he was meant to be the villain because you don't get any insight into his character WHICH.... IS A FAIR ASSUMPTION AT FIRST GLANCE. People are easily villainized when you cannot get a glimpse into their thought process. It's easy to dwindle someone down into this flat character and starting out I knew Dream didn't stream the SMP on purpose.

And I personally came to the conclusion of "Oh! So Dream is supposed to be the villain." However as the story continued and I learned more about what Dream went through I began to realize that... it's more than likely a form of a red herring. My opinions on this were immediately solidified when I watched Ranboo's 2 MIL stream because both Ranboo AND Dream agree on enjoying red herrings.

There have been MANY times were Dream has said that c!Dream is a complex character and he's not a wholly evil guy and there have been times where the narrative has honestly just proved that.

Anyways, what's important though was that... I learned most of this from other people who were more focused on c!Dream rather than myself. Eventually I shifted from c!Tommy to c!Ranboo and c!Techno after c!Tommy betrayed c!Techno and I began to realize.... everything I learned before hopping in wasn't exactly what it seemed.

Part of this is because I'm older, I heavily identify with c!Techno's sense of loyalty and philosophies on government, but I especially identify with the anguish c!Techno voiced in... a lot of lore but especially the lore around Doomsday.

I'm not 16 anymore. I don't always feel wronged by adults, or older people in my case, whenever they absolutely have done something wrong by me, but I do feel wronged by my close friends. I also felt like c!Tommy's sense of loyalty didn't line up with mine after what felt like him constantly flip-flopping and refusing to understand c!Techno's morals on government didn't line up with his.

In short, it was easier to identify with Tommy in these animatics versus in the actual stream content because c!Tommy is played by a 16 year old. I'm not a teenager and my line of thinking doesn't entirely line up with people that age anymore. It's harder to place myself in the same shoes of someone's OC who is played closer to their actual age, because I'm not that age.

Regardless, I was still on the c!Dream is a villain train. I wasn't ever like... c!Dream is repulsive I hate him, but I was like omg hot villain lad go brrr.

Even when the first like... mellohi, panic room, Ranboo lore stream popped up I thought "Oh! c!Ranboo corruption arc?"

And I was excited because I really wanted this shy, nervous character to turn into villain buddies with his good pal c!Dream. I'm a total sucker for villains and corruption arcs and all that good shit.

SO I STARTED GETTING REALLY INTERESTED IN ENDERSMILE. I'VE BEEN ON ENDERSMILE SQUAD OUT THE GATE. NOT THE SAME WAY I AM NOW, BUT I'VE ALWAYS WANTED THEM TO TEAM UP.

So... upon not really keeping up with c!Dream and being relatively??? indifferent? I don't think I started arguments on c!Dream back then, but I might have. But I remember like... starting to participate more whenever c!Dream came up and looking more into Dream's character BUT ESPECIALLY TALKING WITH OUR SERVER'S C!DREAM SPECIALIST MICHI ABOUT DREAM A LOT MORE.

And because Michi has been a watcher since day one and was a DTeam fan rather than a SBI fan, she was able to provide me with more information on how the server worked pre-Tommy but especially pre-Wilbur.

Now, you could definitely argue well Michi probably has clear bias but it made sense to me when I looked back on how the storyline had been constructed and was going along, and everyone in the server talks a lot about our own biases and how we want people to maybe not lean so hard on them. Michi would also provide like anecdotes on what had happened and I'm sure links were probably provided at one point but the point was I felt like Michi had no reason to lie or manipulate how the story was told and if she did, eventually someone would have pointed it out because... Group of like... right now it's around 20 or more analysts but I don't remember how many at the time there were. POINT BEING, WE'VE ALL GOT POINTS TO PROVE AND IN MY EXPERIENCE NOT MANY OF US HAVE BEEN SHY TO PROVE THEM.

So if anyone ever had any differing opinions they would be talked about and we literally had and still have discussions.

REGARDLESS.... I DIDN'T FACT CHECK IN DEPTH BECAUSE I THOUGHT PEER REVIEW WAS ENOUGH WHEN YOU HAVE LIKE HOURS UPON HOURS OF STREAMS TO WATCH.

Anyways. Eventually I started paying closer attention and looking more into c!Dream lore but only recently have I started to triple check before speaking about c!Wilbur lore because I know everyone has biases and while I did trust everyone's thoughts and analysis in the discord, whenever I make essays I typically like it to be largely air tight and if theres a mistake, I want it to be because I forgot not because I just trusted what was said. Plus, I wanted to get down to the specifics of how Wilbur had always started with manipulation on the mind.

SO I WATCHED HIS FIRST VIDEO ON THE DREAM SMP.

AND WHAT I WAS NOT BY ANY MEANS EXPECTING WAS WILBUR TO SAY WORD FOR WORD, VERBATIM,

"SO WHY DON'T I START AN INDUSTRY WHERE I USE THE TOMMYINNITS OF THE WORLD TO WORK FOR ME, TO CREATE THINGS THAT THE MIN-MAXERS OF THE WORLD WILL WANT."

Like... this is in no way an attempt to like hardcore villainize c!Wilbur like everyone does Dream, it's just more so to like REALLY outline how far off a lot of fandom interpretation of c!Wilbur is....

Because of SBI focused animatics.

Now, when I joined I watched A LOT of animatics that really highlighted like... Wilbur being this self-loathing JD-esque, "I destroyed it because I had to because the world was against me because no one loved us, Tommy" type of character. At least... that's what it came across as.

And it definitely highlighted the fact that Tommy was a victim, which he is. He is undoubtedly a victim and no not even any dream apologist can change my mind otherwise. Tommy, despite being an instigator sometimes, didn't deserve the abuse he received.

But these animatics never shown the fact that c!Wilbur started L'manburg as a shady ploy to exploit people like c!Tommy and vilify c!Dream so he could have power.

And that was easy because Dream and Tommy had wars before. They had spars and pranks and here's the plan to take back my disks and here's the plan to out smart the thieving little child etc etc.

And all of the animatics I watched never mentioned this. Neither did the recaps though. The recaps gave the events flat out, there didn't sound like there was bias, and honestly I don't really know if there was rather than like... a lack of nuance. And it's hard to provide a recap with that much nuance in a short period of time for a youtube video, to be perfectly fair.

However, this creates a perfect formula for entirely rewriting the history of a server. c!Wilbur quite literally fucking succeeded TO A META LEVEL. He slandered and ran smear campaigns against Dream and like he even does that with Sapnap in the beginning. But what's crazy is that it transferred over into the meta! Most of this fandom understands Wilbur as a victim of mental illness, and yeah maybe? He definitely wasn't mentally well by the end of pogtopia, but he never started out with honorable intentions. L'manburg was never a victim, only its citizens. The TommyInnits of the world.

I just think it's like... such an interesting case study. Because this is like... an opinion like shared by at least half of the fandom, but the vilifying of c!Dream is shared by MOST of the fandom I would argue. Which is like even more crazy for me because that was c!Wilbur's goal!!!

LIKE I GO INSANE WHEN I THINK OF THIS BECAUSE HIS REACH IS JUST TOO POWERFUL. HE'S NOT EVEN ENTIRELY REAL, JUST A MANIPULATIVE PERSONA OF SOME BRITISH GUY.

And I mean... maybe people who have watched Wilbur's video on the SMP still maintain this idea that Wilbur wasn't always the bad guy, but honestly... I wouldn't be surprised if their introduction was still an animatic. Like bias is hard to check and I'm not going to lie I could have sworn I watched both Wilbur's AND Tommy's video on the SMP in the beginning and yet I STILL was a ride or die for tragic yet on some level still honorable Wilbur and a resilient Tommy.

Like... upon watching Wilbur's first video... possibly again I was surprised because I thought I did watch it like right before I even started watching the streams and yet I was still so invested in c!Wilbur as this tortured anti-hero.

It took 6 months of... not being in an echo chamber, full of multiple different people of different ages, different stream POVS, and people who joined the fandom at different points in time.

IDK IF THIS WAS EVEN ENTIRELY RELEVANT IT JUST FELT TANGENTIALLY RELEVANT AND THIS WAS SOMETHING I'VE BEEN THINKING ABOUT FOR A HOT MINUTE AFTER LIKE WATCHING WILBUR'S FIRST VIDEO AGAIN.

TLDR;

SBI CENTRIC ANIMATICS HAD A LASTING AFFECT ON THIS FANDOM AS IT'S HARD TO GO BACK AND ACTUALLY CHECK THE NARRATIVE FOR SOLID FACTS FOR YOUR OWN INTERPRETATION BASED ON THE FACT THAT THIS NARRATIVE SPANS OVER HUNDREDS OF HOURS WORTH OF TWITCH STREAMS.

#asks #anon #dream smp #dsmp #dsmp analysis #dream smp analysis #dsmp meta #dream smp meta #my analysis #long post

[ruffboijuliaburnsides]

voiceless jaskier au (pt 7)

Chapter 4 is, with this, complete and shortly will be on AO3! And also possibly my longest chapter. YAY! 

In which I actually let Jaskier have a Not Shitty Day (and Geralt has a much more shitty day)

(Part 1) (Part 2) (Part 3) (Part 4) (Part 5) (Part 6) (Part 8) (Part 9) (Part 10) Now on AO3

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

Geralt was, perhaps unsurprisingly, not back yet when Jaskier woke up, surrounded by the papers that held everything he'd purged the night before. He sat and stared blankly at the detritus of his hurt and anger, feeling hollowed out and weary.

Hollowed out and weary, but not like he was going to get lost in the mist again, which brought on a feeling of something like relief. He got out of bed and pulled fresh(ish) clothes on, being careful not to disturb any of the papers as he did. That was the thing, he was angry still, and he thought he had every right to be. Geralt didn't get to be overwhelmingly attentive one moment and then just refuse to listen to him the next, especially before running off to maybe get himself killed without thinking about how Jaskier would survive.

No, Jaskier thought with an admittedly bitter-tasting sort of pride, the papers would stay. He couldn't yell at Geralt, but as emotionally raw as he felt glancing over the things he'd written, maybe it would get through to Geralt and he'd look next time. And the time after that. And every time Jaskier was trying so hard to reach out of the silent pit he'd fallen into to connect to another goddamn person.

That decided, clothed and with a clean face from scrubbing in the washbasin, Jaskier considered his options. He could swear up and down to the innkeeper that the witcher would be back to pay for any meals he might have while staying alone, but the fact was that most people would be dubious of a witcher's guarantee to come back. Especially given how quickly he left, for the next town over. Jaskier could, instead, set up in the main room or the town square with his lute and play, and hope for some generosity from the townsfolk. The problem was that without his voice, he was limited to only the sound of his lute itself. Which, admittedly, was fantastic, but wasn't likely to earn him much of anything. Instrumental music was for banquets and noble halls, before the night moved on to more energetic entertainment. People in a little place like this looked to a bard for entertainment with jigs, melodramatic ballads, tales of adventure, and songs about maidens fucking farmboys. Jaskier could play a mean jig, but for the rest... well.

And anyway, doing that would mean actually playing, and thinking about it still made something twist up in his stomach.

No, not today, he thought, and snagged his tablet before heading to the door. Today, he would hope that the innkeeper or one of his neighbors would take pity on him and give him some sort of small job to do in exchange for food or a little bit of money. It wasn't something Jaskier was looking forward to, silently begging for the chance to do menial labor, but it wasn't like he had many options.

**

The innkeeper did have a few unskilled tasks that he usually had his daughter do alone, but he seemed to be perfectly happy to let Jaskier help with them in exchange for food, even giving him breakfast before setting him to work.

"That witcher of yours left you here without coin for food?" he'd asked, eyes narrowed, when Jaskier approached him. Jaskier shrugged, spreading his hands dramatically, trying to play it off as sort of a 'witchers, am I right?' situation. The innkeeper shook his head, grumbling. "Damn thoughtless creature," he'd said, and ushered Jaskier into a seat near the kitchen. Jaskier wanted to protest, to speak up in Geralt's defense, mention how careful Geralt had been up to this point, but once he was seated and eating porridge and sausage, he had to admit he didn't disagree.

Geralt had been damn thoughtless, and Jaskier was still fucking angry.

The chores were hardly complicated, even for him. Washing breakfast dishes, helping boil water for laundry (which he was allowed to drop his own dirty clothes into, and pointedly did not bring Geralt's down for), helping hang the laundry to dry. Not exactly easy, nor the sorts of chores he'd ever had to do growing up, but it was something to pass the time, and made him at least feel useful for the first time since the djinn. The innkeeper's daughter was seventeen, sharp as a whip, and named Hanna. She kept up a steady, if not constant, commentary throughout the day, giving her thoughts on what she wanted from life, how well (or poorly) Jaskier was doing at following her directions, and various gossip and theories about passing townsfolk that they could see from the back yard of the inn. She got him to laugh more than once with her sharp commentary, and he felt if they could've had a proper conversation he would've enjoyed her even more. She even shared her lunch with him, half a small loaf of bread, a chunk of cheese, and an apple that she imperiously demanded he slice for them, which made him laugh yet again.

(She'd started singing at one point, in the absent way people did when they were doing a familiar task, and he'd faltered in his movements hanging the laundry on the line, his hands frozen in the process of pinning someone's chemise up. He'd forgotten until that moment, despite not being able to answer her as she chatted, that he couldn't sing anymore. It hit him like a punch to the chest and for a long moment he felt like he couldn't breathe. Hanna hadn't said anything, but she must have noticed, and she resumed talking about the exploits of her friend Maja instead of her song, and didn't sing again. Jaskier felt guilty and grateful in equal measure for that.)

It was a good day, probably the first good day he'd had in... how long had it been, two weeks? Longer? The first good day since even before the lake, though he'd hoped briefly when he found Geralt that his day was getting better. More the fool him. But this day of feeling useful and not pitied was what he needed and Jaskier was very relaxed (if already sore and sweaty) by the time the late afternoon sun was warming him as he weeded the kitchen garden alone, Hanna having gone in to help start supper.

Or he was relaxed until the door to the kitchen was thrown open with a loud bang, and he briefly was grateful for his enforced silence because he can tell he would've just screeched embarrassingly otherwise. Geralt of fucking Rivia was the culprit, looking tensed for a fight. Jaskier barely had time to wonder what could possibly have gone so wrong while he was outside that Geralt was looking like that when Geralt's eyes locked on him, kneeling in the dirt with his shirtsleeves rolled up and a weed in his hand, and the tension seemed to bleed out of him. Not that anyone but Jaskier or maybe another witcher would've noticed, as little changed, but the feeling that Geralt was readying himself for a dust up dissipated.

Jaskier obviously couldn't say anything, but that was very far from anything he expected to happen, and he raised an eyebrow, not otherwise moving.

"Excuse me," Hanna's voice came from behind Geralt in the kitchen. "If you don't mind, sir witcher, we're busy in here. Go out or come in, but don't just stand there all in the way!"

Geralt half-turned with a startled frown, and Jaskier couldn't imagine the scathing look the girl must've been giving him that prompted him to simply grunt out a quiet "Sorry," before stepping outside, closing the door behind him.

Jaskier almost laughed at the disconcerted expression on Geralt's face in the wake of whatever look Hanna had subjected him to, before remembering why he was out here in the first place. Instead, he pressed his lips in a line, his good mood already fled in favor of lingering anger and resentment, and pointedly looked down and resumed weeding. Geralt walked closer and it occurred to Jaskier that he'd left his tablet upstairs after going to fetch his laundry, because he didn't want to risk it getting lost or stepped on, and Hanna hadn't needed it to get on just fine with him. Whatever conversation he had with Geralt right now was, by nature, going to be extremely one-sided, as Jaskier both couldn't talk to him and wasn't speaking to him.

Geralt stopped at the edge of the garden plot, a few feet away from where Jaskier was kneeling, and just... stood there. Jaskier'd intended to just let him stew until he felt like speaking up, but eventually the silent looming got to Jaskier, and he left off the weeding to sit back on his heels and spread his arms. What?

"You weren't there," Geralt rumbled, an inscrutable and alien (to Jaskier, anyway, which was actually pretty strange) expression on his face. Jaskier frowned slightly, then pushed himself to his feet and brushed his hands off on his trousers, eyes never leaving Geralt's face, and the expression he didn't recognize.

"You weren't there," Geralt repeats after a few beats of silence, clearly struggling to get words out. "There was all the paper talking about how angry you were, and your lute was there, and the wax tablets were there, and it didn't smell like you'd been there for hours."

Oh. Jaskier's shield around his heart cracks a little bit. The big idiot had been scared. Of something having happened to him, maybe, or of him having left, or something Jaskier can't think of, but the point was that Geralt was scared and had flipped out because of it, stormed the kitchen and threw open the backdoor to make sure Jaskier was there. There was "mad at him" and there was "being an ass to him", so Jaskier softened and reached out a hand to put on one of the arms Geralt had crossed protectively in front of his chest. A soft little exhalation escaped Geralt's lips, and Jaskier thought honestly if he was the sort of person who cried, Geralt might be crying from relief now. Jaskier had wanted Geralt to know and understand how angry he'd been last night, but he'd never really meant to scare or hurt him, so it was his turn to apologize. Not for being mad, he refused to apologize for that sort of thing, but for scaring him.

Jaskier looped his arm through Geralt's, dirt and sweat and all, and tugged him back towards the door. Geralt let himself be led, not taking his eyes off Jaskier as they moved. Jaskier waved and smiled apologetically to Hanna and her mother as they cut quickly through the kitchen, and saw the disdainfully disappointed look the innkeeper shot Geralt as they passed, and then it was upstairs and into their room. The pages that had been scattered on every surface were more or less in a pile on the bed, like Geralt had grabbed each one of them, read it, then grabbed the next and the next, before dropping them and racing out to find him. Which... was probably what had happened.

The giant idiot.

Jaskier unlinked their arms to move the papers, dropping them to the side of the bed carelessly, because frankly they didn't matter now that they'd been read, herded Geralt to the bed and pushed him to sit down, and then retrieved his tablet from the side table, rubbing his hands on his trousers again to keep any dirt from getting ground into the wax.

You're an idiot, was the first thing Jaskier wrote, turned around to show Geralt with fond exasperation. Geralt opened his mouth to respond and Jaskier held a finger up to stop him, adding more under it. And an ass. Geralt huffed, frustrated, and scowled slightly.

"Jaskier."

Oh, fine, he'd go faster and stop just listing things that Geralt, patently and provably, was. I'm angry, not stupid. What did you think happened?

"I don't know," Geralt grumbled with a faint grimace, not looking up at Jaskier's face. "The papers were ripped out of your journal. The messages seemed... desperate."

Jaskier sighed and sat on the bed next to Geralt, tucking one leg up under him, and smoothed the wax before starting in on a longish message.

You didn't look when I had a message to show you. This is my voice right now. I can't shout. Maybe throw it at your head but it might break. And you didn't think about how I would pay for anything, which was what I was trying to ask you. But you didn't look. You can't not look, Geralt. His handwriting wasn't great, admittedly, especially writing smaller, but it was readable when he held it out to Geralt.

"Hm," Geralt handed the tablet back, and Jaskier started smoothing the wax again. "I'm... sorry. It was thoughtless. You could've gotten hurt." He sounded sincere to Jaskier's ears, if a bit reluctant. Jaskier knew Geralt struggled to talk about his own feelings, let alone his fears. Jaskier had never known Geralt to talk about his fears, and while he hadn't said so explicitly, the fear that Jaskier could've gotten hurt, and it would've been Geralt's fault, seemed like an obvious jump from what he'd said. And really, it made sense. Geralt considered what happened to Jaskier's voice his fault. It would be him failing Jaskier again if anything but a truly spectacular meltdown and some laundry had happened while Geralt had been gone.

Jaskier bumped his shoulder up against Geralt's as he wrote, Geralt leaning in a little to watch the letters forming, and Jaskier's breath almost hitched from the smell of him so close in his space (even the sweat and horse that permeated him). Forgiven if you never do it again. Promise?

"I promise," Geralt responded even before Jaskier finished writing, solemn as anything. "I'll always look. If it needs to wait, I'll say. But I promise I'll look."

Jaskier patted Geralt's knee in acceptance and smiled. Good. Dinner. He stood, then stopped on his way to the door to quickly add, I earned dinner tonight. You can pay for baths. He showed Geralt and gave him a smug, cheeky grin, and Geralt's eyes flicked from the tablet to his face and met his eyes without response for just a moment too long to be entirely comfortable. Then the moment passed, and Geralt pushed himself to his feet.

"All right," he agreed. "You look like you've been rolling in the mud all day, you could use one." He chuckled at Jaskier's indignant expression and got a smack upside the head with the tablet as they made their way back downstairs.

(Part 1) (Part 2) (Part 3) (Part 4) (Part 5) (Part 6) (Part 8) (Part 9) (Part 10) Now on AO3

#the witcher #geraskier #geralt #jaskier #fic #my fic #voiceless jaskier au

[meta-squash]

[Old Manics meta repost, originally written in 2015 or 2016. I was definitely in a....place....when I wrote this.]

Cue yet another long convoluted rambling strange post about Richey Edwards and Theodor Adorno. For some reason this has been rolling around in my head as half-formed thoughts for a while. They’re definitely still half-formed, but I wanted to get them out of my head and into something slightly more sentence-like.

[Uhh, TW for weird logic, ED-style thinking, and convoluted ill-formed ideas.]

In one of Richey’s manifestos to a zine in December 1992, he writes “THE GODS THOUGHT THERE IS NO MORE DREADFUL PUNISHMENT THAN FUTILE AND HOPELESS LABOUR. GROW UP, GET FUCKED, WITHER. NO ONE IN THIS COUNTRY KNOW HUNGER, TRUE HUNGER LIKE SOMALIA. EVERYONE HAS CLOTHES, FOOD, A DRINK. EVERYONE IS LAST, PATHETIC WRETCHED. THE ONLY FREEDOM LEFT IS THE FREEDOM TO STARVE. FILL YOUR HOME WITH ANYTHING YOU LIKE BUT YOU CAN’T INVENT ANOTHER COLOUR…” The “freedom to starve” quote keeps being attributed to him on the internet, or to Tom Morello, lead singer of Rage Against The Machine, who has a different but similar quote about capitalism and labor exploitation that includes the phrase. (It also appears in the comic V For Vendetta, apparently.) But the phrase didn’t originate with them. I keep seeing repeated uses of it when reading essays by Theodor Adorno from the 60s, and I’m sure the phrase is probably older than that. Morello’s quote containing the phrase is essentially summarizing one of Adorno’s ideas.

So far I’ve come across the phrase in two of Theodor Adorno’s essays. One is in “Freedom In Unfreedom”. In essence, it discusses the paradox of the idea of freedom in our current society. He essentially says that people no longer have a specific concept in mind when they invoke the word “freedom,” and that the nature of present society means that whatever concept of freedom we come up with is not possible because it contradicts current circumstances. He gives the example of early Nazi Germany, when an social-democratic organization took up “Freedom” as its slogan, but the concept and the term had lost its power entirely because employment was incredibly low, and people were struggling, so upholding freedom as a conceptual principle which implies self-determination looked foolish because in practice no one is free and everyone is unemployed and starving and unable to access food/wellbeing and therefore unable to practice self-determination. He says “In other words, freedom was exposed as the freedom to starve; people had direct experience of their dependence on society, a dependence that made a mockery of a freedom that was defined in purely formal terms.”

The other Adorno essay that uses the phrase is “The Culture Industry: Enlightenment as Mass Deception”. Basically, in the section that uses the phrase he discusses the way that the culture industry (or mass culture) exploits and uses artists by homogenizing them. He says “anyone who resists can only survive by fitting in.” Freedom is supposedly given to each individual (in society, in art, in expression, in culture, in the workplace) but if a person doesn’t inherit the ability or resources to succeed in life, then this freedom becomes the “freedom of the stupid to starve”. People who aren’t able to adapt to society’s expectations/who question or refuse to conform are neglected and made to starve, literally or metaphorically. The blame is placed on them for their inability/unwillingness to adapt or conform, because they were “given” the opportunity to succeed (despite that opportunity requiring conformity, or changing their nature, or giving up morals, etc). So a person who is unable or refuses to conform to society and culture and the working class, who goes hungry or cold (literally or metaphorically), is an labelled outsider. They retain their integrity, or their morals, or their original artistic vision, but they suffer through loss of wealth, or faith, or by being rejected and called an outsider and being mocked or no longer listened to. They are free, but at a price.

Applying this to Richey, I thought it was interesting that he seemed to be taking freedom to starve both literally and figuratively. “Freedom to starve” becomes a refusal to consume in certain ways, ascetism, essentially. It becomes a literal or physical manifestation of the neglect that occurs when a person refuses to conform to society’s expectations. It becomes Richey refusing to conform to society’s expectations of food consumption while also refusing to conform to musical and artistic standards by creating The Holy Bible and specifically pointing out the wrongs of society. The band having complete control over the album, hiding in their studio and working together without any outside influence pushes against the expectation of producers/managers/sound engineers/labels/etc having partial influence or control over the sound of a band’s music. Richey’s inability to adapt mentally to fame, to touring, to the stress of schedule, etc etc also is a sort of manifestation of that “freedom of the stupid to starve”, in that he was unable to properly adapt to what was expected of him in terms of fame and touring, and he was blamed for it and seen as strange for disliking aspects of fame.

This is where I get into some interesting, if problematic, ideas. Richey seemed to kind of take the idea to another level through his eating disorder. Freedom to starve/freedom of restriction essentially becomes true freedom because it takes back control of body mind and spirit. Richey sort of talked about this in an interview with Simon Price in 94 in France. He mentioned that people can’t hold you down and force you to eat/watch you all the time, and that your body is your own and you should have a right to do with it what you want. Essentially, self mutilation/self harm/restriction becomes a mode of self-control, a reclamation of the body from expectations of society. Society expects excess and encourages/wants consumption. In creating consumption, the culture industry takes control of the mind and the body by telling consumers what they want even if they didn’t originally desire it, saying it over and over and continually producing under consumers are convinced that they do want whatever they are being given. Self-mutilation, restriction and ascetism removes that and reclaims the body as owned by itself and its mind. It puts control back into the awareness of the self and the body and the mind, which forces the self to be aware of the influence of culture industry. This awareness allows the self to refuse that influence, the refusal of which includes those actions or decisions that go against the expectations or desires or encouragements of society. It also confronts the fact that society sees certain types of expressions of emotion/mental state as “wrong” or maladaptive and those who express themselves a certain way are marked as outsiders. Repression and restriction and stoicism becomes revenge for society marking you as outsider for expressing rage at unfreedom/expressing emotions that are seen as maladaptive. Self-harm or starvation becomes a reclamation of the mind and the emotions, and increasing of that maladaptive expression in order to basically reject society’s expectations altogether. Richey essentially says that when talking about his time in hospital; self-harm or self-restriction takes back control of body and mind from expectations of doctors and society – they can’t hold you down and force food down your throat, someone can’t be with you 24 hours a day, it’s my body I do what I want with it.

The height of this could be disappearance/death: refusal to participate “correctly” in society, refusal to “be” in society in the expected way. A rejection of literally all things. James Bradfield notes that a major theme in Journal For Plague Lovers is a rejection of experience, a rejection of expected lyrical formats, and a rejection of some sort of answer or truth. A realization that nothing seems to be working. A refusal to continue to consume or participate correctly or to express consumption or participation correctly, especially in that the meanings or messages of most of the songs are completely obscured through unconnected phrases or disparate references that take research to decipher. The idea is sort of expressed in individual songs from the album as well. All Is Vanity  asks questions of vanity extremes vs personal neglect – which one is refusal to participate correctly? Are they both refusal? Are they the same? Inability to adapt correctly compared to what is expected/right vs what you are doing and how your actions are called into question as incorrect. Discipline is respected, but certain types of discipline are seen as different/maladapted compared to the expectations of society or the culture industry, which allows for the question of which type of discipline is “wrong” or “right” and does it depend on perspective? Excesses are lauded in the culture industry, consumption is encouraged, as is vanity and obsession with the self, and ascetism or restriction and neglect of the self is seen as wrong. But extreme excess of consumption is also frowned upon or mocked. Society encourages a certain amount of excess and consumption in order to control and delude. In encourages and creates consumption so that the consumer doesn’t stop and thinking about how they are being made to overwork and overconsume in ways they probably didn’t originally want to be doing but have been convinced into by society. Refusal of consumption/vocal awareness of participation in consumption becomes maladaptive because it’s not what society wants, which is exactly the kinds of words and things the band was expressing.

And the idea of disappearance or death takes all of this to the highest level, in that disappearance rejects society’s expectations entirely, refusing to participate in society in a “correct” way. It is also expressing whatever sort of emotions or thoughts a person might have in a way that creates an absence (metaphorical and literally) rather than yet another thing to be consumed. Disappearance when a person is still living is a complete reclamation of the body and self because the person essentially is able to drop out of society as themselves, and even if they assume a different identity, they are still inherently refusing to participate in an expected way, still creating an absence of a person and an absence of an identity, and in using a false identity that refusal becomes even more complex. Death, too, and specifically suicide, is a refusal to participate in society, but in a much more final way. Suicide is yet another reclamation of the body, since it is by one’s own hand and willpower that one’s life is taken, not through illness or another person or old age. It creates a different kind of absence, since often a suicide, since there is a body and often a note, gives answers or at least there is a physical proof of refusal and a physical proof of that person’s death. A suicide creates a narrative with finality, with refusal as the finality and therefore certain aspects of absence are filled in with the assumptions that come with suicide and death in general. A disappearance has a narrative with an ellipses rather than a full stop, and because it is left open, the absence and refusal are left with unanswered questions, reasons, and unspoken ideas, specifically because it is a kind of refusal to participate that is completely unexpected and cannot be explained with a body or a note.

I don’t really have a conclusion to these thoughts or any sort of cumulative idea or whatever. I just was thinking about the phrase “the only freedom left is the freedom to starve” and what it meant in relation to Richey when Adorno is applied.

#manic street preachers #manic street preachers meta #old meta repost #from 2016

[james-stark-the-writer-wips]

A Year At The Opera - Excerpt

Chapter 12, Part 4: Joe

Word Count: 1700 words.

Sorry it's late, but the next ones are coming soon. I'm just editing some stuff. Hope you don't mind.

*

Joe turned into Rosewood Lane late afternoon. Saturday night had been rough and he may have had a little (about an entire bottle more than he should have been) too much to drink and he had spent all Sunday sleeping it off. But, it was a new week today. He’d sobered up and he couldn’t wait to get back to work and forget all about saturday night.

He stopped before the iron gate. Two guards stood on either side, armed with guns, looking at Joe in his car.

Rosewood Lane: the suburbia away from the suburbia, a paradise for the uber rich with around the clock security and state of the art surveillance. Every resident was guaranteed their privacy and safety. Joe could barely stomach the thought of having to live here. He wasn’t even inside yet and he could already see their smug faces in front of his eyes, looking at him as the outsider, someone who didn’t deserve to be among them, someone less than. It made Joe’s blood boil just thinking about it.

He lowered his window and tapped the button labelled ‘1205: Justice, C’ on the stand next to the door.

Static returned from the speaker before a woman spoke in a cheery voice. “Who is it?”

“This is Detective Joe Vega from the Ellesburg PD and I had some questions for Mrs. Justice.”

“This is she. Questions about what, detective?” She asked.

“It’s about your husband.” Joe responded. The static cut out and the gears of the gate began to move.

Rosewood Lane stood on the opposite end of Athea, away from the river Daine, high above the rest of the city, like a literal pedestal for the uber rich, overlooking the people beneath them. Joe had never been inside before.

From the inside, the place looked even more like it was built on the backs of exploited laborers or in other words, rich. As Joe made his way to the Justice house, he couldn’t help but notice all the non-white people tending to — most likely not their own — gardens, cutting the trees, cleaning up the area. A few women sat outside, self tanning in the sun while a few children moved along the streets, playing their games, enjoying their tiny, sheltered worlds.

Joe wondered if these people knew what happened outside their little paradise up here or if they were just blissfully ignorant.

Joe found his way to the Justice house fairly easily. The big mansion stood intimidatingly, distinguishable even in the fake utopia that was Rosewood Lane. Just from the outside, Joe could see eight windows on the top floor and six long ones on the bottom, the door sandwiched between the three long windows on each side. It rose high up, higher than most other houses around it. It somewhat reminded him of the front of the white house.

Pulling into the Justice house’s driveway, the door to the house opened and a woman, presumably Mrs. Justice from the look of her clothes, stood in the doorway, as if she couldn’t wait for Joe to ring the doorbell.

He stepped out of his car and locked the car behind him as he walked up the stairs onto the front porch of the house.

“Mrs. Justice?” Joe asked. 

She nodded. “Please, come inside.” She moved aside to let him in.

He walked in and she followed him, quickly closing the door behind her.

“You said you had some questions?” She asked nervously.

“Yeah.”

“Please, let’s sit in the living room.”

“Alright.” Joe said, following her deeper into what seemed like an endless stream of doors. The ivory walls of the house rose high, the large dome shaped skylight at the top blasted sunlight in, making them seem even more white. The walls were decorated with a variety of objects, most of what Joe assumed to be antiques of some sort and some family photos. Every frame was golden, perfectly machined and manufactured, just like the pictures in those frames. Flawless. A disgusting image. A facade to show the world how perfect their family was. Joe suspected that was anywhere near the case.

The whole house was smattered with objects that brought some contrast to the stark white. If he wasn’t human, some onlooker would probably say he was the most contrasting thing there.

All the white around him was almost intimidating. Unblemished, untouched, pure. But he couldn’t let himself get distracted. He had a job to do.

“Right in here.” She said, opening a set of two large doors into a large open living room that screamed minimalist. No decorations, no frills. The only furniture was the sofas and some lamps beside them on tiny coffee tables. Two extremely comfortable looking alcoves separated by the TV on the wall decorated the rest of the room aside from the table in front on the sofa. In the bottom right corner of the room stood a tiny bookcase, all on its own, almost a distraction from the rest of the room’s minimalism. Sunbeams flooded the room from the alcove windows as Joe and Mrs. Justice sat down on the sofa. It was so quiet that the rubbing of Joe’s jeans against the white leather as he adjusted in his seat was the loudest sound in the room.

“So, Mrs. Justice—” Joe began.

“Please, Jessica is fine.”

“Alright, Jessica.” Joe took out his recorder and placed it on the glass table in front of him, turning it on.

“Please state your name for the record.” Joe said.

“Uh, this is Jessica Justice.” She said hesitantly. “What is this about, Detective?”

“Ma’am, I’m sorry but I’m afraid I have some bad news. It’s about your husband.”

“Oh god.” She gasped, covering her mouth with her hand and looking away. “He’s dead, isn’t he?”

“I’m afraid so.” Joe said quietly, nodding.

“When did it happen?” She asked, choking up.

“A few days ago, we just got the full autopsy this morning confirming it’s him.” 

Really, by protocol, Joe should’ve informed her two days ago when he actually got Carson’s address and confirmation from Jeanie that it was actually Carson but he doubted Jessica would know that and other things had actually held him up.

“How…” Her voice was shaky. “How did he die?”

“Someone hit him with something really hard.” He took a breath. “And then buried him in Shadow Woods, near the border of Tenebris and Ellesburg.”

“Oh god.” She stood up.

“I know this might be a lot to take in…” Joe said calmly. He had always hated this part. Not because it was hard but because it was messy. Even after all this time, he’d never figured out exactly how to console the people. And he loved his job but god he hated being the messenger of news like this and being put in this position.

“What are your questions, detective?” She turns, wiping tears from her face.

“Well, I was just wondering when you last saw Carson.”

“I think it was August the 30th?” She sat down again. “He had a habit of disappearing for days without contact.”

“Is that why you didn’t report him missing?”

“Yes.” She sniffled, nodding and wiping another tear.

“And do you know of any enemies he might have had or anyone who hated him?”

“Detective, my husband was a rich man, practically everyone hated him or was jealous of him for some reason. But I can’t think of anyone in particular.”

“Alright. Just a few more questions and I’ll be out of your hair. Where were you on the night of September the third?”

“Was the night when he—”

“Yes, that’s what we’re assuming so far.” Joe said softly.

“I think I was here all day.”

“You didn’t leave the house all day?”

“No.” She shook her head.

“Anyone that can corroborate the alibi?”

“Our maid, Kelly. And the security cameras in the house. Carson had them installed when we first moved in.”

“All right, then. Just get me the info for Kelly and that footage and I’ll be out of your hair.”

“Of course.” She sniffled. 

“Actually, could I get the whole footage from when you last saw him?”

“Of course. I think the entire last month is backed up on his computer in his study.”

“Fantastic. And that’s it, Jessica. If I have any more questions, I’ll let you know.”

Joe turned off the recorder and stood up.

“Detective,” She stopped him, “When can I see him?”

“I can arrange for a visit tomorrow morning, if that works.”

“Thank you.” She whispered, turning away. “Come on, I’ll show you to the study.”

Joe followed her out of the room and through more hallways before they arrived at the study.

The study was the entire opposite of the house. Wood everywhere. Real wood, as far as Joe could tell. The walls were decorated with the same frames as the rest of the house and a desk stood in front of the only window in the room.

“Is this hardwood?” Joe asked, looking at the floor.

“Yes.” Jessica replied, walking over to the desk. “Here. Here’s the computer.” She pointed at a small metallic enclosure sitting on the desk next to a monitor.

Joe walked up next to her. “Is it on right now?”

“I think so. It should be.”

“Alright, well I can’t take it with me but I’ll send some people over to collect the evidence. Would that be alright?”

“I suppose so. Well, here’s Kelly’s info then.” She grabbed the stack of post-it’s on the desk and a pen and scribbled down Kelly’s phone number and address. “That’s where you can reach her.”

“Thank you, Jessica. I appreciate the help and the cooperation.”

“Of course, detective. Well, you know your way out.” She said, putting on a happy face.

“That I do.” Joe said, walking away, leaving the woman alone. He had other places to be.

*

#writing #writeblr #writblr #creative writing #original writing #excerpts from my writing #excerpt #wip #a year at the opera #ayato

[all-things-are-nothing-to-me]

From Identity to Individualist: A Nihilist's Personal History in Leftism

Note: In this piece, I will be using '‘leftism’ and ‘identity politics’ more or less interchangeably, due to their often heavy overlap.

I grew up in a liberal household to liberal parents, and I had always had a preoccupation (some might say an obsession) with justice. From a young age, I would rage against the injustices committed against the trees felled behind our house, the mice killed in the snap traps, the insects caught by the glue paper, the deer shot by the hunters. “It’s not fair!” was a mantra oft screamed from my tiny mouth, and as I grew, it hardly changed.

In high school, I became acquainted with an ideology eager to exploit my enthusiasm for justice. I learned that the whole world was unfair – even more so than I had realized on my own. Same sex marriage, reproductive rights, and bodily autonomy became my first interests – predictably, since I discovered I was a queer bisexual and these things quickly became relevant to me in one way or another. Through these, though, I discovered more. The police shooting in Ferguson of Mike Brown introduced me to the idea that racism was alive and well, and learning this was an angry shock to my sheltered little white life. I couldn’t scream my will into being anymore, and I wanted to know what to do.

‘Listen’, responded the Activists (capital A – they presented themselves as The Only Authority). ‘Listen and do as we say.’

I learned all the Correct Language and the Correct Actions, so I would not be Problematic. I cringed and sucked through my teeth at all the Problematic People in my tiny rural town, and (I’m sure) a lot of people got very sick of me. I learned to be pure in thought, word, and action, so that I would not risk the ire of the Activists. There are certain things that must never be said, certain questions that must never be asked. Never question the People of Color.

My exposure to the Activists was purely online, primarily through Facebook, but after my first altercation, (where I failed to recognize a latinx queer on sight and was roundly shouted down by the whole group) I became much quieter. I listened without speaking – as white people were supposed to do. I didn’t realize until much later how much anxiety began to build in me whenever I entered these spaces, fearing that any misstep would result in my admonishment and potentially, my expulsion.

Still, I was unwilling to leave the Left behind. If this was justice, then I must submit myself, however uncomfortably, to the greater good.

Never mind my questions. Stuff them down deep.

I wondered how it was that white people were simultaneously supposed to ‘shut up and listen’, ‘make space for POC’, ‘don’t speak for POC’, but also ‘put yourselves on the front lines’, ‘call out problematic speech in white people’.

I questioned how, exactly, I was supposed to avoid speaking over POC and always ‘stay in my lane’ when POC I knew personally were telling me that they thought the talking points I got from the Activists were bullshit.

I stressed over wearing ‘cultural’ jewelry and clothing that I had purchased from people of that culture, knowing the party line instructed us to support POC artisans, but also knowing that if I wore these items, I would be subject to the same scrutiny as someone who had purchased them from a trendy department store.

I self-flagellated over past transgressions such as having dreadlocks, without ever really understanding what I had done wrong besides doing something I was forbidden from doing.

But I never dared to ask anyone else – least not the Activists.

I would like to tell you that my divorce from the Left was self-driven. I would like to tell you that I recognized the oppressive dynamics all by myself. But until I met others who were questioning the Left as well, I assumed that the only counter-faction was the Right, and I had grown up surrounded by enough of the Right to know I wasn’t interested in their brand. I saw no justice there, no world improvement.

The first time I met a post-leftist, (or if we’re being honest, the third or fourth time – the conditioning runs deep) I finally felt free to ask the questions I had buried. I felt free to poke holes where I had carefully preserved the delicate framework before. But this was not enough to topple everything – oh no. I still held on to the skeleton of justice.

‘Surely they mean well,’ I reasoned. ‘Surely this is an overgrown over-extension of a fundamentally good and just framework.’

And as if called by fate, I began to meet people who had been ‘called out’; people who had made transgressions so egregious that they had been banished from the circles of the Left. These transgressions ranged from accusations of physical abuse to vague allegations of being manipulative (typically without any specific incidents cited, but with full expectation that The Community support the victim without question).

Although each unique, these cases had common threads that ran through them.

As is customary in the Left, most began with a mediation and an accountability process – where a third party would meet with the accused and the accuser and theoretically, help them to reach an agreement about how the accused would atone for their behavior and improve themselves so they would not repeat it. Many of the folks I met either met these goals or were on their way to meeting them. Usually, meeting these goals was the condition for avoiding a call-out.

However, the accusers who had seemingly felt powerless in their interactions with the accused, now found that they had all the power. They controlled what actions the accused must take. They controlled the accused's place in the social hierarchy, and often, the accused's physical safety in the world.

This scenario, which in theory was sterile and completely just, became a tool for revenge. Regardless of whether the conditions of the accountability process were met, the call-out came. And as the call-out spread, across the internet and across the ‘community’, it became social suicide to associate with the accused. Being an ‘apologist’ is nearly on par with being an abuser.

The accused became a pariah. No defense, apology, or self-improvement is good enough when you are marked for life.

I began to wonder where the restoration was in this ‘restorative justice’.

And if we’re honest, this is where the tower I had built for myself finally fell. I had labored so long under the belief that we were all working selflessly, tirelessly, towards justice for all. When the veil was lifted, it became clear to me that the left was infested with wolves in sheeps’ clothing, manipulating the good will and efforts of earnest, well-meaning people.

Or, maybe we were all a little wolfish – although I had fancied myself a pure, earnest person, I could not deny my efforts to lord my ‘woke’ trivia over ‘non-woke’ friends. I had not set the dogs on anyone myself by issuing any statements, but I had helped to share and publicize them. I had not written any Everyday Feminism articles on why all your language and actions are racist/sexist/oppressive, but I had read them, shared them, and actively policed the people around me.

I just wasn’t interested in it anymore. I wasn’t interested in helping to create a society of unquestionable rigid social mores. I wasn’t interested in silently tallying each ‘problematic’ misstep of every individual around me – or quietly policing my own speech in constant fear that someone was doing the same to me. And I wasn’t interested in perpetuating the socially assigned identities that fed the hierarchies I wanted so badly to tear down.

Unlearning the set of behaviors that make up identity politics was a lot less about deciding I didn't care about hurting people (as I suspect a lot of leftists might assume) and a lot more about listening to what individuals wanted for themselves. Identity politics had taught me that any given social interaction came with a list of rules – and any transgression or mistake could be potentially very serious. For me, these rules became very isolating. I avoided interactions with people for fear of harming them or offending them.

When I began shedding these behaviors, I became more open and comfortable with the people around me. Rather than adhering to these strict rules, we felt free to communicate our individual desires. I could tell my friends that they could touch me freely, without feeling obligated to ask me each time. I could assure them that if I didn’t want to be touched at a particular time or in a particular way, I would communicate that to them.

My ‘POC’ friends could tell me what words and actions they were personally comfortable with, rather than feeling compelled to uphold some sort of community rules or morals.

My friends of all different socially constructed identities – by race, gender, sex, etc – could behave as they wished, without being concerned that they were fulfilling stereotypes or betraying their identities.

It’s far from utopian, but as leftism continues to demonstrate, utopia is impossible without authoritarianism.

#baba yaga #anti civ #anti identity politics #identity politics #leftism #anarchism #nihilism #post left anarchy #communism #social justice

[nellandvoid-blog]

Love Squared: The Most Compatible 6 Minute Test Personality Types

If you’ve ever taken the popular 6 Minute Test online, then you know that your personality can be a complex thing—so complex, in fact, that there’s 16 different categories into which the test-taker might fall. Such a vast array of personality types also means that each one can get highly specific; for example, there’s simply no denying that a Drama Club Treasurer and a Birthday Ruiner are going to act very differently if presented with the same circumstances.

This disparity becomes doubly true in our relationships: while they might exhibit significant differences, can that same Drama Club Treasurer find that same Birthday Ruiner a viable partner? After all, we don’t want to date a carbon copy of ourselves, but rather someone who complements our traits with their own. With that in mind, I’ve written up a list of each personality type’s ideal suitors. You might even find that your current significant other is not recommended by the 6 Minute Test, and that’s okay. I have a separate article coming out next week about how you can let your brand-new or long-term partner down easy.

The Child On A Jumbotron (LBOC)

These brash spotlight-seekers need validation and attention in spades, requiring someone patient who can cheer on their partner’s exploits ad nauseam, even when those high jinks occasionally overshadow the relationship. Pervert Landlords can supply this support system in their own subtle way, but it’s The Soot-Caked Ragamuffin who will fulfill the needs of their Child On A Jumbotron partner without complaint, and without ever once desiring that limelight for themselves.

The 46-Year-Old Who Bought DJ Equipment (LBYC)

There’s no question here: the heartbreaking pursuits of a 46-Year-Old Who Bought DJ Equipment are best taken at face value, without comment, by a staid George H.W. Bush personality type. This partner will lob no judgments, just a steady and unwavering acceptance of the LBYC—provided that the LBYC continues to prioritize the relationship alongside their myriad and progressively more expensive hobbies.

The Karaoke Vetoer (UBYC)

This will sound controversial, but The Karaoke Vetoer, in their infinite capacity for stubbornness, needs a partner they can match wits with—and butt heads with—without cease. That’s why Karaoke Vetoers are often drawn to their complete and total opposite: The Murderous Former Starlet, or the LPOA to their UBYC. The Starlet, with their deep-set inner tragedy, can help put the UBYC’s nearly infinite list of non-starters in perspective, reminding them that there are some people out there who have real problems, rather than largely invented ones.

The Huge Spider (UBOC)

The Huge Spider personality type, skittish and repulsive as it is, simply needs to walk through life alongside a more parasitic version of itself: The 9-Headed Cave Beast. Equally reviled by society as a whole, this pairing dances the perfect two-step, with The Huge Spider scuttling away just as The 9-Headed Cave Beast lashes out. With a UBOC/UPOC pairing, each partner can play to their strengths, advancing and retreating in harmony.

The Big Bad Chicken (LBOA)

When it comes to Big Bad Chickens, game recognizes game. These assertive and almost oppressively cool individuals tend to appreciate the underhanded and fearsome personalities around them, as they admire anyone who seems to share their ruthlessness. If you’re an LBOA, find yourself a Scrabble Dictionary Memorizer and delight in their capacity for endless arguments and sly attempts at your undoing. You’ll have a worthy sparring partner for life!

The George H.W. Bush (LBYA)

If you’re a George H.W. Bush personality and you’re looking to spice up your love life a bit, The Drama Club Treasurer will surely be the partner of your dreams. These plucky, needling little foot soldiers live to uphold the world of law and order, and that dovetails beautifully with your own desire for a life of efficient task managing. Drama Club Treasurers inspire George H.W. Bushes to be all that they can be, while never forgetting the couple’s shared priorities of incremental achievement.

The Scrabble Dictionary Memorizer (UBYA)

UBYAs live for the thrill of the debate, and they need a partner who will let that debate continue on and on into infinity. For that, there’s no one better suited than those with the Comcast personality type, as their brick-wall resilience to escalating levels of human emotion play well against The Scrabble Dictionary Memorizer’s endless attempts to rhetorically destroy an opponent.

The Worst One (UBOA)

We all know that The Worst Ones are “even worse romantic partners than they are friends”—it’s written right there in the 6 Minute Test results! But if there’s one personality type that’s impervious to The Worst One’s mistreatment, it’s a Birthday Ruiner. The UPYC’s penchant for overindulging and walking around in a haze of high-running emotion means that their buzz is nigh impenetrable, even by The Worst One. (And if a Birthday Ruiner ever does break down in tears or anger, it rarely has anything to do with those around them, but rather a shattered iPhone or a high heel stuck in a sewer grate.)

The Murderous Former Starlet (LPOA)

Sometimes the best cure for your own looming sense of dread is spending time around someone for whom the concepts of regret or self-reflection do not compute. Anyone with The Murderous Former Starlet personality type would be well suited to date a Nude Man At The Bottom Of A Manhole. With the latter’s penchant for seeking a fun night at any and all costs, an LPOA wistful for their glory days can watch on the sidelines as their LPOC flails to perpetuate his or her own.

The Soot-Caked Ragamuffin (LPYA)

Pathetic. Just pathetic. That’s how the world responds to The Soot-Caked Ragamuffin—everyone except The 46-Year-Old Who Bought DJ Equipment, that is. The latter will embrace The Soot-Caked Ragamuffin for all their flaws, only asking in return for patience and respect during a labored beat-dropping session or a capoeira beginner-level showcase.

Comcast (UPYA)

Comcast is entirely undeserving of love and is best held a football field’s length from anyone and everyone.

The Pervert Landlord (UPOA)

Generally, anyone with The Pervert Landlord personality type prefers an observational remove from the object of their affection. And that’s exactly why, for a UPOA, The Worst One is such a match made in 6 Minute Test heaven. The Worst One (or the UBOA personality type) is such an uncommitted and apathetic partner that The Pervert Landlord is still free to leer at, trail behind, or hover over attractive acquaintances or strangers to their heart’s content. Indeed, the UPOA can rest assured that this joyless partnership is barely a stumbling block between them and the unfortunate targets of their “neighborly greetings.”

The Nude Man At The Bottom Of A Manhole (LPOC)

With undeniable affability and an irresistible fun-loving nature, The Nude Man At The Bottom Of A Manhole would be happy with any number of personality types along the 6 Minute Test spectrum. One thing’s for sure, though: they must never, ever join forces with a Birthday Ruiner (UPYC), as the collective damage inflicted by their combination of tireless shenanigans and bottomless thirst for drama would be unimaginable.

The Drama Club Treasurer (LPYC)

There are lots of viable partners out there for someone with The Drama Club Treasurer personality type, but frankly, what Drama Club Treasurer can spare the time? An LPYC understands that when duty calls, you can’t just be off canoodling with some Pervert Landlord or Huge Spider. Having a firm sense of one’s priorities is what got The Drama Club Treasurer to where they are in the first place, and they’re not about to throw that all away on love.  

The Birthday Ruiner (UPYC)

For maximum cohesion, The Birthday Ruiner personality type should try to find themselves a nice Child On A Jumbotron (LBOC) to settle down (or steam things up!) with. As the Child On A Jumbotron gyrates their way through life delighting the crowd, The Birthday Ruiner’s overindulgent tendencies are ideally suited to cheering on their partner’s antics. This is a loud partnership, but one that burns hot and bright.

The 9-Headed Cave Beast (UPOC)

For the safety and comfort of everyone along the 6 Minute Test personality spectrum, it’s advised that 9-Headed Cave Beasts only seek out and latch onto other 9-Headed Cave Beasts. Not only does this guarantee mutual understanding of each other’s gaping flaws, but it also ensures that any UPOC-adjacent traits stay well away from the rest of the gene pool.

[earth2craig-blog]

Design Thinking 210,Task 1: Altered Reality

Introduction:

Hello there reader. Yes, I’m addressing you as an individual. You may be my lecturer here to read and evaluate what I have written for this task or you might be a fellow student or you may be none of these... Perhaps you found that this post might be interesting to read. Because of the public nature of this medium, I feel it is important to provide context: 

~Task 1: Rewriting the history of the world. In a written piece, re-imagine the history of the world. Identify one historical reality that you would like to eliminate from the history of the world. This should be a historical occurrence that lead – in your mind – to a problem that exists within our current world order. Imagine what the world would be like if this historical event/occurrence never took place.~

What this task is asking me to do is fix a problem with the world by changing/eliminating one “historical occurrence...This should be a historical occurrence that lead – in your mind – to a problem that exists within our current world order.” The phrase “in your mind” is important for you as the reader to keep in mind. This is my opinion, and my opinion is formed on my narrow context of the world, based on my experience and the experiences of those closest to me. I can not in any capacity claim that I’m an authoritative figure that can claim to know what’s best (I am a student and still learning how the world works). Another disclaimer, I will be writing this in a very informal manner as this is what is most comfortable when expressing my opinion and tackling this task in a creative manner.

Chapter 1:

So... on to the actual task. I found the instructions of this task a little difficult to follow, because I don’t think changing one historical occurrence by itself will fix a singular problem. I think “a problem that exists” exists because of a multitude of reasons instead of just one. The world is complex after all.

Also, it would be easy to say, “I wish Hitler never came into power”, but, I think actually that that history has some significance in shaping our views as a society. That may sound insensitive. What I mean is that bad experiences can shape us into better people. Just as an individual can learn through, for example, being bullied (not trying to liken genocide to school ground bullying, obviously very different scales of hatred). Being bullied is obviously something as an individual you don’t want to experience, but, through being bullied as an individual you can learn not to bully by being able to empathize with anyone you interact with. And as an individual, you can also learn how to stand up for yourself when subjected to conflict. So Hitler is someone we look back on and say to ourselves, “lets not be that guy”, and “lets not let that Hitler guy push us around”.

I definitely don’t perceive the world as a perfect place, there are a lot of problems, but although it’s easy to say: “I wish this thing was different”, changing and fixing problems can only be done as a group through effective dialogue and in a lot of ways, the world is growing and changing for the better (although progress can feel incredibly slow). This dialogue is where I would like to focus my attention.

If we think of any problem in the world: the wealth gap, homophobia, racism, sexism, etc. All these varying problems are made up of ideology. It is clear that people can have very opposing beliefs. The problem, I think, is that we aren’t effectively taught how to communicate or empathize with one another... And so the problem that I will be addressing is the educational system, throughout the world.

Chapter 2

Now that I have (finally) identified the problem that I want to change, I’ll go into greater detail of why I think our educational system currently is problematic. All our conflicts are based on ideology. As children, we are in a state of learning how the world works, and we learn how the world works through our family’s ideals, interacting with our friends, religion, what we are taught in school, the media we interact with and even the products that we buy. We can interact with ideals both in an active and passive state, aware or unaware. We can be taught ideology that can be... for lack of a better word, wrong and then proceed to never question it.

Out of all the ways that we as children learn how to interpret and interact with the world, what is the lowest common denominator, a common practice we engage in that can be altered. We can’t choose our family, religion is (supposedly?) a freedom of choice no one has the right to alter, media is created by individuals usually with the purpose of selling you either an ideal, narrative or a product, often by creating a false ideal (buying a Starbucks coffee makes you a charitable or environmentally conscious person when in reality you are still just consuming selfishly for the sake of consuming or convenience)... School is an artificial system quite literally designed to shape us. It’s something your parents most likely went to, it’s where future media creators, entrepreneurs, designers and even politicians learn the tools necessary (hopefully) in order for them to know what they are doing.

But, the educational system doesn’t adapt or change easily. The educational system can be influenced or corrupted (depending on your viewpoint) by religion, by families not liking what is taught or even by governments promoting propaganda in our history... With so many varying ideologies, and for a person to be well informed enough to decide what is right or wrong, you need to be subjected to everything, but instead, what we learn is designed to be learnt and everything else can seem censored.

Chapter 3

Here’s what I believe based on my experience of school. I think school fails at teaching us to be good, ethical people. It doesn’t teach us to be bad people directly through what is being taught, it just is such a passive experience that how we are taught doesn’t have much effect. My role in school was always as a passive listener. I listened, and listened, and listened some more to my teachers. And when no teachers were present, kids reverted to engaging in questionable ideological practices, essentially bullying or behaving in an unsuitable manner in order to feel accepted. It’s not as if teachers don’t tell us not to bully, and it is very clearly stated in the school rules. We have classes like Life Orientation where we do talk about “not doing drugs” only to later be offered some by a fellow Life Orientation classmate. The teaching of ideals, the theory of ideals, the effects, all of it need more of a focus and needs to somehow be more active  and engaging, more exercise based and maybe even taught earlier.

Most of us would have seen a video somewhere of kids being tested in social experiments. It could be that a kid is given a marshmallow, and if they avoid eating it, they will get another one. Or the experiment where there are two children, and only one of them is given a plate of treats, and that kid can decide whether to share or not. That could be a practical example of how to investigate how to treat others based on how we want to be treated. And from there it empowers a child to talk about how they feel on the matter. If we just listen, we don’t have a voice. Now don’t get me wrong, being able to listen is obviously an important skill to have as well, especially in order to empathize and understand others, but there needs to be a back and forth open dialogue between everyone, not just one person imparting all of their ideals onto a group of people.

Outside of school, we have rules and laws. Things like don’t pollute and don’t speed. We all as people know that doing these things is wrong. But to me, it feels like that the bad behavior in school follows us out of it, because I see people very comfortably dropping their waste on the ground instead of disposing of it properly, and I’ve seen traffic enforcer cars break speed limits or drive in an unsafe manner for seemingly no justifiable reason other than because they can.

If we can just do what we like, say what we like because we can, without taking into consideration others, it’s just a recipe for disaster.

Chapter 4

Where did it all go wrong? Honestly. It’s difficult to pinpoint exactly, educational systems have been around for a long time. I think the safest argument to make is when capitalism started to take hold, when the shift from an individual identifying as a producer or creator became the individual rather identifying themselves as a consumer. I blame the first Industrial Revolution for this most of all because the change was so massive. It gave power to the wealthy, those that owned methods of production, and gave those with only their ability to provide labor a distinct disadvantage. It also alienated us from one another. Instead of us taking pride in creating something of value and meaning and not to mention with good intentions for others to enjoy... we now justify us exploiting workers - by having them do an immense amount of labor for little pay, as well as by substantially increasing the price of the product for the most profit - as “fair”. This is a very selfish way to think, and it shows. When someone pollutes, that’s selfish. When someone speeds, that’s selfish. When someone bullies, that’s selfish. There is no consideration of the other person or people.

Furthermore, now that the gap between the wealthy and the less wealthy is so large, there is an interest by the wealthy to maintain this power. Education is the one defense we have against the powerful and wealthy imposing their ideals on us. Where we learn needs to be neutral and take into consideration everyone’s feelings and circumstances so that we can then actively discuss solutions to our problems and actively improve the world.

Conclusion

The positive I often hear about the Industrial Revolution is about how beneficial it was to advancing medicine and technology. But I think that people will, even without the selfish desire to have a better quality of life than others, achieve advancing areas of life by taking pride and having a sense of genuine enjoyment in what they do. 

Taking pride in what you do, enjoying what you do and doing it to improve the lives of others, if that was our focus instead, that to me sounds like a Utopian Society.

One more thing I’d like to add is that we at all times need to be open minded and the practice of being open minded, of challenging the way we think and feel, that needs to be encouraged in this Utopian educational system through an open dialogue. In any society, that is necessary to ensure no ruling class or ruling power can either oppress or control others.

#DT210

[beinglibertarian]

Shortcuts & Delusions Special Edition: The Absurdity of Gary Johnson

“The only way to deal with an unfree world is to become so absolutly free that your very existance is an act of rebellion.” – Albert Camus

Obituary:

Libertarian satirist and vengeful deity Dillon Eliassen (spelled with an E for comedic purposes), whose work I sincerely admire, has died. Spiritually. Only spiritually. He is to be succeeded in spiritual death by a micronation of homeless people, his fellow members of the Fictitious Cement Workers’ Union, and Being Libertarian’s very own Editor-in-Chief Martin van Staden.

Dillon “The Jesuit” Eliassen (née Ottovordemgentschenfelde) was probably born on Christmas morning 1949, somewhere in Canada. Known for his youthful shenanigans, Dillon brought a smile to the faces of all who encountered him at San Quentin. While fighting for our freedom on the blood-soaked soil of Vietnam, Dillon gave birth to a mostly healthy yet premature appendix, and he named it me.

Let us begin.

Introduction:

Dillon left off with an in-depth analysis of ‘Trump Derangement Syndrome,’ a very real ‘condition’ that ‘I’ have personally heard firsthand accounts of on multiple occasions. This was a fitting place to conclude. The torch was not passed to me, but I am hereby picking it up off the ground, wiping the dirt and canine feces from its gleaming bronze exterior, and running with it in the exact opposite direction of any achievable goal.

I am Nathaniel Owen. If you don’t recognize my name, it’s because I am legitimately the least important person you’ve never heard of. I’m unknown for my efforts to bear the heaviness of the Imperial Antarctic Crown, and my occasional bouts of productive cyber-vigilantism. In 2014 I made a mistake, and today that mistake is Being Libertarian. They locked me in the CEO’s office until I pay for this crime.

Like my obvious relatives, Nathaniel Bacon, Nathaniel Branden, and Nathaniel Hawthorne, I am a revolutionary. I haven’t got a Che t-shirt, and I never attend the meetings. But like many communist tovarisch, I do have an iPhone. In the postmodern age, that’s a clever weapon to have! Climate scientists, for instance, have indicated that it’s really all the humble revolutionary needs these days. I am constantly confused as to the value of my executive role at Being Libertarian but remain the least confused as to why I maintain this position.

Today is my favorite day of the year, second only to New Year’s Eve. For me, today acts as a reminder of the closest thing I have ever encountered to universal truth; a realization that haunts, comforts, astounds and enchants me. Yesterday, we were but individuals rolling boulders up a hill. Today, we will try again to roll the boulders up that hill. Tomorrow, yet again, we will return to this habit. You have been doing this with me since the day you were born.

I like to count the number of seconds it takes the boulder to reach the bottom of the hill each sunset. In the morning, we will start over.

We Are All Sisyphus:

It’s quite pointless, analytically speaking. You probably don’t remember being born, nor were you an integral part in making that happen to you. No number of artifacts can preserve the complexity of an individual human being, and even if one could live immortally in the memory of others, time turns existential into the mythological.

The universe is dying. It will live scarcely longer than we will. You appear to have come into existence at random, in a time and place inherently foreign. As a child, you wander into a adulthood without happening on the answer key to any questions relating to how or why you exist in the first place. Much less, how or why the universe itself exists. A consequence of this is that We, The People tend to convince ourselves conveniently that the answers to such questions not only exist, but can be found in such subtle hiding places as your local political party, whatever holy book you were raised to read, your arbitrary interpretations of the signs and seasons presented to us by the light of the cosmos, or even in our own imaginations.

And we know because we can’t avoid knowing, that whatever facade we’ve sold ourselves is, in fact, still a facade even if we fall for it.

Every day spent living is a performative affirmation that something about you, even if you can’t figure out exactly what it is, still wants to find those answers. If this weren’t the case, the players of this game would be dropping like flies when they discover that there is no point in playing and no conceivable way to win and that eventually there will be no evidence that you ever played at all. In short, that life itself is highly unlikely to be worth the trouble.

Albert Camus, French philosopher, and journalist, was plagued with thoughts like those stated above. Camus became a constitutive inspiration of the Existentialist Movement (a tradition of philosophy asserting the importance of human experience in the appraisal and interpretation of ideas), partially during the Second World War, while serving in fierce defiance as the Editor-in-Chief of the French Resistance newspaper ‘Combat’ amidst the Nazi occupation of his homeland, and continuing this roll into the post-war world.

Though such matters in the realm of fundamentals and absolutes can be difficult to define, you may have wondered similar things about yourself, and perhaps continue to. Camus was particularly perturbed by the sheer fact that the universe itself and all that exists within it have no objective meaning or purpose. The rational insights we are both blessed and cursed with poke holes in all our mortally limited attempts to invent meaning of our own, and in the Modern Age, the old ideas of Abrahamic deities, universal truth, and inherent ethical rules, each of which having been rudimentary to the shaping and formation of modern society in some way, have been penetrated into philosophical Swiss cheese.

The Non-Aggression Principle is a rather useful little limerick when one doesn’t overthink it. But like all things implying morality, thinking it all the way through will lead you to fundamentals that cannot possibly be confirmed or denied. What, exactly, makes murder wrong? What about robbery? Or socialism? Or the unfairness of free markets? When all is said and done, is it really going to matter whether every little thing we chose to do was right, or wrong, or equitable, or unfair? At the top level, with capital crimes especially, it is not hard to find that the supermajority of humanity agrees on some basic ethical positions. But when applying these basics, they become more complicated. By the point that we are discussing the specific rights and wrongs of typical human behavior, no two people will find themselves in agreement on the application of what they may believe are universal, self-evident principles.

Camus asserted, rather poignantly, that suicide has always been an option. And the scariness, confusion, and uncertainty of existing in such an uncertain world have apparently not driven you to it. And why shouldn’t we die now? It all adds up to the same summary. Nothing is permanent. It’s very possible that nothing matters. Yet we, practically all of us, seem to be making the conscious choice each day to live on. It’s as though if we pull away some of that upstanding rationalism gifted to us during The Enlightenment, there is some other part of us playing such an integral role in our existence that it stabilizes and confirms our will to exist at all.

Camus was a hero in several ways, and today is his day. There are very few people who want to legalize murder, yet droves of people who wish to legalize marijuana, and to many hearty fundamentalists, these may be comparable issues. Sin is sin, oppression is oppression, and aggression is aggression. To many libertarians, and to what should be our collective shame, such things as unionizing the local labor force, stealing a sandwich from a street vendor, violently raping a helpless victim, and aborting the fetus conceived in such tragic circumstances are all comparably “aggressive,” and may not even be considered in terms outside of “aggression” regardless of how useful a new approach or perspective may be when considering such cases.

At the risk of losing all of my libertarian acquaintances, I will admit that once upon a time, I charged my iPhone (yes, my revolutionary weapon of choice) using a stranger’s charging cable without asking when he wasn’t around. I aggressed. I haven’t repented and I’m not sure my soul will be where yours will be on judgment day.

The point is, it makes so little difference whether we are right or wrong about what is “aggression” and what is not “aggression,” that it’s a wonder anybody even cares to discuss it for more than a few than a few minutes.

I do not care who builds the roads, or who decides what color to paint the bathrooms at Beacon Hill, or which Union and/or Confederate heroes/villains are memorialized in stone. I do not care to pay taxes of a meager nature. Of course, I will consistently support lower taxes; it’s my own self-interest at stake. I will not, however, declare that anyone who doesn’t concern themselves with it as deeply as myself to be a “sheep.” Sheep are blind followers. To the best of my knowledge, I have never met anyone who doesn’t fit that description, and yes, this includes myself. I’m no determinist, but I know that I know essentially nothing about the mechanics of what REALLY makes something moral or immoral. I also know that you don’t know either.

The universe you live in doesn’t care what you think. It doesn’t “care” in any way about anything, as far as we can tell. Clinging so staunchly to principles may as well be escapism from the dread and uncertainty of having existed in the first place. Cults operate by exploiting this inherent dread, and unlike the average man on the street who will immediately deny any experiences of being uncertain about his own existence, cults can see through this bullshit. The Liberty Movement should be no cult.

“The Absurd” is a boulder. Every second you live is an exercise in pointlessness. Searching for meaning, embracing the experience of uncertainty, and cracking a smile as your shoulders yet again shove that boulder up the hill… these are exercises in defiance. It is no coincidence that Albert Camus, espousing the conviction (or lack thereof) that no objective truth or purpose may ever be identified, was willing to put his life on the line to dignify and endorse the French Resistance Movement, and despite his eventual death in a car crash, his words live on.

We libertarians are the quintessentially anti-establishment political identity. When our fists are clenched around the chains of dogma and theoretical universal principles we may as well be chained to the same despotic foundation we’re trying to help others liberate themselves from. To think for one’s self, one must realize the degree to which the nuances and practicalities of the world we live in influence us. Peddling promises of applying some universal ethic that we, as representatives of the Liberty Movement, can’t even agree on the parameters of is no different than selling a religious experience; a method by which to keep the conscience clean, and supply some convenient, flimsy certainty that will never stand up to the scrutiny of the skeptical. If our universal truths were as permanent as they are constructed to be, we would never change our minds or opinions.

This rant will resume in 365.25 days when National Absurdity Day returns in all its glory, memento mori, and calendarial obscurity.

And speaking of scrutiny, I’m going to have to toss in a trigger warning. This isn’t even my first trigger warning. I’m a professional.

**TRIGGER WARNING** What you are about to read may cause severe bouts of Trump Derangement Syndrome. If you are a leftist, please do not read the following paragraphs while in close proximity to sharp objects. Symptoms may include blood shooting from the eyes, indecipherable screaming, close encounters of the fourth kind, and varying degrees of irritable face syndrome. Please notify a physician if you encounter itchiness of the spleen, cirrhosis of the autobiographical memory, or diarrhea of the oral cavity.

Why We MUST Defeat Gary Johnson You’re probably wondering about the guy in the title of this article who, thus far, has been absent from said article. In fact, he’s absent from things quite often, I’m told.

Gary Johnson is not a real libertarian. Why libertarians get starry-eyed in his presence is beyond me, with his espousal of blatant communism and acceptance of homonormative deconstructionist Islamomarxism. Johnson as a representative of libertarianism is a clear sign that the left is invading the liberty movement, further eroding private property norms and propping up support for the deep state agenda of the globalists.

Johnson has pretended to support unfettered free market capitalism, and even went as far as to insist that tearing down barriers of entry could give the average person better, fairer access to goods and services. “The model of the future is the sharing economy. It’s Uber. It’s Airbnb. I think it’s gonna be Uber everything.”

“Uber everything” sounds like a great idea until you take your morning Red Pill and see that this is just code for white genocide. Without a heterogenous government of the people, who will stop immigrants from driving Uber taco trucks and parking them on every street corner, forestalling traditional values and private property norms. Americans would lose their jobs, possibly to immigrants. Even libertarian heroine Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez sees through Gary Johnson’s thin veneer of egalitarian lies!

He ran for president. Twice. On the second try, he broke every Libertarian Party presidential vote count record in the party’s history, surpassing even the likes of Our Lord and Savior Dr. Ron Earnet Paul. Mark my words, we will never forgive Gary Johnson for not being Ron Paul. His tax cuts were clearly a Democrat ruse to give spending power to the politically correct internationalist cabal of globalist elites like George Soros, Walt Disney, and Oliver Cromwell.

After making the Libertarian Party lose twice, Gary Johnson snuck in one more attack on libertarian legitimacy by losing in New Mexico in a Senate race where he only claimed 15.4% of the vote, singlehandedly handing victory over to communist Democrat Vladimir Len- I mean… Martin Heinrich (if that’s his real name).

Gary Johnson must be stopped. He cannot be allowed to run for office again, regardless of what degenerate socialist feminazis say about “free speech” and “democracy.” Democracy is a secret codeword known to the Fourth International for white genocide and subversion of private property norms. To Make America Great Again

, we must Physically Remove

this man that even the Democrats recognize as a tyrant. Socialists say that Gary Johnson is no threat to the system. This means Gary Johnson is probably a socialist (and a threat to the system the Founding Fathers put in place to protect our freedoms) because everything socialists say are lies.

What further evidence do you need? So far, I have used some of the most Red Pill buzzwords on the market, and even considered using “optics,” “LOLbertarian,” “SJW,” “libertine,” “postmodernism” and “open borders.” Libertarianism is an obvious right-wing ideology. We have standards, you know.

I won’t keep you here. Now that I’ve owned you with facts and logic, you are free to go.

Outro: Left intentionally long and with minimal editing, everything written above makes a single point that, in context, doesn’t mean anything. Most things, and probably all things, don’t mean anything. But that observation is no taskmaster; true freedom is the freedom to waste your time, and the time of others, in a way that is archetypically you. There are no strict parameters here. Drifting a little off the straight and narrow shouldn’t be cause for panic. If there was a takeaway in this article, I don’t know what it is. Perhaps there is a Gary Johnson in all of us, rolling a boulder up Mount Everest just to watch it roll back into the ravine, much like the Libertarian vote count will in 2020.

Do as thou wilt, and don’t overthink it.

Happy National Absurdity Day, comrades.

سُبْحَانَ اللہِ

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[volpereborn]

ZooDystopia: The Happytown Incident

Chapter 1: Opportunity

"With eyes undimmed, no hunger or fear.

Beings without urge to chase or flee.

To walk simply as animal, Hunter and Prey no more"

The Covenant of Coexistence, Fauna City Natural History Museum.

-Fauna City, twenty years ago…

The horn of the train was deafening at this hour. It rang out as a shattering cry which pierced the silence of the trainyard and could be heard echoing in the nearby cityscape. It was far too early in the morning for most; only the determined, the unlucky, or the dependent would be awake before the sun was up. The train stood there for a heartbeat, not making a single movement before it opened all its doors and the train's passengers made their first step into a brand-new day. The wind was fierce as they stepped onto the concrete walkway, causing many of them to shudder. A thin female cheetah was completely unprepared for the weather and was taken aback by the wall of cold which hit her. She quickly tore off her pack and dug out the long-sleeve shirt she had taken off earlier. She continued to walk and put it on as she made a desperate attempt to fight the cold. A nearby deer in a suit was also visibly irate at the weather as he could be seen tightening his scarf and making a beeline for the Snarlbucks. A large bear stood taller than most of the crowd and his size was only accentuated by the large coat he was wearing. Though no one could see it, in his mind he was smiling at the schadenfreude which he experienced witnessing others embracing the cold. Amongst the various faces in the crowd, there was one anomaly which could be seen by those who are more observant. A lone shadow could be seen zipping in-between the brave figures which made their way on the solemn platform. It was a small shadow, which quickly managed to tag animal after animal before turning the corner and hiding in a small alcove. The shadow was revealed by the light of the sun which had managed to peak its way above the top of a nearby tall building and brought light to the trainyard. Standing there in the corner throwing his head in every direction was a small opossum clutching a fat wad of dollar bills. He stared unblinking at his ill-gotten currency as he counted them with experienced fingers. When he got to the last bill he cracked a smile, he was eating good tonight…for once.

The opossum, Will Ken, stuffed the bills into his pockets and turned the corner joining the last dregs of the crowd as they exited the trainyard. He threw his hood back and revealed a brightly colored fringe of fur which hung loosely over his dark colored sunglasses. Over his hoodie the opossum had a jean vest which was spiked and covered in patches. With minor difficulty, he carried a bright purple backpack which made him look like a twig carrying a grape. Most gave him no mind as for the most part he was under the eyeline of most animals. However, those that did see him did stare for a second at his outlandish head fur. Will followed the crowd as they walked up the steps at the end of the walkway to make it to the open streets of Savannah Central. It was not often he came to the main land of Fauna City, as his eyes were far too sensitive to handle the sun and as such made the Nocturnal District across the lake his home. There, in the perpetual night provided by its simulated sky dome was he able to live comfortably. However, a change of scenery was always appreciated and his brief excursions to the main land allowed him a break from his normally cramped living environment. The buildings of the main city weren't limited by the space provided by the dome and as such could expand as much as they required. Having space between the tops of buildings was like a novelty to Will and he enjoyed being able to walk through the neighborhood without running into someone or being almost stepped on by some animal unaware of him. This enjoyment always came at a great cost to him, as the train ticket was not always something which he could afford. Will preferred to describe himself as "Financially challenged" though this was merely a humorous way for him to save face amongst his peers. The truth is that Will hadn't had an honest job in a couple of years. He had survived since he ran away from home purely on petty theft, the kindness of strangers, and the will to live.

"All of that is about to change," Will thought as he pulled a slip of paper out of his vest pocket and held it up to his eyes with his white fingers. A simple address was printed on the paper but to Will this address was the opportunity he had been looking for. He might not have had enough money to survive, but he was willing to spend most of it, if it meant that he was guaranteed a future of payed labor. With the money he had snatched from the people coming off the train platform, Will was looking forward to ending the day with more money than he had ever held on to in his life. Crossing the street, Will consulted a map that was on the back of a bus stop. The train had taken him only to the edge of the western part of Savannah Central's Haymarket neighborhood and he was still a couple of blocks from his destination. With his paws in his pockets, Will turned tail and continued to walk down the street. He walked quick at first however, slowed down when he checked his watch and found he still had some time before he had to arrive. The neighborhood of Haymarket was in the beginning stages of the day, with only a few stores being opened at this time and a handful of employees to staff them. What animals that could be seen walking the streets marched with grim resolve in the morning hours or walking merrily and wondering why every had such solemn faces. The street Will was walking on opened at the end and revealed a large park which Will eyed as he strode on. A variety of city workers and volunteers could be seen cleaning and setting up booths. Animals, both predator and prey of various species worked in fervor and delight as they set about their work. For them this wasn't a chore but an opportunity to take part in a task which they enjoyed.

Today was a very special holiday which was celebrated in Fauna City and was one which took most of its residents in, Covenant Day. On this day, everyone payed respect to the Covenant of Coexistence, an ancient law amongst animals which raised them from mere beasts to civilized animal persons. Predators and prey would live together in a peaceful coexistence to secure a brighter future than what would be available if they were apart. Though it would be contested by some who said that such an agreement was against their origins, it was eventually accepted by the majority. The covenant allowed animals to survive for centuries and as such the city celebrated it every year on the aptly named Covenant Day. While many things had changed over the years the one thing that never changed was that the holiday was a day of revelry and could be used by anyone as a valid excuse to party until they couldn't stand. Which it often was, much to the chagrin of insomniacs everywhere. In the early morning air it was plain on the faces of the animals in the park that they were looking forward to a day of nonstop partying. Will had a similar expression on his face as Covenant Day was always a day which brought him a satisfying meal. Large festivals, especially todays, always meant animals bringing their wallets full of cash to purchase food with a calorie count that they ignored. He made sure to make a mental note of the park's location just in case his job ended quicker than expected. He would go, get paid, swing back, steal what he can, and make it back to the train station with something warm to eat. As he neared the end of the block, he could hear a band somewhere behind him start their rehearsal for the festival. They played horribly but everyone who would hear their performance later would be so smashed that it would be called high art.

At the end of the street, Will took a left turn and found himself supposedly near the address he needed to be at. However, Will became puzzled at the sight before him as the quaint neighborhood which he had been previously traversing through had taken a turn. The homes and shops weren't as well kept as the buildings not too far away, and the street was littered with various forms of refuse. There could be seen graffiti on every surface reachable, and some windows were even boarded up. The only animals which could be seen walking these streets where the local homeless and the few which called this neighborhood home. Will continued unfazed despite the rougher feeling of this part of the city. In truth, such an environment was one that was close to his heart and therefore he knew how to traverse without being bothered. Living in a city such as Fauna City provides the unique experience of not only having to deal with others but also having to deal with others as well your own obvious physical differences. The majority of animals choose not to let these differences affect their decision making in how they treat others but the ones that do, know exactly how to exploit them. Will was no stranger to others looking for a quick buck and having no qualms about stealing from someone too small to do anything about it. Fighting was never really an option for him, after all what could he do; get caught in their throat? Instead he focused his efforts on learning how to not get into fights or as his father would call his tactic "The Art of Running Away".

Not wanting to take his chances in the event someone was waiting to rob some unaware animal, Will dove into an alleyway putting on a pair of gloves from his pocket. He decided that it would be quicker and safer for him to travel his way rather than the way that everyone else did. On the wall to his right, there was a long drain which ran up the side of the building next to him and up to the gutter above. Will dropped to a low crouch and with one smooth motion, jumped. He clung onto the side of the drain with audible thunk which rattled it. Taking only a moment to situate his grip, he managed to scurry up the drain in a matter of seconds. Reaching the top, Will pulled himself up onto the top of the building and gazed at the addresses around him. The address he was supposed to arrive at was in this neighborhood as the building numbers showed that he was close. Though he would normally bail in the event of being led to a shady area such as this but his need outweighed what little good sense he had left. He walked across the building and looked at the street opposite from where he climbed up. Down the street there was a small food market which seemed to provide the only sustenance for the whole of the neighborhood. An "open" sign could be seen hanging from the window. This was his destination, just as it was described over the phone. Checking his watch, Will cursed when he saw that he hadn't much time to get there. Breaking into a full sprint, he leaped onto the roof of the building next to him and landed hard, causing some strain on his knees. Brushing off the pain, Will continued running and jumped again onto the next building. He slowed down as he reached the end of this building and stepped into the gutter. He threw a leg over the edge and with his toes grabbed a hold onto the drain. He then threw his other leg over and lowered himself until he was vertical. With precision, Will loosened his grip and slid down to the ground slowly and safely.

The door to the food market burst open as Will barged through, his gasps for air heavy and labored. Had he not run he would have surely been late, but due to his speed he managed to arrive just in the nick of time. He hung onto the rack of chips under the counter next to him in an attempt to help steady himself. The giraffe working the register above him was deep into his sudoku book and mistook Will's labored breathing for his air conditioning unit. He gave it a couple of slaps just as Will was catching his breath and then settled back into his book. Will looked around at the market and immediately started to think about how he could best steal something to drink but then stopped when he remembered that he actually had cash for once. Lots of other animal's cash yes, but Will learned to forget that part. Moving to the back of the store, Will fished out a small can of cola from the drink refrigerator as well as a cricket bar from the adjoining snack aisle. He didn't know how long it would be until he ate again but what he did know is that he wouldn't be waiting hungry. Walking back to the front of the store, Will stopped underneath the register and inhaled.

"Oi, Shopkeeper! I'm ready to make my purchase!" Will called out from down below the counter. His voice was loud enough to get the attention of the giraffe above him, who looked around for the voice which tore him from his book. Looking down at Will, he came out from behind the counter and took the items from him. As he was ringing up Will's purchase, the door to the market opened and sunlight came flooding into the store. From outside came an animal whose appearance Will could only describe as "odd". He was a sheep, there was no mistaking it. However, instead of having the trademark large fluffy wool that his species was proud of, he had opted to crop it short to his skin. This was true everywhere except his head which he had cut in a shorter version of what was the standard cut for facial sheep grooming. His horns had been shaved back, giving him, a more youthful appearance as opposed to the large spirals which older male sheep coveted. He was also rather short for a sheep which only added to his oddness. Were it not for the wool he could have easily passed for a goat. In sharp contrast to his physical appearance, the sheep's wardrobe consisted of simple trousers and a tucked in shirt which made him look like a poindexter. What probably was the oddest thing about the sheep was that not only were its eyes on Will, but that it was also walking straight to him with a large toothy grin.

"Hello, hello, hello! Is that you there Mr. Willoughby Ken?" The Sheep said as he made his way over to Will. The Sheep took off the sunglasses he was wearing and put them into a glasses case which he pulled out of his pocket. He closed it with a crack and slid it back into his pocket, making sure to smoothen out the wrinkles when he was done.

"I-prefer to go by Will. Are you the Charles Mansley that I spoke with on the phone last week?" Will said as he eyed the Sheep. He was used to him being the oddest looking one in a room so not being that guy for once was new to him.

"That's me all right," The Sheep named Charles said with a quick bow before rising back up with a smile. There was something about the way which he moved which revealed an almost barely contained exuberance just beneath the surface. Much like Charles was just as likely to dance as he was to be the prize-winning firework for The Covenant Day Festival. "I hope you are ready for work today!"

"Oh yeah, born ready ssssir-you just tell me what to do and I'll get it done," Will said, straining to acknowledge anyone let alone his employer be in a position above him.

"Excellent, just what I like to hear," Charles exclaimed with a smile "Now that I have you, we must be on our way. We have a lot to do today and we still have more people to collect!"

"Right on, boss man" Will said as he paid the giraffe at the register. Not even as soon as he had received his change did Charles take him by the shoulder and start to guide Will out of the store. Normally, Will would have come to blows over someone touching him. Today however, he managed to swallow his pride and restrain himself as Charles's hoof never left his shoulder. As the door swung closed behind them, Will was jerked suddenly to the left as Charles turned without warning. The two of them continued walking down the street

"So, have you done much camera work Will?"

"Y-yes, I just…like love cameras you know. Like, I love being able to just capture things. I try all the time to-," Will lied.

"Excellent, would you say that you are good with working with others?"

"Yeah, I can work with anybody," Will lied again

"Sounds great, I remember something you said on the phone…something about climbing?"

"Yeah, I can climb most things," Will said, this time the truth.

"Wonderful, you are just what I need to make sure this production goes off without a hitch. Now come, my van is parked down this dark shady alley and I don't want to burn anymore sunlight than we need to," Charles said as he pointed to his left suddenly. Will looked down the alleyway and could see that there way indeed a white van parked in the alley. Charles took his hoof off Will's shoulder finally and took out a set of keys as he walked up to the van. Will followed in suit, entering an alley way which he would normally avoid following anyone in. Charles unlocked the van and opened the passenger door for Will once he had got in. Will climbed in with little difficulty and placed his backpack on the floor of the van once he had sat down. The van's engine roared to life as Charles turned the key and without a moment's notice he floored the gas pedal. The van shot out from the alleyway and veered precariously as Charles jerked the wheel, nearly tipping the van over in its attempt to turn. Will was completely unprepared for this as he had only just put on his seat belt before he was pushed back into his seat by the third law of motion. With Charles at the wheel, the van sped like a bat out of hell down the street, zipping in-between cars freely. Will was jostled side to side, making his desperate attempts to open his soda and cricket bar much harder than it should have had any right to be. As they left the neighborhood of Haymarket, Charles made another near death turn to get on the freeway. It was only once he had reached the access ramp did his driving become less erratic.

"So…boss what exactly is it we're doing? Your ad only said that you were looking for a camera man," Will said in between mouthfuls of cricket bar.

"Ah yes, I am glad you asked. I own a production company which specializes in filming commercials. Normally, I would use my main crew to film but unfortunately it is not considered 'legal' to have any of them work on holidays, especially todays. Poppycock I say but what can you do. Now, recently I have taken on an order by a well-known drink company to produce a commercial for their new flavor. I haven't much time to make the dead line so we must maximize as much time as I have left. Since I can't use anyone that I would normally, I require the help of some young self-enterprising capitalists like yourself who are willing to work when others can't."

"What…does that mean?"

"It means you do work for me, I pay you, and no major laws are broken."

"Works with me boss," Will said as he took a sip of his drink.

"You brought your camera correct?"

"Yeah got it right here," Will said as he pulled his backpack onto his lap and opened it. Sitting there in the bag was a small state of the art camera which Will had stolen from a house party a week prior. He knew very little about cameras except that they could be sold quickly on the street. In fact, he was on his way to sell the camera when he just so happened to see the ad which would eventually bring him to sit in this van. It was a risk, a huge risk but the reward would be more than worth it.

"Good, we are going to put some miles on that thing today. Put it away, I gotta take this exit real quick."

Will managed to close the bag just in time for Charles to swerve suddenly to the right to reach the freeway exit ramp. Savannah Central grew smaller behind them as the van sped down the highway at breakneck pace. Glittering in the distance the wild and stylized buildings of downtown Fauna City could be seen approaching. The silhouette of the city was punctuated by buildings which seem to have been made with the design philosophy of being as individually unique as possible. Each building top was different in design, with one being in the shape of a horned animal whose skin was a brilliant golden color and was detailed in a dark green stone. Another was a large swirling building which looked like a tentacle reaching upwards. The designs were never the same but they did flow into each other and gave the city an instantly recognizable shape. Will did not visit downtown often and stared awestruck like always as they got closer. The bright lights of the entrance tunnel which consumed the van as they entered downtown was the only thing which could snap Will back into reality. Charles continued driving with the gas pedal flat on the ground, passing any car he could in an attempt to shave time off the commute. Will's fingers dug into the fabric of the bag, fearing that it would be destroyed should his strength fail. A bright light in the distance rushed at them and opened to reveal that they were deep within the center of the city. Gargantuan sky scrapers rose from the ground all around them, towering above them like trees in a forest. Much like ants walking on a path, the cars on the highway were miniscule compared to the buildings which surrounded them. Animals of all species could be seen walking the streets, talking merrily amongst each other. As Charles drove, Will could see that several streets which they had passed had been blocked off and extravagantly decorated for the day's festival. Taking an exit, the van started to angle upwards as they began to climb the small mountain that the center of the city was built on.

The large office and government buildings which made up downtown gave way as they rose in elevation. Towering buildings gave way to smaller buildings which were only a quarter of the size. Will wrinkled his nose in confusion as Charles continued the ascent. The stores in this part of the city offered several types of luxury goods such as handbags and designer clothing. There was a car lot which sold cars which cost the average animal a life of saving. Even the streets where of higher quality, looking freshly cleaned and tarred. Will's head spun as he struggled to look at everything at once however Charles stared on unfazed, almost seeming unimpressed with the posh homes which passed them. A wall of green rose suddenly to the right of the van as they passed a large hedge. The sheep flicked his wrist and as he almost managed to crash the van into a limousine, turned into a road which cut through the hedge. Will's head was thrown into the armrest, causing him to see stars for a second. As his vision cleared, his breath was taken away by the house that Charles was pulling up to. Hidden by the hedges from the main street was a large mansion which seemed to radiate with wealth. The driveway formed a large loop at the end with multiple expensive looking cars being parked near the house. The van drove to the end of the driveway and parked with the passenger side facing the main door. A small pedestal rose from the ground and presented a call button on the driver side, which Charles pressed with a closed fist.

"This is the house of one of the actors who is going to be performing today. He is the son of one of my business partners, so treat him with respect," Charles said they waited for a response from the microphone. He brought his wrist to his face and checked the time.

"Ok no pro-"

"Ah look at that, still a couple of hours till noon. Also, his sister died last week so try not to bring up anything like that."

"Wait, what?"

BZZZZT- "Ay! I see (crash) you guys. Just give me like (belch) 3 minutes and I'll be out (bottle breaking) real quick," said a deep voice which spoke from the speaker and then was silent. Charles took both hooves off the steering wheel and began to rummage in the backseat for something while they waited. Will looked at Charles, expecting to get an answer to his previous question but was met only with silence. Whatever Charles was looking for was apparently not within immediate access because he eventually took off his seat belt and leaned waist deep into the back. Will's ears pricked up as he heard the large metal front door of the mansion swing open and looked to see a figure walking toward them. Stumbling towards them failing in his attempt to look sober was a tall male cougar. His muscles bulged through his blindingly white polo shirt, which was tucked in at the front to show off his designer belt buckle. He wore a hat that advertised a bar which sat on his head next to his diamond ear piercings. What completed the look was the large golden medallion which hung proudly from his neck on a thick chain. As the cougar reached the van, Will could smell the cloud of alcohol which clung to the big cat. Charles noticed he had reached the van and got up off the floor and unlocked the door. The cougar sat down in the seat behind Will, his knees came through the back of Will's chair and pressed into the poor marsupials back. The cougar must have felt it too, as he quickly apologized and pushed his own seat back. As soon as the click of the cougar's seat belt was heard, Charles started the car again and began speeding down the driveway. This time Will was ready, with arms, legs and tail affixed to something as soon as Charles started the car.

"Raymundo my boy, you look like hell. Have you been sleeping?"

"Not really, man. I stared at the ceiling last night."

"I can pick up what you're putting down there. I remember this time years ago when I was younger I got a cheap apartment in the Rainforest District. No one told me to make sure the window screens were secure before I bought the place. Bloody mosquitos ate me up that night, nearly took out half my blood the little devils."

"Mmmhmm."

"You haven't started performing again have you?"

"Nah…I've been on break from the studio."

"Ah…yes, I remember your father telling me now. Odd, I remember the lunch we were eating but not the conversation we were having. I remember everything now perfectly. We were having lunch at the top of the Palm Resort and Hotel in Sahara Square. I was having the quinoa salad, way too much lime juice by the way, and he was having a salmon fettuccini. We talked at first about business but then we moved over to personal topics."

"Yeah, he said he hung out with you."

"I know that taking time off your schedule must be aggravating for you. After all, your fans are probably missing you to death. However, I know that times are rough for you. I…heard about what happened with Isabelle. You should know that I offer you my sincerest apologies. She was…too young to leave us…,"

"Thanks…Charles," Raymundo said as he lifted a paw to his medallion and clutched it. The center of it had an etching which bore a family crest.

"…And because I know that times are so rough for you, I decided to get you this," Charles continued as he pointed with his hoof to the seat behind him. On the seat was a grocery bag, which seemed stuffed to the brim with an assortment of candy. Raymundo's eyes nearly bulged out of his skull as he exclaimed in glee. With claws unsheathed, the cougar attacked the bag; consuming box after box of high calorie treats.

"Yo, how did ya know I'm cheating on my diet?!" Raymundo said as he tipped some hard-shell candy into his mouth.

"Well, your father mentioned that you took a cheat day for the funeral and it turned into a cheat week. I thought to myself that as long as you know you are going to stop soon that you should enjoy what time you have allowed for yourself. Now before you inevitably give yourself lock jaw from the sweets I suggest you say hello to our camera man Willoughby here."

"Uh, where is he?" Raymundo said as he looked around the van.

"Oi Whiskers, I'm down here!" Will said as he popped his head out from the side of the seat.

"Oh shit. Sorry about that little dude," Raymundo said as he extended a paw towards Will.

"My name is Will by the way, not…the other longer version," Will added as they shook paws.

"It's all good with me," Raymundo said as he returned his focus on the bag of candy which he placed on his lap.

"Oh look at that, we are getting along! This is going to go swimmingly," Charles said as he began to increase the speed of the van. They had left the prim and proper area of upper down town and were now speeding downhill. With near surgeon like precision, Charles managed to swerve in-between countless near-death experiences while Raymundo continued to eat and Will sat quietly watching the scenery go by. From his angle, he could see out and far over most of the city with the Nocturnal District's sky dome visible in the distance from across the lake. As the van flew downhill, Charles changed lanes several times. Every car which didn't allow him over caused him to curse loudly as he was adamant that he take the short cut he had in mind. This short cut took the form of the Tundratown tunnel entrance. Will loosened his seatbelt enough to let him get a better view as the light at the end of the tunnel came closer. He had never gone to Tundratown before and was excited at the opportunity to get a good look for the first time. As they exited the tunnel there was an audible fwhump sound that could be heard. The snow machines where set on high and large heavy snowflakes fell from the sky. In the distance, Will could see that the buildings which made up the central part of the district where covered by a large cloud that he could only imagine was a blizzard. Will started to feel himself get excited at the thought of the van traveling through the storm and making his first visit something unforgettable. However, he was immediately disappointed to see that Charles took a street which began to lead them away from the center of Tundratown. Will could do nothing but watch as his chance to go visit creep steadily back into the distance.

They couldn't have been in Tundratown for more than several minutes before Charles had driven them to the southern border biome wall to Sahara Square. Continuing along with breakneck pace, the lights of the tunnel whizzed by in a blinding strobe effect. There was a bright flash of light at the end and the whole of Sahara Square was revealed to them. Not missing a beat, Charles blasted the air conditioning as soon as they had exited the tunnel. As they drove closer towards the center of the district, the buildings in the distance became clear. Closer now than before could be seen the giant Palm Resort and Hotel whose massive sun panel leaves could be seen from any location in the district. The buildings which passed them on either side of the road were varied in their architecture, changing from regular buildings to ones which had been carved into the mountains themselves. The most remarkable of these mountain buildings was a large plateau which had been hollowed out and redesigned into the biggest shopping mall in the entirety of Fauna City. Though he had never been inside, Will had once heard from a friend who had that it was possible to stay inside for a week and not see the same store twice. He looked forward to a future financial windfall which would allow him to test out the theory.

Charles lowered the driver side visor, causing a dark shadow to slash across his face. He sat back reclined in his seat with his sunglasses on and a smile on his face. They had gotten off the main highway in Sahara Square and took an off-road street which took them out east towards the Canyon Lands. The road which they drove on took them to a small collection of mobile homes that were placed near a bend in a river. The surrounding area wasn't the same as the previous desert since it lacked the same amount of plant life. In fact, the landscape was quite desolate and lacked any evidence of life save for the trailers which gathered together in infrequent clumps. The antennae on the tops of the trailers reflected the sun and could be seen for miles before they arrived. The animals that were seen here looked as if they had seen better days. The clothing which they were wearing was tattered and frayed, holes more common than not. The fur on their faces was rough and unkept, whether out of lack of care or ability it was not easy to discern. They stared at the van as it passed them, eyeing the travelers with weary caution and curiosity. Just the fact that the van wasn't rusted was a cause for interest. Charles followed the road for quite some time before coming to a seemingly random collection of trailers and stopping. They had been waiting for some time before Will broke the silence.

"Are they coming?"

"Hmm?" Charles said as he opened one eye lid slightly.

"We've been sitting here for like half an hour waiting."

"Oh, it shouldn't be much longer. This is normal for her."

"…Her?"

"Yes, the leading lady of our produc-," Charles began to say before he was cut off by the sound of knuckles rapping on the side of the van. In response to the sound he hit the button which unlocked the van's doors. The door opposite of Raymundo opened and a woman quickly sat down, closing the door with a solid thunk sound. He stared at the woman; she had surprised him enough to cause his tail to poof. Her form was concealed by the very large coat that she was wearing. She held the lapels up which blocked her mouth, while a mop of dark hair covered her face.

"Drive," she said quickly.

"Well if it isn't miss-"

"Drive!" she said much louder. Charles eyes shot up to the rearview mirror and wordlessly ignited the engine of the van. He seemed to take no offence to the quick snap of the new passenger. The woman who had entered shook visibly, curling into a small ball in the seat as the van began slowly moving forward. Will, curious, pulled down the visor in front of him and looked into the mirror. Behind them coming from out of a small dodgy gas station was a buck with huge antlers. It was apparent from his body language that he was irate as he searched around the area, looking for something. Will could only naturally assume he was looking for the woman. She stayed silent and completely still until Charles announced that they had left the Canyon Lands. Upon hearing this, she threw off the coat and revealed herself to everyone. Laying there in the mounds of the coat fabric was an emaciated looking doe. The clothing which she wore were designer but were so weathered that they could have easily been mistaken for rags. Her most obvious physical trait was the large scar that stretched across her face. As she shifted up in her seat, Will noticed that her mop of long dark hair was actually a wig since it became lopsided when she shifted. She was quick to fix it but not enough for Will to see part of her scalp. The fur was thinning and missing in some places.

"Mind if I smoke?"

"Blow it out the window," Charles said in a sing song voice as he got back onto the main road towards the highway.

"K, thanks," said the woman as she pulled what looked to be a hand rolled cigarette from a pack in her coat. She breathed in deeply when she lit it and exhaled slowly, watching it drift from her mouth to out of the window where the thick cloud dissipated. Will noticed that the smell of the cigarette was familiar to him. A friend of his, a mole named Boone, used to be fond of the black-market smokes which circulated throughout the cities underworld. It was a self-rolled cigarette that had been dipped in one of the chemicals from the snow machines in Tundratown. They were called "Snow Clouds" because of the trademark thick exhale as well as making the smoker feel like they were floating amongst the clouds. Will had never taken interest, as it was noted to be incredibly addictive as well as poisonous to the system. It was difficult to be a user, as too little chemical meant no high yet too much could mean death. It was a poison which stayed in the system for a while, slowly accumulating in the liver until the organ was forced to shut down. Boone himself nearly died, only being saved from death by the virtue of passing out in front of a hospital. The doe sat back in her chair, her eyes rolling back into her head as her body relaxed.

"Everyone I would like to introduce you to Tamara, she is going to be our leading lady for today!" Charles said with a glowing smile.

"What it do?" Tamara responding in monotone, holding up the peace sign while she held a vacant expression on her face.

"Yo," Raymundo said as he rolled the empty candy bag into a ball and put it into his pocket.

"Hello," Will said as his tiny paw reached out from the corner of his seat, waving at her.

"Ah…everybody together at last. Finally, we can get this show on the road," Charles exclaimed. The van swerved onto the freeway entrance, taking the loop quite fast. The occupants of the van were silent as they traveled, still awkward in each other's presences. The only person to make any noise was Charles, who cursed and carried on at every car who dared not to move the millisecond he turned on his turn signal. Raymundo was content to listen to his 8-track tape player, tapping on the arm rest with his paws in rhythm to the beat which he listened to. Tamara steadily took hit after hit of her narcotic and when she was done, tossed it out the window. With her arms folded across her chest, she laid her head back with her eyes closed and shut out the world around her. All Will could do was sit quietly and watch the scenery change as the van sped down the highway carrying with it the oddest group he had ever been a part of. After passing the surprisingly huge Palm Resort and Hotel, the highway curved around and pointed them back in the direction of Savannah Central. Unlike the northern border of Sahara Square and Tundratown which was separated by the biome wall, to leave by the western border to enter Savannah Central meant crossing a bridge. Between the two districts was a large inlet which allowed water from the lake which the city was built on to create a natural barrier between them. The inlet also featured several small islands which were connected to each other and the two neighboring districts by bridges. Charles took an exit as they reached one such island, getting off the main highway and driving down to the small neighborhood below. Will spotted a sign which passed over them upon their arrival; a small billboard which proudly read "Welcome to Happytown!"

They had parked not too far from the park in the middle of Happytown. Charles had backed up the van down a secluded alley off the road and instructed everyone to follow him. Raymundo handed Charles a duffle bag from the back of the van as everyone exited. Will got out just happy to be on stable ground while Tamara followed sleepily behind him. The beep of the alarm being set echoed down the alley as they walked quietly with Charles. They stopped as he came across a nearby door on the side of the building. The sun was nearing the middle of the sky as Charles began searching through a large ring of keys he had pulled from the duffle bag. "Eureka," he said as he pulled the apparently correct key and slid it into the key hole. He opened the door with ease and held it aloft to Raymundo who held it open in turn for everyone as they all filed into the building. The door slid closed behind him with a slight click as he entered the building, the last of the group. Inside they walked down a dark hallway, passing several doors and turned at the end to enter a large room which had a window that had the curtain pulled down. The flick of a light switch was heard and the room became fully lit, revealing the interior. The layout gave the impression that the building they were in was some sort of empty industrial office space. A large folding table took up the corner of the room and had several chairs placed around it. On the concrete floor in the large space next to the table were several lines and x's which had been made with tape. Other than these things, the rest of the room was just plain empty with no further decorations, furniture, or embellishments of any kind. The ceiling lights hung low on their exposed wires, filling the room with a dim glow.

"Well I say, despite all that could have gone wrong, we managed to get here with just enough time," Charles said as he placed the duffle bag down in front of the chair at the head of the table. He pulled two scripts from it and laid them down in the middle of the table.

"Yeah, woo hoo," Tamara said disinterestedly as she pulled out a chair from the table and sat down. She slouched back against the wall and looked apathetically into the air. She gave no visible reaction as Will pulled out the seat across her and climbed up to it. He placed his backpack on the floor, using it as a foot rest. Raymundo leaned back on the wall next to them, his arms folded across his chest.

"Oh come now Miss Cervino, the day hasn't even started yet! You can have plenty of time to be down after you are done working. At least then you will be tired enough to have a reason," Charles proclaimed with a smile, he stood there with one hoof on his hip and the other on the duffle bag.

"Sure," Tamara responded, laying her head in her arms on the table.

"Splendid," Charles said with a chime in his voice, "Before we begin anything everyone I just wanted to say that even though we have managed to get here in time, we don't have that much time to rehearse. Being conservative, I would say we have about an hour and half maybe to get ready. We need to maximize our time while we can! Before we begin however if I could just speak to you, Raymundo, in the other room for a second?"

"Yeah fo-sho," Raymundo said as he turned to follow Charles back down the hall.

"Hey, weren't you the one who just said we don't have much time?" Tamara said, raising her head off the table. Raymundo froze in place, one foot in the air. He looked at Charles awkwardly, waiting to see what he would say.

"I also said that we should use our time wisely…perhaps you could start practicing your lines now. Unless you feel that you can't do that without us?" Charles responded, chuckling a bit when he started.

"Whatever, sure," Tamara said as she laid her head in her arms on the desk. Raymundo unfroze and followed Charles out of the room, the sound of a door closing from the hallway echoing loudly seconds later. Will took a second to shake off the second-hand cringe and after he steeled himself he looked over at Tamara. There was something in his brain which had been turning for a while now and only now had it just clicked.

"Hey…Tamara?" Will asked nervously.

"Hmm," Tamara murmured into her arms.

"Charles said that your last name was Cervino…right?"

"…..Yeah,"

"I just…..didn't know it was you."

"You…remember me?"

"Yeah, I used to see you on tv when I was a kid. You won that child singing competition, it was all over the news."

"Hmm, yeah I guess it was. I didn't think I got big enough to be worth remembering."

"Well I remember, judges said you amazing. It's weird though, I remember you being on tv one day and then it was like you-"

"Disappeared?" Tamara interrupted, raising her head.

"Well I mean…"

"Look, everyone who finds out wants to know what happened. They want every excruciating detail of why I'm not famous any more. Well fuck that I'm done saying it when those smug pricks can just look at me and get their answer!" Tamara said, her voice raising with every word.

"I…didn't-"

"I know I know, you didn't mean it. I just…have had to do that a lot. To answer your intended question, I'll just say my agent didn't like to work with broken goods and leave it at that. Left me after I got into a car crash and took with him my dreams…..what a fucker," Tamara said as she sat back in her chair and began absent mindedly flipping through a script. Will shuffled in his seat, if that was the result of a simple question then he preferred to stay quiet. The two of them sat silent in the room they were in, not aware of the events which were transpiring in the room next to them. Down the hall in a storage room, Charles stood on top of an over turned trash can consoling a crying Raymundo. The cougar's heavy heaves of breath threatened to knock Charles off his perch but his clutch on the big cat's shoulders kept him up. Raymundo encircled the sheep in a tight embrace, tears dripping from his eyes and falling to the carpeted floor below. Charles patted him with his hoof, allowing Raymundo to cry as long as he required.

"I..I-just..ccan't"

"I know buddy…we all knew how much she meant to you."

"N-no sleep, t-two days!"

"I can't even imagine the hell you must be going through."

"She was h-here one day, then gone the next…just like that."

"I was shocked when I heard the news; dropped what I was holding and ran to call your father."

"Fucking shit! I can't close my eyes without seeing her. I didn't even get to see her before she…she."

"Woah there now, let's not go down that rabbit hole right now let's stay here ok. I know there is nothing I could say to make you feel better right now, this is just…terrible no matter how you look at it. You want to know something though?"

"What?"

"I know you. You are so strong and you don't even know it. I remember when you called and told me that you had started to make those uh…"

"Mixtapes?"

"Yeah there you go. I remember when you started making those and how sad you were when no one was buying that 'dope shit' you were selling. You were worse than I had ever seen you before. You looked like you had given up on life."

"It's my passion man, it's what I want to do."

"Right and what happened that turned you around to the success you are now?"

"I…wrote my lyrics while on drugs?"

"What? No not that…I mean maybe but not mostly. The actual answer was that you didn't give up and found the strength to continue."

"Oh…yeah that's right."

"Look, the point is that you were able to overcome adversity because you found the will to persevere. Just like I know you will be able to overcome this. I know you have it in you, even though right now it hurts and it feels like nothing will ever be better. I know you will get through this…Isabelle would want you to get through this."

"Thanks Charles…you're a great friend."

"Eh, don't mention it."

"We should probably get back to the others by now."

"You still good for today? I don't want to force you to do this if you aren't ready to be on camera."

"Yeah I'll be alright to do my part. Besides it's Tamara who's the one doing the talking. I just got to make sure I don't crash between now and then."

"Oh…are you in need for a pick-me-up?" Charles asked, reaching a hoof to his pants pocket.

"No…no way you brought stuff."

"Come now, you know who I am. I always got stuff on me! How else do you think I get through the day?" Charles said as he brought out a bottle from his pocket. Inside one there were tabs which had one side colored red and the other blue.

"Woah what are these?" Raymundo said taking the bottle in his paws.

"These my feline friend are some of the most expensive pills I have ever bought, supposed to be rare or something. Got them thinking should I ever need to pull an all-nighter that I should have something for it."

"Cool, does it have a name?"

"Yeah, it's called Aggressorim. I believe they are quite interesting to be honest. You cut it in half and take the blue one first to relax and soothe the muscles. You have until the high wears off until you must take the red one to really get the party started. If you know what I'm saying?"

"Oh, I know what you are saying! So…how much?"

"Beg pardon?"

"How much you gonna sell me a pill for?"

"Oh, fuck that just take one. I'm not going to charge a close family friend. Besides I need you to be in the right mind for today so I would consider it an investment if anything."

"Wow, thanks man."

"Don't worry about it. Oh, and here is a pill cutter."

"Well don't mind if I do," Raymundo said as he took the cutter from Charles and popped the top of the bottle open. He cut off a blue tab and tossed it into his mouth. The remaining red tab he put into the coin pocket of his pants.

"Ready to get the show on the road?" Charles said as he hopped off the trash can and started towards the door.

"I am now," Raymundo said, catching the door Charles held open for him and closing it behind them. Though the pill he had taken was minor compared to his usual fare, he could already feel the effects. It felt like a warmth was creeping from his shoulders and was slowly moving up his neck. As he and Charles rejoined the other two in the main room, the warmth had already filled his entire body. He felt as if he had laid down in the sun with a faucet pouring liquid warmth all over him. It was like a weightlessness which spread through him, removing the weight of grief which consumed his waking thoughts.

"You ok there, Whiskers?" Will asked, he could tell Raymundo had taken something. After all no one looks like they are battling their own personal hurricane and not look suspicious.

"Oh….yeah man, I feel great!" Raymundo said as he stretched his arms and took a seat at the table. He had a look in his eye, one which looked through what was in front of him. He began to tap in rhythm on the table as Charles came up beside him to sit at the table. Charles sat at the head and zipped open the duffle bag. From the inside of this bag came out a large metallic brief case which looked way too heavy for Charles to lift. However, he simply laid it down on the table as if it didn't bother him in the slightest. After closing the duffle, he pulled out his chair and got up on the table; eye level with everyone now. The group quickly broke from their chatter and stared in confusion as Charles began to pace up and down the table.

"Ok everyone, now we can finally get started with today's production. Firstly, I would like to first start by thanking you all for showing up. With all of us working together we will be able to get this thing done in time to meet my deadline. Now you all must be probably wondering what you all will be doing today. Well it's very simple my young capitalists, we are hawking the drink du jour. The name of it is, ugh, 'Prowl'. Such a generic name don't you think? Well the shtick for this one is that it's an energy drink so laden with sugar that it will make you want to run like our ancestors used to. Now with this concept I could imagine quite a bit for how I would film a commercial. However, I have instead been given specific instructions that I can only deviate from should I want them to find someone else to do it. Since we must follow them so strictly, we are going to break up the scenes to give us more time to do each as they want it. The goal for shooting today is to accomplish their want for 'a scene of a prey animal handing a predator a can and then the two run down an alley'. If it sounds easy then you are going to be disappointed because they also want us to film it all from several angles so that they can choose the best. Oh, and by several, I mean like twenty different angles. With all that said let's get started shall we. Raymundo and Tamara, you two will practice your lines and movements over there with the tape on the floor. You, Will, are going to come with me. Well…what are you waiting for?"

Will was about to get up but Tamara slammed her hoof down on the table, surprising everyone.

"Hang on short stack, no one is going anywhere!"

"Heh, is there a problem Miss Cervino?" Charles chuckled.

"You bet there is a problem. Your diatride didn't mention nuthin about our pay. What's our cut for the day cause I know we ain't working hourly," Tamara responded, unaware of the bits of spittle flying off her lips.

"Well, my diatribe, was meant to inform you about only about what you were all to do. You should already know you are getting paid an amount enough to keep you silent about our activities today. However, if it is motivation you require to get through today…then allow me to oblige," Charles said, putting a hard emphasis on the spelling correction. He reached down to the brief case on the table and entered the code to the lock. It popped open in his arms and he turned the case to face the group. In his arms was a brief case that was filled to the brim with money. There were crisp 100-dollar bundles laying in the velvet of the brief case. The room became silent enough to hear a pin drop as the three animals in front of him stared. Their jaws firmly planted on the floor. The group broke their stare and the sounds of scraping chairs filled the room. Raymundo and Tamara did as they were told, taking script in hand and beginning to block the scene. Charles casually put in the complex code for the lock and tossed it on the table as he jumped off. Will scooped his bag from the floor and clumsily put it over his shoulders as he ran to follow Charles who didn't seem to pay him any attention. The door at the end of the hallway opened with a blinding flash of light which revealed the light of the noon day.

As the beep of the van's alarm went off, Will could hear there was an audible indistinct sound which could be heard in the air. Getting into the van, Charles pulled out a tube of chap stick and applied it liberally to his lips. He swirled it around, looking at himself as he adjusted the rear-view mirror. He fired up the van's engine and took the two of them to back out on the street. Participants, both sober and not, of the day's holiday littered the streets in droves. With shoulders rubbing at each other's, the crowds meandered throughout the sidewalks and cut off streets reveling in the celebration. The intensity of the crowd grew the closer the van got to the central park in the center of the island. Will marveled at the fair which had been assembled in the park by the city volunteers. It's various rides and booths stood in stark contrast to the festival as it was celebrated in the Nocturnal District. Everyone here partied in an orderly and controlled matter were back home the festival compared to a city-wide rave. The denizens of the night lived in the dark to party in the light for one day per year.

However, there was but one issue which caused conflict during today's proceedings. As the van drove down the street which encircled the park, there could be seen several small groups which could been seen carrying signs. They were protesters, members of various communities who disagreed with the covenant. Though it was not unheard of for a prey to feel uneasy around large groups of predators, these were animals who took that to the next level. The group consisted mainly of larger prey animals such as hippos, rhinos, and bulls who acted as bouncers for much smaller prey who acted as orators. They stood atop the shoulders of their protectors; allowing them to look down on the crowd as they shouted their ideology. They were all carrying signs in opposition to the mixed nature of Happytown's population. Signs which contain messages warning prey that the predators which lived near them would eventually kill them and that Happytown would be better as a prey only sanctuary. It was not uncommon to see these groups during the holiday or hear about them during legislation regarding species equality. It should be noted that it was more common to see prey animals protest than their predator counterparts. That is because the ones that do are in the minority compared to those that just immediately turn to violence. Will lowered his ears as he watched the protesters pass by the van. Though he cared very little for politics, he had always found these separatist groups distasteful on account to witnessing their crimes while living on the streets. He watched in the mirror as the protesters were being led away from the park by several members of the police. Amongst their group were children, who carried signs of their own.

"Are you paying attention there, Willoughby?"

"Huh? What?" Will responded, shocked out of his daze. He hadn't noticed that Charles had been talking to him.

"I was telling you about your role today and what you needed to do."

"Ah sorry, got uh…lost in space for a second."

"Well listen up because we are coming up to it quick. See that tall building in the yonder distance there?" Charles said as he pointed a hoof to a building ahead of them, a three-story apartment complex which look recently developed.

"Yeah, I see."

"You can climb that right?"

"That thing? No problem, piece of cake."

"Good, that's what I like to hear. I need you up on top of that with the camera pointed that way," Charles said as moved his pointed hoof to an alley way which was directly across from the apartments, cutting right through the park.

"Uh sir, what about all the other animals? Won't they get into the shot?"

"I presume you know what a zoom button is?"

"Oh yeah, how could I forget that," Will chuckled nervously.

Charles could only shake his head as he continued to drive. He pulled up slowly next to the apartment building and instructed Will to perform a tuck and roll. Will looked at him with confusion but then quickly undid his seatbelt, realizing that Charles was probably serious about not slowing down. True to his suspicion, Will had to literally jump from the still moving vehicle to get on to the side walk. He stood up with bated breath as he checked the camera to see if it was broken. Breathing a sigh of relief at it being intact, he began to search for something which would allow him to climb.

Raymundo was still feeling the dregs of the blue pill as he and Tamara finished their first take for their scene. His mind was still hazy but was at least at ease for the moment. Their muscles ached from the rehearsal which that had just recently finished. True enough to the diminutive sheep's words, their scripts did in fact have oddly specific instructions to how they were to present themselves. They had changed out of their regular clothes and into the costumes that Charles had provided for them. Raymundo had no real problem with his clothing but insisted that he could keep his medallion, to which Charles obliged. Tamara's mood didn't improve when she put on what was most likely the nicest thing she had worn in years. However, she didn't get worse so if anything, it was better than nothing. The two of them could see as they finished their scene that the park was reaching its highest number of participants. Remembering that he was still in time limit, Raymundo popped in the other half of the pill which he had brought along with him. He began stretching, attempting to alleviate his sore arms and legs, while Tamara leaned up against the wall of the alley. The sun hung high overhead, bathing the two of them in the light and heat.

"Ugh, it's too hot for this shit. Fuck today!" Tamara said as she adjusted her wig.

"Aw, what's wrong Tam-Tam? I though you wanted to get paid today?" Raymundo said with a half-smile. The effects of the red pill must had started to kick in because he was starting to loosen up more.

"The fuck did you just call me?"

"Come on bro, did you see that fat fucking case of cash!? Look, I don't know about you but look at it this way. All we have to do is run down a hallway twenty times and we all get bundles of cheddar! What's wrong with that?"

"Well nothing, but when you say it that way I sound like a bitch."

"Yeah well, don't be that way then. Be like be baby, look how light I am. You know what that is? Calisthenics, every Thursday," Raymundo said as he began doing hopscotch on the sidewalk next to them. His steps both jubilant and erratic, lacking any sense of shame.

"Pffft, yeah sure. Whatever you say you weirdo," Tamara said, unable to hide her laugh.

"I'm serious man look," he said as he grabbed his leg and jumped, pulling the other leg through the loop and sticking the landing. His medallion making an audible clinking sound.

"Whoa, ok there, save it for the shoot m'kay? We are running remember?"

"You just jealous you can't do it," Raymundo said as he straightened himself up.

"Sure I am, look I am going out to the other side of the street to give the signal to that other guy to start filming again."

"Sounds good to me!" Raymundo said as he waved at Tamara while she turned the corner down the alley. As she went out of sight, he began to do jumping jacks. Staring out into the street, he began to notice that even though he had been putting in the same effort to jump, his rise and decent began to slow down. His whole vision became blurry and pulsed with every heartbeat. The heat on his fur felt like an irradiated aura which clung to him tightly. The tree which rose from a hole in the sidewalk looked to him as if it had been painted, each bush stroke visible to him. Raymundo stopped his jumping and caught the light post next to him to steady his balance. The metal of the pole seemed to morph underneath his touch, turning from new to old to rust in a continuous cycle. He stared in disbelief as he looked around him, seeing faces in the leaves of the tree, the puddles of water in the gutter, and the shadows of buildings. Whispers creeped into the back of his mind; echoes of previous conversations. Discussions which grew quieter as a single voice grew amongst the rest; a voice which Raymundo knew to be familiar. He looked around, craning his neck in a desperate attempt to hone in on the voice. Letting go of the pole, he stumbled to the ground trying to follow it. The cougar rested on his knees, his breathing and pulse quickening as his body became flooded with adrenaline.

"Raymundo," a voice said to Raymundo's left. He turned to the direction of the person who had called his name and witnessed a figure which made his heart skip a beat. Standing there at the end of the alleyway was a young woman. She was a cougar like him but smaller, not as muscular. She wore a white blouse and had a long skirt which hung at knee level. Her two dark amber eyes looked at him with a kind face which bore only love. Raymundo could feel his tears falling down his face to the sidewalk below him. The woman turned, her diamond earrings flashing in the sun, and began to walk down the sidewalk away his view. Raymundo scurried to get to his feet and lunged down the alley. The distance of the alley stretched twofold with each step he took, causing him to sprint in desperation. He waved his arms and began to shout in an attempt to get the woman's attention but it was to no avail as she didn't react to him at all. Exiting the alleyway to the street next to the fair, Raymundo crashed into a young moose couple. Ignoring their shouts of anger at him, he got up off the ground and continued chasing after the woman. Not paying any attention to the people around him, he cut through the large crowd with reckless abandon. As he came closer and closer to the woman, Raymundo could feel the first inkling of true happiness leak from his heart. Reaching the woman, he put a paw on her shoulder and pulled her to him in a tight embrace.

"Isabelle!" Raymundo said as he began to cry loudly and openly.

Hundreds of feet away, Will could only watch in horror at the events were transpiring. Tamara had walked out of the alley to give him the signal to start filming. He had taken his eyes away for just a second and when he looked through the eye piece, saw something which made his stomach turn. Raymundo came running down the alley on all fours, pounced on her, and then began to maul her. His clawing and biting was not the technique of a highly evolved predator but that off pure rage and hatred. As he straddled her and swung his arms at her, the only thing she could do was shield her face and shout obscenities. The fair goers around them turned to the noise and froze in shock and disbelief at the turn of events. Some, those unaware of the severity of what was going on, thought that it some sort of prank that was being pulled. Tamara's cursing soon turned to pleas for help, shouting that she was getting attacked by a predator in the vilest of terms possible. The crowd, which stood still in bewilderment, was spurred to action by the sudden shouting of a group which had begun to run across the park. The separatist group had come back to set up a protest line and were present to witness Raymundo's initial lunge. They took their signs in their paws and hooves and charged with fervor.

"We told you! We told you!" one of the smaller animals from the group said.

"You did nothing to prevent this and look what happened!" said another, putting every single ounce of hatred inside of them in each syllable.

"The administration is useless, we'll kill him ourselves and then they will listen to us!" a voice shouted as the larger animals of the group ran towards the psychotic cougar. The police, what few were assigned to the small neighborhood fair, tried in vain to calm the now panicking crowd. It was to no avail as they were too outnumbered to even be heard over the crowd. Caught completely off guard, there was nothing they could do as the crowd came closer to Raymundo who was now covered in blood from the waist up. Tamara had managed to protect her face and throat however the rest of her body was covered in claw and bite marks. Seeing the small crowd which began to circle around him, he leapt over a surprised wildebeest and ran on all fours into the much large crowd behind them. The separatist's scrambled to follow the rampaging Raymundo, as he clawed and scratched at wild abandon. Those who had children and the larger families ran in every direction, trying to get away from the violence as fast as they could. Moving at first with no discretion, a wave of paranoia swept the animals as prey began running in droves away from any predators. The confused predators either didn't notice or shrugged it off as they were the members of the mob who seemed to get away at all costs. They tripped and fell over each other in a desperate scurry to leave with their lives. Several large predators, the brave and the drunk, ran to Raymundo; trying to see if they could capture him peacefully. The separatists came up behind the predators and instead of working with them to stop Raymundo's carnage, began to fight the other predators which were attempting to help. A couple police officers, entered the fray as well, armed with radio's and pistols; several gun shots ringing out in the air. Adding to the crowd was members of the fair who felt sympathetic to either side. A symphony of agony and strife rose from the park, ringing in Will's ears as watched helplessly from the rail of a third story balcony. He did not hear the sliding glass door open behind him.

"HEY ASSHOLE, GET OFF MY BALCONY," a voice shouted from behind Will. His tail's grip on the railing loosened and the camera nearly dropped from his arms. Trying to catch it, Will lost his footing and both he and the camera dropped to the street below. Breaking his fall on an awning, Will laid still for a second not sure if he was still alive. Looking up at the balcony he fell from, a bear peeked over the edge back at him. Realizing he was still in the land of the living, he reached over to the camera beside him and was delighted to see that it was undamaged. He ended the recording and sat up, hastily stuffing the camera back into his empty back pack. The fighting in the park raged on next to him as he rolled over the edge of the awning and shimmied his way down a nearby drain. The side street was still clogged with noncombatants attempting to flee from the scene before them. Will was nearly kicked and came close to being trampled as he turned the corner and hid in a nearby dead-end alley. He bent over, clutching at his heart and trying to catch his breath. This was too much, way too much; he did not sign up for his. It was supposed to be quick, simple. All he had to do was show up, get his money, and leave but instead his plan had fallen to pieces. Now not only was he a few bills from being flat broke but also, he was in the middle of a battlefield. To top it off, it was all being created by Raymundo who had abandoned his chill for randomly attempting to murder Tamara. What was the reason? He had been acting like normal only a minute ago. Why did he have to flip the crazy switch now of all times? Sinking to the ground, tensing up in frustration at the unfairness of the situation. Will even let out a shout as he got up and kicked a soda can at the wall. He didn't know how he would do it, but he had to make it back to the train station in Savannah Central to get back home. He would have to escape Happytown by bridge and brave half the city on foot but he would do it if it meant he could see the light of another day. Taking a step forward, he cursed as he remembered that he couldn't just leave without telling Charles what had happened. He almost ditched this thought entirely but then thought that maybe he could get his cut of the pay in return for the single take of footage he did have. He figured it would be a better bargaining chip than coming with his paws swinging. Taking a deep breath to center himself, Will jumped to his feet and looked out from behind a trash can.

Raymundo, sporting several cuts of his own, stood in the center of the chaos which consumed the park. The police, predators, and separatists continued their brawl around him; long since abandoning him as the main priority. He turned his gaze to a fleeing badger and sprinted in its direction, leaving the park and disappearing from view. A high-pitched siren grew louder as collection of police vans flew out from the corner at the far end of the park. They screeched to a halt one by one and threw open their doors, unloading waves of riot gear clad officers. They were far enough away that they still had to walk some distance to get to the fighting. Assembling quickly in a line by orders of their commanding officer, they began a slow march towards the brawl. Will scowled as one of his possible escape routes was taken from him. He considered taking the roof tops but was dissuaded by several helicopters which appeared over the tops of the buildings. A door on one of them opened and an officer shot a can from his gun into the crowd. The can burst open in a cloud of choking white fog, causing the tight crowd to disperse. Taking it all in, Will weighted that the quickest route to get back was straight across the field. It was suicidal and stupid but with Raymundo loose in the neighborhood it wouldn't be long till the whole island was shut down by police. By then Will planned to be on the train back home with his payment and all of today behind him. Will shook his head as his back was literally against a wall in this. Looking at the remnants of the fair which were left, he judged that he would be able to get across before the police could reach them. Not wanting to let the advancing police officers get too close, Will burst into a full sprint from the alley way.

Jumping over the side walk, Will stepped on the grass as a grey blur. Holding the straps of his back, he hauled ass in-between miniature skirmishes between members of the mob. He ducked behind an overturned booth as he came up close to a lion and horse fighting. The lion fought with punches instead of extended claws but the horse was not so merciful. With a great swing of his sign he bashed the lion on the side of the face. He fell against the booth Will hid behind and turned over, attempting to get up. He coughed out blood unknowingly onto Will, covering the marsupial. Wiping the blood from his sunglasses, Will ditched his cover and continued his sprint down the field. A bull from the separatists saw that one of his fellow protestors was grappling with a predator and began running towards them. He shifted his weight down and just before reaching them, extended upwards headbutting the predator in the jaw. Several of his teeth came flying out in an arc across the grass, some landing in Will's hair. He brushed them out with one paw, his body shuddering in disgust. His eyes remained unflinching as he never moved them from his goal of the alleyway in front of him. Out of the corner of his eye, Will could see that riot officers were descending from lines of rope from one helicopter. They chased and swung at anyone in the vicinity, attempting to subdue anyone they could. Will continued his sprint, despite his now quickening heartbeat. A dark shadow loomed over him, averting his gazed for just a second. An elephant that was fighting several wolves had become encumbered as they climbed on top of him. He lost his balance and started to stumble and lean back. Will managed to dodge in-between his heavy footfalls, not stopping to look back at whether the pachyderm was victorious in his struggle against the swarm of teeth. Coming close to the alleyway, Will could see Tamara's body laying in a pool of blood near the opening. He could feel his stomach begin to turn as he got close enough to see the edges of skin around each slash on her. She was breathing and could only weakly move her arms. As he reached the end of the park, Will saw that Tamara's wig had been fallen off her head and laid in the street in between them. Not allowing himself to pause or flinch, he nearly choked on the vomit in his throat as he passed her to enter the alley.

"Hm?" Charles said as he looked over. Will had burst through the door and ran into the room. He fell to all fours, out of both exhaustion and an attempt to catch his breath. Charles sat there with his feet on the table as he sat back in his chair eating a sandwich. He chewed slowly as he waited for Will settle himself, taking a casual sip from his soda.

"Sir…," Will managed to get out between gasps of air.

"What's up Mr. Ken? Aren't you supposed to be filming my commercial?" Charles said as he took a bite from his sandwich.

"Sir…please…,"

"What of Raymundo and Tamara? Am I to presume there are burning our precious sunlight doing nothing while you are here with me? Also, what is the reason for you being covered in filth, did you fall in a gutter?"

"It's not…like that…,"

"Oh, out with it man! What are you doing here because the thing I see you doing is working your way out of a job!" Charles snapped suddenly.

"Sir…Raymundo attacked Tamara. He just fucking went insane, started clawing and biting at her!" Will said as he finally managed to get a complete sentence out.

"What?" Charles responded.

"It's true I swear! We were starting to set up for another shot and he just came running at her. It got so bad that it caused a fucking riot; I had to get through it to get here."

"So, let me get this straight," Charles began to say as he put his sandwich into paper bag that was on the table. He placed the bag inside the large duffle and got up off the chair. "You mean to tell me that Raymundo, a close family friend of mine, just went and attacked poor defenseless Tamara for no reason?" he continued.

"Yes, I swear I am telling you the truth!" Will said as he stood up.

"And because he was attacking her there was a riot which involved everyone at the fair?"

"I ran through it but I got here. I swear I literally just ran through that crowd. This is fucking blood all over me!" Will said as he stretched out his arms. Charles merely stood there, not reacting in any way to Will. He merely stood there with arm wrapped around his side and the other resting underneath his chin. He stared at Will with a look of inquisitiveness.

"Oh well, what can you do?" Charles said as he chuckled slightly, breaking form.

"Wh-what?"

"There is a saying in my business, cheap things aren't good and good things aren't cheap. With the types of people I hired, I figured that things would go to shit," Charles said as he collected his possessions from the table and placed them in the duffle bag.

"I would say that things went worse than shit. This was a catastrophe man! I had a lot riding on this."

"Yes, I'm sure," Charles said quickly as he started to dig through the contents of the bag.

"I'm sorry about your commercial and all but I really got to go. I don't know how much longer till they block the bridges to find Raymundo. He ran off and I haven't seen him since."

"Taking initiative, I like it Will. Oh, by the way you said that you were in the middle of filming is that correct?"

"Yeah, I hit record as soon as I got the signal from Tamara. Literally like seconds later she was getting attacked by Raymundo."

"You managed to get it all on tape?"

"Yeah, I managed to get quite a bit of that and the riot. Just the beginning part because I fell from some dick's balcony."

"Ah I see, interesting."

"I still got the camera. I figured you can cut out the attack and the riot with that movie magic you studio types know how to do. So, can I just give you this so I can get my money and leave. This day has just been the worst," Will exclaimed with a heavy sigh. He longed to return to the couch he slept on at his friend's place.

"Sure, just give me the camera and you will be on your way out of here." Charles said, his back still turned to Will. The marsupial took off his backpack and pulled the zipper open. The camera was still intact despite the mad scramble to get back to the office. He held it out with two paws as he waited for Charles to turn to take it.

"Alright Mr. Ken, here is your payment," Charles said as turned to reach for the camera. He grabbed it with one hoof and with the other brought out a wrench from the duffle bag which he smashed into Will's knee. He fell, clutching at his knee as Charles let out a laugh which filled the empty room. Charles took the camera and walked over to the table to place it in the duffle bag. He then stood over Will with a ceiling light directly above him, causing him to take on a bright halo that made him focus on Charles's face. All Will could do is look up as Charles twirled his wrench.

"What's with the long face Will? I thought you got what you wanted; you know…your payment?"

"What the hell is wrong with you, you stupid bastard! Why my knee?!"

"Camera's worth more than you, simple as that."

"All this for a stupid commercial? If you just wanted to rip me off then why not just do a bounced check!"

"Oh Willoughby, bless your heart. You still have no idea what is going on do you? I got to say I am disappointed that you are only as interesting as your clothing. I think you might actually be the stupidest person I have ever met. Except maybe for that cougar but at least now I don't have to deal with him or his family anymore. All according to plan I'd say!" Charles said as he returned the wrench to the duffle; picking it up after he had zipped it shut. He stepped around Will and tried for the door.

"Wait…wait! What the fuck are you talking about! What was the point of all this?" Will shouted at him as the pain in his knee prevented him from standing at the moment. Charles froze in place for a second and then loudly cracked his neck. He dropped the duffle bag to the floor and turned to face Will.

"Look Will, I would love to sit here and monologue with you about every single little detail your greasy black little heart desires. Here's the thing though cupcake, I got shit to do and the last thing I need to do is sit here and shoot the shit with a kid like you," Charles said, taking small steps towards Will. "After all we all have our parts to play. Raymundo's is to be the belligerent savage and as for Tamara…well I am sure she will get over it. After all, she knew what she was getting into."

"What are you talking about? What does Tamara have to do with any of this, she was just mauled to within an inch of her life,"

"Yeah and she was in on it. Maybe she didn't know she would be the one to get attacked but hey, her face was probably worth it. Raymundo probably improved her appearance anyway. After all there is only so much you can do with 'damaged goods'. Oh, and while I am at it, fuck Tamara. I let her ride on my coat tails as a favor but she still acts like a shit all day. So ungrateful, but after all what can you do with types like her," Charles said as he reached Will. "Now if you will excuse me, I got to go run this tape to the person that paid for it."

The sheep turned to leave but then walked back to Will. He stooped down and took his hoof and pressed it lightly on Will's nose.

"Boop! Wanted to do that since I met you. Anyway, goodbye Willoughby! Maybe you will get a better name when you stop being a cub and learn common sense!" Charles said as he exited the room and walked down the hallway, duffle bag in hand.

"Our young are called 'Joeys' you prick!"

"Whatever!" Charles continued as he sauntered casually down the hall towards the door.

The door slammed behind him, leaving Will alone in the empty room. He laid there clutching at his knee, silently cursing at how events had transpired for today. His mind was a blurred mess which struggled to piece together the truth of the events which he had experienced. In the end, Will pushed it out of his mind; not caring about anything else but himself. With nothing left to do but survive, he gritted his teeth and began to crawl towards the door that Charles had left through. With his injured leg dragging on the floor, Will mustered all the force he had to continue through the pain. He came up next to one of the chairs near the table and used it to try to stand. The pain that shot through his leg hurt enough to make him see stars but Will was able to get balanced. Taking a tentative step forward, he winced at the pain of his first footfall. Slowly, he managed to waddle pathetically towards the door.

"Fuck…Fuck…Shit…Fuck…" Will said between gritted teeth. He clung to the side of a light post as he tried to keep himself standing. The pain in his knee throbbed and he could already feel part of it begin to swell. Slowly, with great effort, Will walked down the sidewalk of the ruined streets. The rioters were more than just what was seen at the park as the street which Will walked on showed the telltale signs of looting. Fragments of shop windows and doors littering the ground, making the place look like a warzone. As he walked, Will looked at the refuse with a gaze of weary acceptance of his surroundings. Just like this place was trashed and a remnant of its former self, he too felt just as tarnished. What was supposed to be the day that shot him out of poverty had turned out to be a cruel ruse designed by a miniature sheep. Whatever plans he had had mattered not now. The only thing which kept him walking forward was the deep seated need to live no matter what. Passing by a trashed bakery, Will looked in sadness a place that had at one time brought happiness to others and was now nothing more than derelict space. He silently decided that after today, he would be happy if he simply forgot everything that had happen. At least then it wouldn't hurt him as much as it did now. A sudden sound behind him caused his ears to twitch and swerve in its direction.

"Any signs of the savage?"

"I saw none; keep looking for him!"

Will turned to see over his shoulder that a gang of large prey were walking down the street towards him. With pulse rising, he searched around for a place to hide. These people were not known to be the types to ask questions first and Will doubted they would care for the reason why he was covered in blood. Knowing that he had to get out of sight as soon as possible, he grabbed his injured leg and began forcing himself to walk normally. The pain was excruciating but it did allow him to advance with some purpose. Craning his neck to look for cover at the nearby stores, Will began to get desperate as he heard the voices behind him get closer. Try as he might, Will could feel it in his heart that he knew he would be captured. A bum leg in a bad neighborhood was a recipe for disaster but a bum leg in a rioting neighborhood was a death sentence. Not wanting to get caught empty handed, Will picked up a shard of glass of the ground and held it at the ready. Looking around, he could feel his chances of living lowering the longer he kept on the street. He had almost given up hope when he spotted a store that looked as if the rioters had passed it altogether. Sitting at the end of an alley as a small store which was out of the way from the main street. The door was simple and unembellished in anyway and the curtains in the windows were drawn together with ribbon. There was a rough hand painted sign which hung over the door that proudly read "John's Tailor Shop". Not wanting to look a gift horse in the mouth, he turned down the alley and made his way for the door.

The interior of the tailor shop was pitch black and silent, an area of stasis which kept its luster in spite of the events outside. A beam of light shot out from the mail slot and pierced through the darkness. The mail slot in the middle of the door popped open for a second; a piece of glass falling from it to the ground. The mail slot opened again and there could be seen a very small pointed muzzle which stuck out. With teeth gnashed in a snarl, a sudden push caused the muzzle to extend into full head. Will blew his hair fringe out of the way as he wormed himself through the mail slot. From his neck came his shoulders then waist and finally the rest of his body slid out. He fell to the floor with a solid thump, causing him to groan loudly. He had had to maneuver a trash can to get up to the mail slot, a feat for him and his bum leg. Worming through the mail slot had also put a great stress on him, leaving Will wanting nothing more than to just take solace in the floor he lay on. He laid there for several seconds, allowing the pain in his leg to stop before he got up. Will sucked in a deep breath and with significant effort, brought himself to his feet.

Standing up to brush himself off, Will looked around the dimly lit shop. The interior was made of a dark wood and all upholstery was off a dark velvet material. Large cabinets locked by chain made up the walls of the store, each one holding a variety of fabrics and patterns. A golden bell sat proudly on the front counter next to what appeared to be a vintage cash register. The ceiling was high and a small gaudy chandelier hung from the ceiling. A coat rack sat next to the door as well as a pair of roller skates which hung from their laces on a nail. The air smelt sweet and slightly perfumed, the scent of lavender being detectable in its profile. The room consisted of the main room which Will stood in as well as a side room which contained amongst many things, several chairs, a table, and a collection of angled mirrors which shown his reflection. Will was about to take a step forward into the room when he froze. He could hear the voices of the animals which he had evaded on the streets. Holding his breath, we waited for what seemed like ages as the voices grew louder and then quieter as they passed. It wasn't until they were completely gone did Will release his breath into a loud exhale.

"Dad?" a child's voice came from out of the darkness.

Will frantically searched around the dimly lit room, attempting to find the voice. As he whirled around to find the source, he turned to see that there was a large shadow looming over him. In the dark of the room, the claws and teeth of the shadow were illuminated by what light was available. Reeling backwards in terror, Will fell over onto his back. He reached around blindingly, looking for anything which would allow him some chance for survival. The large shadow came slowly closer to him, a single arm outstretched towards him. From the tips of his fingers, Will felt something flat and sharp that was just out of his reach. He reached backward just as the shadow peered over him and thrust forward the shard of glass which he had dropped previously. The glass sunk into the shadow, making a sound much like a knife stabbing into a watermelon. The shadow froze over him, crying out a shriek of pain. From the glass shard came out a stream of blood which pulsed with each heartbeat. The blood fell with heavy drops onto the floor below them. The paws of the shadow reached around the shard of glass, clutching at its chest as it began to stagger backwards. With his heart banging in his ears, Will's body was flooded with adrenaline as he witnessed the creature before him fall backwards with a loud bang. Scrambling to get off the floor, Will lunged at the small animal accessible light switch on the wall. The lightbulbs in the chandelier turned on in a dazzling array of refracted light, shining light on the room. In front of him, laying in a pool of his own blood was a somewhat middle-aged fox. He was wearing a three-piece suit with a long pocket watch chain and spats. He had some grey fur coming around his muzzle and had styled his head fur to be slicked back lightly. The shard of glass remained lodged in the center of his chest, where a large crimson stain had pooled there. His eyes, tired but bright, now looked at the ceiling with the remaining inklings of life escaping through them. He laid eagle spread with one arm outstretched above his head, a paw reaching towards the cabinet behind him. Will stood next to the door, mouth and eyes wide open in shock and horror.

"Daddy…What happened? Did you lock the door?"

Will couldn't hear anything as his mind only became a series of pictures barely connected by the tactile feeling of him running. He unlocked the door and threw it open, flying out without knowing that his leg was flaring in excruciating pain. The alley way which he came out of became a long hallway with each brick morphing into the face of the fox he had just killed. They stared at him, not with malice nor contempt but instead looked at him the same way his corpse stared at the ceiling. Turning the corner, he could hear the sharp scream of a child behind him, spurring him to quicken his pace. Vomit rising into his throat and tears beginning to creep at his eyes, Will put his head down and put his all into running. Why…why did he have to get up this morning? What was going on with Charles? What was the point of all this chaos? All these thoughts went through Will's head as he sprinted down the street. Not paying attention to where he was going, he ran into someone at the corner of the street. Tripping both him and the person who he ran into, they both fell to the ground like sacks of potatoes.

"Hey! Watch where you're- "both Will and the other person said. They stopped just short of their sentences when they saw who they were speaking too. Will, in his haste to escape from the neighborhood had run into the legs of a buffalo who was partially clad in riot gear. His clothing looked slashed up and his one of his horns had broken off. The officer looked young, way too young to be in the uniform he was in. Imagine his surprise to find that he had just been run into by a small animal covered in blood in a neighborhood undergoing a crisis. He looked at the opossum with confusion as he slowly started to piece together what he was seeing. He had heard the cry of the child and looked over Will's shoulder to the direction of the tailor shop. Will didn't wait for the buffalo to get his senses, picking himself up and running before the other could get up. The officer, now understanding what was happening, picked up his broken horn he had dropped and stuffed it into his pocket as he ran after Will. They both flew down the street, getting closer and closer to the edge of the island. The small marsupial wincing in pain as he made each step-in front of the advancing officer. The buffalo himself struggled to chase after Will, his running stance and foot falls haphazard rather than trained. Will pushed over trashcans and empty newspaper stands as he tried desperately to gain distance away from the chasing officer. The buffalo called out to him as he stumbled over the obstacles which Will threw at him. The two ran through the neighborhood, both equally inept in avoiding and chasing the other. This continued till the end of the street which came up next to the bridge which connected them to the rest of Fauna City. By this time both had ran out of breath and staggered to a halt in the middle of the bridge. The sun hung low in the sky, casting the two of them in an amber light as they struggled to catch their breath. They stared at each other, waiting for the other one to make a move.

"Stop…running…you…quick…little…bastard," the buffalo said.

"In…your…dreams…cud chewer!" Will spat out between deep breaths. He knew that this was probably the end of his freedom. Too many things about this looked bad and there was no way he could talk his way out of it. However, Will wasn't a quitter and he wasn't about to just let them take him in without a fight. The officer had caught his breath first and with one hoof on the railing, started to inch his way to Will. Will pulled himself, arm over arm, with the railings as he tried to drag himself away. The waters of the lake churned below them as the two figures got closer and closer to each other. Will looked over the railing and saw a boat which was coming to pass underneath them. It was a garbage boat which was piled high with bags and boxes of various types. With nothing left to lose at this point, Will winked to the officer and with one last push threw himself between the bars of the railing. He looked up as he fell and saw the buffalo's face peer over him in shock. His timed his jump for just as the boat was drifting underneath them. Seconds later, Will landed in a pile of packing peanuts which filled an otherwise empty box. The bridge crossed high over his head and a shadow fell on Will's face. He did not attempt to shield his eyes when the sun's rays fell over him once again. He lacked the energy to put up a fight anymore. He didn't want to be Willoughby Ken and he didn't to think about everything he had done today. As he laid there in the filth and muck of the barge, Will closed his eyes. He still could see the fox's dead eyes staring at him and he knew that the sound of the child's cry would haunt him for years to come. Opening his eyes again, Will wished he had been attacked by the still missing Raymundo; at least then he wouldn't have to live with it. He didn't move a muscle as the barge carried him away from Happytown, past the city, and off into the distance. He knew not where he was going…neither did he care.

Continued in Chapter 2

#Zootopia #zoodystopia

[the-blog-of-anger-blog]

I’m Pro-Life and tired of it being mocked so here we go

Now, I absolutely believe that it is a woman’s choice to get pregnant or not but more on that later. This is a long one, folks. Buckle in for health class.

This is not a popular opinion on tumblr and that is because people like to pretend that things are what they’ve heard repeated rather than do their own research and often that means it’s a crisis, it’s an outrage, and it’s an attack. So here’s my research to support the other pro-lifers out there.

Do I believe there are exceptions for abortion? Yes, Of course.

But the Pro-Choice movement too often uses the exceptions to justify the majority. The percentage of rapes that result in a pregnancy is 5%. 5% This is from 2 different studies.

This is not even the percentage of women who are raped who actually choose to have an abortion. In fact, the women who choose (not forced mind you, I’m not heartless) to keep their baby often recover easier and faster from the trauma as they have something good to focus on and help them heal.

So when it comes to the other 95% of women, I have problems. The natural biological consequence of sex is reproduction. The whole point of sex is to build on the relationship between partners (Oxytocin, folks, nothing like it apart from straight up dopamine) and to reproduce. 

Also, if any of your are interested, John F. Kennedy,  Victoria Woodhull, the first female candidate for president, Elizabeth Blackwell,  Elizabeth Cady Stanton, the latter being notable suffragettes, were all very anti-abortion.

“The Revolution published a piece, attributable to [Susan B.] Anthony, that said abortion was a choice that would burden both a woman’s “conscience in life and soul in death” and also ultimately an exploitation of women.” (http://time.com/4093214/suffragettes-abortion/)

Times have changed and this is a hydra of a problem so I’m not going to just say ‘abstinence is all you need’ because I’m not in charge of anyone’s sex life. People have been sleeping together out of wedlock for centuries and it’s not just going to go away. However, if we’re talking about a woman’s right to choose, why is the woman’s right to choose to have sex somehow not a factor?

 So, key issues: Contraception, Science/Biology, Inhumanity, and Responsibility.

#1 Contraception.   We need better contraceptive methods. Period. I especially promote researching better male contraceptives cause condoms are clearly not cutting it and, as spoken before, it’s a lot safer to unload a gun than to shoot at a bulletproof vest. It bothers me a great deal that people on both sides of this debate overlook that we can stand united on this front at the very least. No one should really be arguing with me on this. It’s gotta get better.

Also, better sex-education and to me, this means parents stepping up and being parents and giving the freaking Talk like the adults they are as well as discussing safe contraceptive methods. Sex-Ed classes are failing miserably with a nasty combination of misinformation and the creation of false confidence so teens believe that they know enough about what they’re doing to not worry about the consequences. (Fun fact: Planned Parenthood has actually taken over Sex-Ed program for multiple states in the North West and STDs and Pregnancy rates have been on the rise there compared to the alternative classes. These are the results of a 5 year report from the HHS Office of Adolescent Health.)

So from this, I hope it’s clear that I truly believe that women have the right to choose whether or not to be pregnant. I simply argue against abortion.

#2. Science/Biology.    When does life begin? Some say at birth, some say only if the mother wants the child. Imagine for me, if you will, that NASA discovered bacteria growing in the ice just below the Martian landscape. There would be a freak out! Why? Because it would be life on another planet! Now, you tell me that science classifies bacteria as living creatures that we can study, that we protect in several instances because of their potential to replicate vaccines and insulin... but something that has fingers, toes, a functional nervous system, and studies are going on out whether or not can dream... is only considered alive if it’s wanted by the mother? Wake up call: That’s not science. That’s strictly opinion and it’s an opinion that science refutes.

“But it’s just a glob of cells. It’s not a real person.” Have you taken a biology course? What are you made of? What are all living things made of? Cells. What are a bunch of cells called? Tissue. What do tissues make? Organs and on to organ systems and a body. You are a glob of cells. I’ll repeat that really quick. YOU ARE TECHNICALLY A GLOB OF CELLS. So, yeah. Of course that’s what you’re going to be told if you’re getting an abortion. Abortion clinics want your business. They want your money. Why else does Planned Parenthood not do ultrasounds unless you’ve agreed to have an abortion already? 

“ I worked at Planned Parenthood here in New Jersey and they don't do ultrasounds unless you are there for an abortion. They only do gynceology. Your best bet is to call and ask. “ (direct quote. Name not to be disclosed.)

“ Another issue that we ran into quite often, was when women would come in who had a legitimate problem, for example polycystic ovary syndrome, or maybe fibroids, or something like that, who we could not diagnose because there were no ultrasound technicians or any type of ultrasound other than the ultrasound that is available at the abortion facilities. “    - Ramona Trevino, Former Planned Parenthood Manager who has since joined the Pro-Life movement

So, yeah. I don’t trust or support Planned Parenthood at all let alone to define for me what life is.

Btw, 1st trimester of pregnancy ends at 12 weeks. This is a miscarried baby at 12 weeks.

Eyes, finger, toes, organs, ears, cartilage forming bones, all of these and more are present and people degrade it to “a clump of cells” making is sound like there’s no shape or form or potential to a fetus. That’s not science. That’s intentional deception.

#3 It’s entirely inhumane.   For those of you who are unaware of what each trimester level abortion is, it’s more and more horrible the more you research exactly what “ D & X or Intrauterine Cranial Decompression” means. 

The first is usually just a pill, 2 really, that essentially trigger your period x 5. There is immense bleeding, cramping, general pain and discomfort and it goes on for sometimes over a week. If you were to contact Planned Parenthood about concerns you have (which a great deal of young teen girls will do) you will be told to go to the emergency room and tell them you’re simply having a miscarriage. Meanwhile a chemical is in your body that can have bad reactions to medications you may receive to stop the bleeding. In short, as soon as you leave the clinic, Planned Parenthood is done with you until the next time you’re pregnant. The other possible option is to have the fetus sucked out of you with a vacuum, often in pieces but sometimes as one singular body.

2nd Trimester: Either a chemical solution is inserted into the amniotic sac to basically burn the fetus to death inside of you - this sometimes fails and instead triggers an early labor - before the now dead baby leaves in a miscarriage, or a doctor will basically take a mini ice cream scooper and break the baby into pieces before scooping them out. Option three involves the baby being torn into pieces and vacuumed out instead. Don’t believe me? The way they check that the procedure is done is they catalog that each part of the baby is present.There have been babies born at 16 weeks - the end of the 2nd trimester - that have since grown up.

3rd trimester - Often illegal now but some people don’t care: Chemical solution again followed by crushing the baby’s skull so it can be pulled out through the vaginal cavity often followed once again by a vacuum to get the brain matter and leftover pieces out of the uterus. If you don’t think that’s sick, you’re too far gone. This is for babies that could be born any day without this procedure. The only other case is for actual late-term miscarriages.

#4 Responsibilty.  Most abortions, as previously proved, occur due to inconvenience. Cases of medical complications or rape trauma are not what I’m talking about here. I’m talking straight-up “I just don’t want to have to deal with kids” inconvenience. Only it’s not even that. It’s “Well, yeah, I created this thing... but... You know, it’s hard maintenance, you know? Continually existing while having another life dependent on me and my ability to exist responsibly. Nah, it’s not for me. I’ll just go over here and play with my cat instead.”. It’s ridiculous. 

Perhaps you haven’t noticed this trend, but our society has been trained and hate responsibility. I know. It comes from a heck of a lot of other people’s consequences slamming into us with the force of a semi truck. It comes from schools where we’re overloaded with homework to the point where dropping out sounds nicer and nicer. It comes from growing up in a family that’s struggling financially where you might even see the example of parents choosing to shrug off the responsibility to raise their kids properly.

We hate responsibility and we fear it. So when I tell you that I know most of you who are Pro-Choice simply want to be able to sleep with whoever they want whenever they want with no consequence, it’s because you don’t want to be responsible. If you’re at that point, heck no. You should not be a parent. I don’t want to put a kid at risk with someone who clearly doesn’t want the responsibility of parenthood. That’s the whole reason people choose foster care and adoption. Because there’s a higher chance of the child being cared for. That’s sad considering the foster system is a mess.

For ladies being pressured into an abortion by your partner, ask yourself this: Do I want to stay in a relationship where my man abuses my kids? Would I stand by in a situation like that? No? If you’re being pressured into an abortion, you’re being told to sacrifice your child for their convenience. Don’t do it. Reach out for help and you will find it.  

 So here’s my advice for anyone considering abortion but who isn’t sure: Pull a Juno. Take responsibility for your actions and responsibility for your child for as long as you need to. Find a family looking to adopt - skip the Foster Care System entirely - and it’s surprisingly easy. You can literally google “looking for a family to adopt my baby” and you’ll be given dozens of options of hopeful parents willing to work with you to adopt right away. Reminder: If you find someone who wants to adopt your baby, they’re definitely going to work with you to make it happen. Your baby is at more risk of an unhappy foster home if you’re just dropping them off at the hospital with no connections.

So, there’s my blurb. I’ll write one purely on Planned Parenthood and all of the many many ways that it’s actually costing women more than other pregnancy health centers.

#abortion #pro-life #here's my rant #talk to me if you wanna talk

[white-collar-lawmen-and-conmen]

Never Con a Conman

Summary: Even con artists can be conned – a lesson you thought you were teaching; instead, it turned out that you were the one being taught.

Word Count: 3,235

            There was a method to your madness. One day you would work out what it was. Until then, you lived crazily. There was nothing more exhilarating than getting away with something you shouldn’t be doing.

            Right now, you were in Times Square with a satchel at your waist, beating against your hip with every step you took, pounding to the rhythm of your gait as you matched the tempo of the city. New York was one of your favorite cities. No matter how far you ventured, you always came back here. You used your contacts as an excuse, but the truth was that you were a Yankee in spirit. You passed by hundreds and hundreds of unknown strangers, innocent and oblivious to what you had hidden in your bag – gorgeous natural red rubies, an entire set of them, each plated into a solid golden chain. They were treasures you weren’t supposed to have, but Africa wasn’t nearly as hard to steal from as America, and you had done far more complicated jobs with far fewer resources.

            You imagined showing off your wealth just by donning the necklace and strolling about your day, being part of the flashy one percent in appearance, but you were smarter than that. Showing off for the sake of showing off was dangerous. Pretty much everyone who tried ended up caught, either by enemies or by cops.

            Speaking of being smarter, you needed to get a new fence. Your dumb contact had been passed to you by a friend, but despite your so-called friend’s competence, the fence was slipping. He was an older man, well-respected, very skilled, but his age was letting his mind go. He’d sold your looted necklace to two different buyers. Two different, very influential, very intimidating buyers – buyers that would kill you and your fence if you didn’t give them what they expected to have.

            Thus, you came to New York not just because it was where you might’ve lived, had you been a civilian with a nine-to-five job, but because it was home to the best forger you knew of, and you were prepared to make his acquaintance. You had a plan. You’d have him forge two identical necklaces just like the ones in your bag, give those to the buyers, and melt down the real gold and the rubies through a proxy, then reshape them into something else entirely. In a different fashion, they’d sell under the radar on the black market, and you could use the cuts from the unexpected second and third sales to bolster not only your own account, but to afford the services and the discretion of your forger and your better fence.

            You chose to think of it as an opportunity – an opportunity to make a contact and a lot more money than you otherwise would have. You regretted that you’d have to destroy such a beautiful piece of jewelry, but you couldn’t leave the real thing floating around. There was too much risk if you kept it on your person, but if it got back to either of your buyers and they compared the real stuff to the synthetics they would be given, you’d be screwed.

             You left Times Square with a smirk on your face and decided to cut through Central Park and get a crepe from a vendor on your way. The address you’d gotten had been a little trickier to come by and cost a few grand for the cooperation of various players, but you were certain that with your score in mind, it would be worth it. Maybe you could even take a vacation.

            Neal Caffrey spent four years in a federal super-max prison, but the people he still talked to said he was just as smooth as ever and hadn’t even come close to losing his touch. You doubted he’d talk to them much more once he knew they’d given his location to someone who wanted to find him, but that was okay. You’d have built a bridge by that point, and his contacts weren’t of any particular use to you, now that they’d set up a meeting.

            You were a little wary of entering the church of a known Italian mobster, but the pews contained scattered amounts of civilians. You weren’t entirely alone, but you weren’t exactly standing up at the front of the room and discussing your potential partnership through a microphone, either. You appreciated that it was a territory where neither of you were the alphas, and so, since you really didn’t know where you could find a more renowned forger at such short notice, you slipped into the church, kept your head down docilely when the Father observed you, and slid into the pew at the back beside a suit-clad man with a jauntily-tipped fedora.

            “I expected slightly less Freddy Krueger and a little more Jason Bourne.” You commented quietly, already recognizing his face from his Wanted posters. “You know, a little more sneaky, a little more scary.”

            “A little more CIA,” he countered, lifting his head and raising an eyebrow at you. “For shame. This isn’t Krueger, this is Sinatra.”

            You smirked at him and studied the hat again. You supposed you could see it. He was hot, and one of the few men in the twenty-first century who you’d seen successfully pull it off without giving you Wes Craven flashbacks. His striking blue eyes complimented the dark blue silk around the brim and almost matched his tie.

            “Alright, I relent. You’re sophisticated, classy, and old-fashioned.” Your lips quirked as you teased. Neal chuckled.

            Internally, you felt a thrill. This was going better than you had hoped. Neal was calm and engaging; not flighty in the least. His confidence inspired some of your own, but that was an old trick of the trade, and you knew better than to fall for it too hard.

            “Is it really a two-person job?” You cynically asked, looking Neal’s friend up and down.

            He was a short bald guy in glasses, skittish and fidgety, and he’d had more glasses of wine since you all sat down than the number of burner phones you owned. You could tell just by his demeanor that he was an anxious little fella, and you tried to avoid partnering with the overly-nervous. Too many nerves made it hard to effectively pull off a job.

            “Haversham has all the equipment we need.” Neal told you, topping off your glass like any hospitable host would’ve. “No one’s as good as me. But he comes pretty close.”

            “What’s the job for?” Haversham, as he was apparently called, asked you. Unlike Neal, he struck you as incredibly flighty. His voice was a little loud and confrontational. Neal shot him a look, practically screaming at him with his eyes to calm down.

            You liked Neal, but you liked a lot of people. You weren’t a con woman because you disliked people. And besides, trusting and liking a person were entirely different ball games. Your life was at risk because of this stupid necklace; no way in hell were you going to tell them the truth about what they were working on, lest they backstab you or use the threat to your health as a means of exploiting more money out of you. They didn’t strike you as the type, but anyone could be a good actor.

            You just needed to pull a con on the conmen you wanted to help you with yours. It was a simple process, really; you just needed a lie with as much background information as you wanted to share. You’d already thought of one, anticipating that the question would come up sooner or later.

            “There’s a hefty buyer looking to pass off a piece of jewelry as the real thing for a very large sum.” You put your wine glass on the table delicately and crossed your legs at the ankles. “Unfortunately, the real thing was looted in the seventeenth century and reportedly melted down. Discovering part of the horde would be… financially beneficial… but my client is far more interested in putting it on display.” You grimaced as if the idea sickened you. “He’s offering me too much to pass on, no matter how little I approve.”

            Neal and Haversham looked at each other.

            “If the real piece was melted down four hundred some years ago, how do you expect us to recreate it?” Haversham challenged you, narrowing his eyes while his fingers tapped bouncily on his knee.

            You smiled politely. “My client is convinced he can have this authenticated based on the records kept by the original owners. He’s created approximations and send photographs with the dimensional specifications. It’s not perfect, but he can’t very well put plastic and colored glass on display with a price tag as large as we’re talking. So he needs real rubies and real gold.”

            Neal winced. “To each his own. A score’s a score.” He raised his glass towards you. “I think we can do this project. Shall we discuss rates?”

            You tapped your glass against the side of his gingerly and then took a sip, feigning consideration. It was your life on the line; you would happily pay more than you’d normally like for their cooperation, but you had to behave as though it were any other con. If Neal knew that he was as much of a mark as anyone else in your scheme, you doubted he’d still be singing the same tune.

            “We can work something out.” You decided. “Five percent?”

            Neal tilted his head at you, scoffing slightly. “Your entire plan is contingent on the products of our labor.”

            “Fine.” You huffed. “Ten percent each. You wouldn’t be getting this job if I wasn’t facilitating it.”

            Haversham scoffed. “Twenty-five combined!”

            “Twenty-two,” you deadpanned. He seemed easily spooked, so you locked your eyes on him in a mean, cool stare.

            He sat back. “That’s fair,” he said compliantly, avoiding looking at you. You smiled slightly at Neal, who was giving you a vaguely scolding expression for scaring his friend.

            After five days, you had developed a routine of sorts. Neal and his odd friend would be in your secured warehouse by the portside, working on developing the synthetic rubies with tools you didn’t even recognize. You kept the real necklace far from the pickpocket, but brought photographs with you to compare the gems, and recorded the specs for their use.

            Haversham had on thick, flame-retardant gloves up to his elbows when you entered with your electronic key. Neal was set up at a table several yards away from the superhot industrial oven. Haversham was wearing a welding mask and thick clothes. The temperature made you start sweating even after you’d been inside for a few seconds, so you imagined he was sweltering. His dedication to protecting himself from boiling gold was laudable. When it splashed, it left burn scars. You’d heard of more than one person convicted for their carelessness.

            Neal wore long pants and a tight wife-beater shirt and thick-soled, metal-toed boots to protect his feet, but aside from protective goggles on the table near where he stood over the fake rubies, he wore nothing else. You could see his abs through his clothes, and sweat glistened on his arms. You liked how he was strong and built, but not obnoxiously so, and you gave yourself a second to pretend that you were allowed to be enjoying the view as much as you were.

            “Hey, boys,” you called, raising an arm to wave lazily at Haversham, who didn’t respond. You walked to the side of the table and pushed yourself up to sit on the edge. Neal looked up at you, a curl of hair falling over his face and a satisfied, self-indulgent smile on his mouth. “How’re things coming?”

            “We finished making the rubies this morning.” He placed his fingers in the group of gems and divided them into two groups, each corresponding to one of the false necklaces. “We should be able to leave them in the gold plating by tomorrow and have them finished days before your deadline.”

            “Uh-huh.” You admired the rubies. They looked gorgeous; picture-perfect. Unrealistically beautiful, in fact. “Now, how are you going to make them look like they weren’t manufactured?”

            Neal’s lips quirked appreciatively at your catch. “Imperfections on the jewels, forced oxidation on the gold. We have the photographs to go off of.” He cocked his head and stalked to you slowly. You hoped it wasn’t just your imagination that you had his complete, rapt attention. You spread your legs so he could stand between your knees, and he put his hands down on the table on either side of your thighs, leaning over you. “Of course,” he whispered, leaning down. You could see the flecks of shades in his irises. “It would be much easier if we could model off the physical approximation.”

            It was hard to act like you didn’t care. You flirted a lot yourself, and you knew it was a ploy. Still, Neal attracted you like few people managed to. He was smart, he was gorgeous, and he had a sense of humor – and, unlike most decent guys you met, he was in the lifestyle. No normal man would understand not to ask questions if you had to take off to Bohemia or be absent for months at a time. You wished you could return the flirtations, maybe even invite him out for drinks, but mixing work and pleasure wasn’t a great idea, especially when failure to deliver the goods would get a target on your back. Self-preservation was always your first concern.

            “I love your enthusiasm,” you whispered back playfully, “But I haven’t forgotten that you’re a thief as well as a forger.”

            “Touché.” He smiled at you more sincerely then. “I had to ask.”

            “Sure,” you compliantly agreed.

            “In that case, I should tell you what else I am.” His smile faded. Your expression darkened and you tensed, prepared to shove him away. Sudden mood swings were never reassuring. “Y/N, I might have misled you slightly. I am criminally active – however, those crimes have been more often than not sanctioned by the FBI as of late.”

            You swallowed and stared up at him darkly. “If you don’t move, I’m going to punch you in the nose and walk out of here.”

            “I just had to see if you would give up the necklace, but Agent Burke will get a warrant to search your hotel room.” Still, he stepped back and gave you room. You hopped off of the table swiftly, backing away while keeping your eyes locked on him.

            Your heart raced. Is he lying? You couldn’t find any tells. His tone was even, his expression was wry and bittersweet, and as you listened for anything else in the room, you realized you couldn’t hear the bubbling gold anymore. You held out a hand to stop Neal from advancing and spun quickly to see over your shoulder. Mozzie had moved away from the oven, turned it down, and was taking off his mask to fix his fogged and dripping glasses.

            “Please don’t make a scene,” Neal requested, pulling on his lower lip with his teeth. “I like you. I’d rather not watch this get messier than it has to be.” He pulled on the strap of his shirt over his shoulder and turned it inside out so you could see a small microphone on the inside. “Clear, guys. Come on in.”

            The door to the warehouse clanged open. “FBI!” A man shouted, his gun out.

            Self-preservation.

            You put your hands up harmlessly, but glowered at Neal for a moment before lowering your eyes. Maybe this was your karma for your madness. Everything caught up to everyone eventually. It wasn’t really his fault if you were the one morally in the wrong (you were big enough to admit that you were the antihero, even from your own perspective). Besides, working with the FBI was probably the best for his self-preservation.

            “Y/N Y/L/N,” the first man called to you, lowering his weapon. The other agent, a beautiful woman, kept hers out and she approached behind him, keeping an eye on you. The man stuck his hand out as he came closer, smiling genially. “Special Agent Peter Burke.”

            “No,” Neal sighed, crossing his arms. “Peter, don’t say it.”

            Peter’s grin widened. “It’s a pleasure to catch you.”

            Neal sighed again, looking away. You ground your teeth and stared at his outstretched hand skeptically.

            Self-preservation.

            “I should probably mention that the real reason I want fake necklaces is so that I don’t get killed by people rich enough to hire hitmen,” you blandly stated to the federal agent. It felt like you were in shock. You knew you’d rail against it once you had time to process and understand what had happened, but at the moment, you were working to make the most out of it for yourself.

            Peter nodded sympathetically and realized you weren’t going to shake his hand. He dropped it to his side. “We can take care of that.” He took up handcuffs from his belt. “Behind your back, please.”

            You sent another look at Neal. He shrugged at you, his eyes compassionate. He didn’t seem at all surprised that you’d lied about your motivations. You wondered if he’d gone running to the feds as soon as you approached him. You chewed on the inside of your cheek, thinking, before you turned to Peter and asked, “Can I have a moment?”

            Though confused, Peter agreed. “Yeah…?” He said it like a question and turned to look at the woman with him.

            “No funny business,” she warned you. “I have excellent aim and I’m looking right at your knees.”

            You stepped up to Neal. He leaned back on the table warily. “Nice one, Caffrey.” You defeatedly admitted. “I didn’t see it coming.” You paused. If your work wasn’t going to be finished, there was nothing to mix the pleasure with. You’d be damned if you went to all this trouble to partner up with Neal and didn’t get anything out of it.

            You reached for his waist and tugged on the belt loops in his pants, pulling him closer to you. Neal moved his hands to your hips impulsively and you reached for his shoulder, sliding your hand easily across his slippery skin, dragging him down to meet you halfway, pressing your lips to his. Neal kissed you softly, gently; his lips were soft and full and his mouth tasted rich with an aftertaste of coffee.

            Peter coughed when you pulled back, your hands still on his hips. Neal looked down at you, blinking in surprise, but with a charmed, happy grin on his face. You hoped it didn’t last too long – you still wanted him to feel at least a little bit guilty about getting you arrested.

            After a few more seconds of feeling the warmth of his body, you dropped your arms and took a step back. “Alright,” you said exasperatedly, turning around so your back was to Peter. You held your hands behind your back. “I’m cooperating, lady. Leave my knees alone.”

            “Thanks for your help, Mozzie,” Peter said to someone.

            “Suit!” Haversham hissed, stripping off his gloves. “Why would you say my name?! I don’t want her to know who I am!”

            “It’s a bit late for that,” you grumbled.

Requested by @white-magician

Send in requests!

#lawmen-and-conmen #white collar #white collar x reader #neal caffrey #neal caffrey x reader #mozzie #peter burke #conman #con artist #con woman #request #romance #the man is gorgeous okay #oneshot

[wildroseofarran]

Disappointing Day || Clarke & Mason

Mason: *Mason holds him from behind, kisses his neck.*

Clarke: -purrs- "Well hello there."

Mason: "Good evening. When did you walk in?"

Clarke: "Few minutes ago. Surprised you didn't hear me."

Mason: "Mm, was somewhere else."

Clarke: "Somewhere fun I hope."

Mason: "Not as fun as I would have liked."

Clarke: "Then we're in the same boat."

Mason: "Bad day at the office?"

Clarke: "Disappointing day."

Mason: "Kiss me. I'll make it better."

Clarke: Clarke grinned and turned to kiss him.

Mason: Slowly, Mason backed them towards the couch, lips connected for their brief walk. He pushed his lovely pet to sit.

Clarke: He gave an approving hum, not so much sitting as lounging. Well wasn't this day starting to turn around? Coming to his second home had been the right move.

Mason: "Such a long day," he mused. Like everything else, he was taking his time with the buttons to Clarke's shirt. "I know what'll make both of us feel better."

Clarke: Clarke liked that Mason took his time. He didn't have the same guilty desperation some of his other clients had.

And he was in for a nice surprise once he got to undoing Clarke's pants. There was something distinctly lacy in there.

"What do you have in mind?"

Mason: "Mm, someone bought you somethin' nice." He traced the outline of the lace panties. "Nothing ornate. I'm just going to suck your cock. Is that to your likin'?"

Clarke: "That someone was me." The panties were dark purple lace trimmed with silver thread and had a matching corset, which he'd gone without today. "Glad they're not going to be wasted on a preoccupied corporate lawyer."

Clarke hummed again as he pulled Mason in for another kiss. "That suits me just fine."

Mason: "Perish the thought. Won't be wasted at all. Though I picture you more in orange and white." As soft as his hands were, his mouth was ravenous and to the point. He didn't care if there was another man on Clarke's mouth. No human was going to make him jealous; Clarke was paid for in advance. This man was his to keep.

Clarke: "I cater to my audience. Everything I have in white and red I save for you." He was about to say that he didn't think he owned anything in orange when all rational thought flew right out of his head.

The only things Mason would be able to taste were wine and raspberry sorbet. Clarke hadn't been kissed by anyone else today, and just now he was glad of it. Being devoured by Mason was worth the disappointing evening.

Clarke pulled him as close as possible, purring like a kitten and wrapping around Mason like an octopus.

Mason: "Just for me?" His tongue was slow and deliberate, tasting Clarke's and chasing. This would become a game for him, taking those disappointing days and seeing what he could do with them, if for just a moment the human would smile.

"I know what we'll do. What would you say to champagne and a massage?"

Clarke: "Mmhmmmm...." Another time he would've made a game of this, making Mason chase him with more than his tongue. But not today. Today he was in the mood to be pampered.

Besides, why would he deny himself those kisses, that intoxicating flavor, that heat being stoked in his belly?

Clarke grinned against Mason's lips. "I would say yes please."

Mason: "Yes, please," he repeated. Those words with that smile was where his money had gone. He was so very much in lust.

If there was more, he would not kiss and tell.

"But first, my beautiful..." Those kisses transferred to his abdomen, lavishing as all, giving special attention to the lace barrier.

Clarke: Clarke's breath hitched. Surely Mason wasn't still going to--apparently he was.

His muscles jumped and tensed beneath Mason's lips as his skin, extra sensitive due to the lace, pebbled with goosebumps. "Better take those off," he murmured. "I'll ruin them."

Mason: "I'll buy you more." Lips wrapped around the head of Clarke's cock, suckled, cupped but not squeezed. He wanted to see if the warning held merit.

Clarke: Mason was rewarded with an obscene moan. The lace was heightening sensation in a deliciously wicked way, awakening his body, furthering his arousal. If Mason kept that up he was going to start leaking like a faucet.

Mason: Seeing and tasting precum had the demon sitting up to observe, stroking slowly through the lace, leaning back to watch as though admiring a sculpture. Perfect, perfect, perfect. Who would ignore this man? Who would not give him everything? Someone with a heart colder than his own. Someone who belonged in Hell. Surely, anyone with the sadistic desire to tear this man apart would be one of his kin.

"What a pretty face ya make, that plead."

Clarke: Clarke was able to spare enough focus to smile at the compliment. After that, it was all about Mason's hand.

He moved his hips in time with Mason's strokes, not so much searching for friction as trying to move the lace in just the right way. Any time he managed to drag the seam against the head of his cock, a veritable flood of whimpers and precum seemed to pour out of him.

Mason: I need to purchase all manner of lace for my pretty boy. Everything, anything.

Still, as appealing as this was, it wasn't satisfying. The lace had to be pulled down, enough to confine his scrotum, enough to expose his cock for Mason's warm mouth, sucking him down inch by inch. He could be congenial when the situation was befitting.

Clarke: "Jesus fucking Christ," Clarke moaned, hips stuttering as glorious wet heat engulfed him. No one had ever accused him of being quiet during sex, and this interlude was no exception.

He made sure Mason knew exactly how good he was making him feel. The lace was the farthest thing from his mind as he thrust into Mason's mouth, chasing his pleasure without apology.

Mason: Mason hummed and growled and chuckled against the occupied length, leaning back only to kiss and nip foreskin, tugging with teeth and pulling down to expose to the neutral air conditioned room.

Clarke: Every sound Mason made added vibration that heightened his sensitivity even more. Coupled with all that teasing--even the air was teasing him--meant that Clarke was very close to losing it.

He fell back against the cushions, chest heaving with labored breaths. "Mason....Mason...close...."

Mason: Oh, all the more reason to bring him back into his mouth, to suck with purpose, to stroke and fondle and growl and use Clarke just as he in turn was being exploited for an orgasm. He wanted to take from Clarke, remind him that he was owned, remind him that this? this was paid for. He was possessed in the best way possible. Yes, Mason would swallow him, claimed on yet another level.

Clarke: Clarke was more than reminded. He felt almost branded by Mason's mouth, by his tongue, by his lips.

There was nothing calculated or rational about his movements anymore; it was just a mindless pursuit of pleasure. And when he finally found it? Clarke completely fell apart, shooting into Mason's mouth with a cry that was far too feminine to have come from a man like him.

Mason: Swollen lips were being licked as Mason sat up. They were healing right before Clarke's eyes, but he was almost certain the young man was too hazed to notice or care.

"Now that was delicious. I think it's time for that champagne."

Clarke: Mason's assessment was exactly right. Clarke was on a whole other plane of existence right now and miraculously healing lips were not on his radar.

He stretched and purred. "Mmmm....?"

Mason: "Ya stay just like that." Fingers brushed over his throat. Kisses were given to his jaw. "I'll get the champagne."

Clarke: Clarke turned into the affection. "Mmmm." Code for: okay, I will.

Mason: Champagne and two glasses were brought to the living room, placed on the nearby table. Again, he disappeared, heading to the linen closet for the thickest winter blanket, lying it on the floor directly in front of the couch.

"Champagne n'a massage," he said, taking a seat beside the blanket.

Clarke: While Mason gathered whatever it was he needed to gather, Clarke stretched luxuriously and set himself to rights. Sort of. Mostly he just put himself away and kicked off his pants.

He smiled. "You really are spoiling me today."

Mason: "Some days, this is how I need to unwind. Ya just happened t'have a shitty day n'which I can exploit."

Clarke: "Didn't start out that way. I must've pissed off some kinda evil fairy or something." He stretched again and turned over onto his stomach.

"Want me to lay down on the blanket?"

Mason: "Yes. I want ya on the blanket. I want ya naked on the blanket with a glass of champagne."

Clarke: "Yes, sir," he said with a grin, wiggling out of the lace thong and settling on the blanket.

Mason: The cork was popped quietly, glass filled and offered before making his own. "List to me your kinks."

Clarke: Clarke accepted the glass with a nod of thanks. "My upper back feels like there's concrete in it."

Mason: The demon smiled to himself, sliding his hands up the human's spine to the back of his neck, squeezing. "I meant in the bedroom."

Clarke: He gave a pained wince. There was absolutely no give there, it was all tension.

"Does lace count as a kink? Because that's top of the list."

Mason: "You've been downstairs, have you not?" Finding the largest knot, Mason began to circle his thumbs around it, working it slowly.

Clarke: "Yeah, once." Clarke groaned, trying not to squirm away. "Damn Mark Rosenberg."

Mason: "And your opinion on what you've seen?" Mark Rosenberg, hmm?

Clarke: "A lot of it would give me a rash. There's a reason I like silk."

Mason: "Sensitive, are you?" Mason leaned down, pressing lips to Clarke's ass cheek. "Blister, red skin raised and itchy?"

Clarke: Clarke nodded, giving a little purr. "Yep. In all the good ways and most of the bad ones." He wouldn't mention that he kept oatmeal for baths and a giant bottle of calamine lotion at all times because of it. That would kill his sexy image.

Mason: "Well, I'll be keeping that in mind should you act up on me."

Clarke: "Act up? Little ol' me?" He grinned. "I'm always on my best behavior."

Mason: "We'll see 'bout that," said the demon. "Some excuse. You'll do somethin', I guarantee it. A reason for me t'spank your ass."

Clarke: "I'm sure you will. I'll just have to take care, won't I?"

Mason: "I won't spank too hard. Can't have ya havin' a reaction t'it, can we?"

Clarke: "Definitely not. It would make me significantly less pretty for a little while."

Mason: "That's an impossibility." A kiss to his neck, a kiss down his back, a kiss over his perfect ass. Slowly, the knot below his neck was lessening.

Clarke: Clarke hummed softly at all Mason's ministrations before groaning in relief. His back hurt less already.

"You've got magic hands."

Mason: "I do have magic hands. You have a magic body. How fortunate for us that we've found one another. How fortunate I get to enjoy this ass."

Clarke: He turned to smile at Mason. "How fortunate indeed. You can add my disappointing day to that list of blessings. I probably wouldn't have come tonight if I'd had the day I was expecting."

Mason: "You would have ignored our contract with a good day?"

Clarke: "I would've come much later."

Mason: "The contract is to see you every day. I should punish you on principle alone, pet."

Clarke: "You would have," Clarke chuckled. "I meant later in the day not later in the week. Today's client goes to bed early."

Mason: "And they didn't try to hurt you?"

Clarke: "He was too busy ignoring me."

Mason: "Is he blind?"

Clarke: He laughed softly. "Oh, how I wish all men were like you. No, he's not blind. He just expects everyone and everything to be at his beck and call even if he doesn't deign to pay attention to them. You know how I spent my evening?"

Mason: "Not with your tongue in his mouth." Not from what he could tell, could taste.

Clarke: "Pretty much. When I got to the hotel he was on the phone. I barely got a hello. And he stayed on the phone the entire time I was there. I had a drink alone, I ate dinner alone, got waved off when I tried to reveal my lacy surprise. I ended up watching TV until he gave me my check and dismissed me."

Mason: "Well, easy money. Can't say ya wanna fuck every client."

Clarke: "Yes I do. Otherwise they wouldn't be my clients."

Mason: "You want him?"

Clarke: "I was looking forward to my evening with him. I've looked forward to lots of evenings and have spent at least half of them like I spent today. I don't like being ignored and brushed off."

Mason: "A day without sex, a day with free money, literally free, as your services weren't required." He considered. "Are you going to use him again?"

Clarke: "It's not just about the sex. If someone regularly promised you shared meals and conversation and attention inside the bedroom and out and failed to deliver over and over, wouldn't you be disappointed?"

Clarke sighed. "I don't know."

Mason: "Well, that is our contract, but it's for your company. The sex is a bonus, but it's when I want. They are paying you for the company, too. He paid you..." He shrugged. "Some days I'm going to want your presence and nothin' else."

Clarke: "Is it company when he acts like I'm not even in the room? At this point he's paying me to come when he calls me. Like a dog. The check is my treat."

Mason: Mason kept silent. He was in no mood to start an argument over Clarke's need for attention. It was interesting to say the least, in the moment, literally kissing his ass and biting softly at his ribs.

Clarke: Thing was, if Mark Rosenberg was any other client, Clarke wouldn't have minded nearly as much, if at all. The reason he did mind was because of Mark's...physical similarity to someone Clarke cared very deeply about. He wasn't about to explain that, however.

Best to put it out of his mind and focus on someone who was paying attention to him. Clarke took a deep breath, trying to release some of the tension Mason had just eliminated.

Mason: "How's the champagne?" he asked. "Your back feelin' better?"

Clarke: "It's lovely and yes." He stretched, humming happily at the lack of stiffness. "It's much better."

Mason: "Excellent." Now, to spread those cheeks and kiss between them.

Clarke: Clarke inhaled sharply in surprise before dissolving into the blanket and arching against Mason with what almost sounded like a whimper.

Mason: That's a good pet. Again he kissed, lapping his widening tongue over the puckered bit of flesh, caressing tight muscle. "I think champagne, massage, cock sucking... it's not enough."

Clarke: His only response to that was another whimper. Whatever dark cloud had been hovering over him today, it was certainly gone now.

Clarke arched even more, bringing himself as close to Mason's mouth as possible. "Is this what's gonna h-happen every time I have mmmm....a disappointing day?"

Mason: "No." No sense in lying. "Today is a special exception. Some days I'm just not gonna care. Today... " Today, he sucked on his middle finger, forcing it between his cheeks.

Clarke: "Well aren't I luc--" And that's all Clarke managed before Mason surprised him again and caused yet another outpouring of whimpers and moans.

Mason: His glass of champagne was sipped as he slipped another finger inside. It was a tight squeeze, considering his lack of lubrication. It was entirely on purpose. "This really is delicious," he mused, studying his glass as he shoved his fingers as deep as possible.

Clarke: He was too focused on Mason's finger and clinging to the blanket too tightly to process what Mason was saying. It may have been a tight fit, but not so much that he felt pain. It was just enough to have him begging for more.

Mason: Carefully, his fingers were removed. It would take less than a second to disappear and reappear with a bottle of lubrication. With Clarke distracted by sensation, the demon teleported and returned. What clothes remained were slipped off and set aside. "I'm gonna fuck ya, darlin', just as ya are. You've already had your orgasm, so I won't be allowin' ya t'touch yourself. D'ya understand?"

Clarke: Having been trying to set a rhythm with his hips, Clarke made a noise of protest when the fingers were taken away. No, not yet. He still wanted more.

He didn't feel Mason leave or return; as far as Clarke was concerned, he'd only taken a few moments to undress which meant that he was definitely going to get what he craved.

"Yes," he said quickly, "Yes, I understand."

Mason: "D'ya want me t'wear a condom, pet?"

Clarke: He shook his head. "You don't have to." He'd seen enough by now to know Mason was clean.

Mason: So trusting, he thought. That was a point out of favor. Trust like that made for vulnerable men. That didn't mean he was going to stop. Two drenched fingers returned and slipped within, spreading and pampering Clarke's prostate.

Clarke: Trusting yes, but only to a point. Only with just cause. And  only with a very select few.

For whatever reason, Mason had made his way to that list.

Clarke groaned in relief when Mason's fingers re-entered him, dissolving into a mess of needy whimpers and moans under the delicious assault. At this rate he wouldn't need to touch himself to reach his second climax of the night.

Mason: Those whimpers were enough of an indication of readiness. Clarke's legs were brought together, ass spread once more as his lover coated himself with lubricant. This was as he had planned. A perfect naked form, relaxed, submissive, his to possess. It would take time, as always due to his size. Once buried, the demon sighed, laying his weight over Clarke's body, kissing his ear, holding him by his wrists above his head.

Clarke: The time it took for Mason to sheath himself was never an issue for Clarke. He enjoyed that long, slow journey toward complete fullness almost as much as he enjoyed being fucked, and he had absolutely no qualms about letting Mason know that.

It was a miracle none of the neighbors had complained about how loud he was.

The added weight and kisses had him purring and smiling to himself, basking in Mason's affection. Curious about his lover's reaction, Clarke bore down at the same time began to move his hips.

Mason: The reaction was an instantaneous growl and a warning bite to the back of Clarke's neck. Submissive though he was, Clarke was also a cheeky lover, one Mason felt required a little more taming. Who gave him permission to tease?

Clarke: Clarke wasn't sure if it was the growl or the bite or a combination, but it definitely sent a slew of shivers up and down his spine.

And put a ridiculous grin on his face.

He groaned and arched his back, offering himself to Mason now instead of teasing.

Mason: Mason was a predator with his teeth against Clarke's throat, biting into his skin with the urge to suffocate. It was primal but held down by sheer will. His movements were sharp and as wild as the human made him feel.

Clarke: He was probably going to have a hickey but he didn't care. The sharp movement, the complete fullness, the thrill of being claimed in every way imaginable was making him come apart at the seams.

Clarke's hips rose to meet every thrust, glorying in being taken, voicing his pleasure without a thought as to who might be listening.

Mason: Mason placed his hand on Clarke's head, holding him against the blanket mindfully as he sat up, rolling his hips and relaxing his head back. He marveled at his lover's tolerance threshold. A hundred and one praises were simply not enough. This man was allowing him the use of his body and all with a smile on his face.

"Where d'ya want my cum?"

Clarke: Mason could thank Jackson Stewart for that excellent tolerance. The man had a great love of edging, god rest him.

Clarke groaned as Mason pulled away, feeling a pleasant frustration he had no pressing need to sate. He'd just take care of it later if it persisted.

"Back," he breathed, sounding almost drunk with his pleasure. "Lower back."

Mason: It was another minute before Mason pulled out and pulled the condom away, finishing on his lover's back as requested. It was a pool of seed, one which he worsened by smearing it up Clarke's spine before tasting himself on two fingers. The image was more erotic than the orgasm itself. "Time to clean up."

Clarke: Something that sounded very much like a whimper escaped Clarke's lips as Mason pulled out. There was just something about that delicious drag and the friction it caused that couldn't be beat or matched by anything else. Rimming was the only thing that came close.

When he felt that warmth hit his skin he purred and arched like a cat, reveling in this latest claim. "Mmmmmm. Do you have something decadent in mind for that as well?"

Mason: His lover's laugh was something dark and almost unwelcoming. The phrase "happy wife happy life" flashed in neon. He stood. "No, not at all. I have nothing in mind past this point." Perhaps that was harsh, but this was about control, and he was in a mood.

You're mine. I bought you.

"Showering upstairs." Clothes were gathered and taken with him.

Clarke: "Shame. Enjoy your shower," he said to Mason's retreating back. If he hadn't already had an orgasm, a massage, and really excellent champagne, he'd be annoyed. Such as it was, he was only mildly disappointed.

But that could be easily remedied with a little more champagne. He'd shower in a bit.

Mason: Mason was laying in bed by the time Clarke took to the shower. He was laughing at the book he was reading, door open, wearing only a pair of torn pants.

Clarke: Clarke made quick work of bathing himself, playing particular attention to his back. Good as it had been in the moment, he didn't have any desire to sleep with Mason's seed still coating his skin.

Once he was clean he slipped into his pajama pants and paid his paramour a quick visit. "I'm going to bed. Good night."

Mason: "Here?" he asked, glancing up from his book. "Not going to leave me?"

Clarke: "Well you did give me a lovely room. Be a shame to trek across the city rather than make use of it."

Mason: The book was placed flat on his chest, hand offered. "C'mere."

Clarke: Clarke stepped further into the room and took Mason's hand. "Yes?"

Mason: The hand firmly taken, he was then yanked into bed. "Better."

Clarke: He gave a little surprised yelp as he was pulled onto the bed, landing with a surprised chuckle. "Well all right then."

Mason: "Ya can sleep here t'night, or just... lay here for a minute. Whatever."

Clarke: Clarke smiled. "Okay. Thanks." He shifted just enough to wiggle under the covers and burrow himself in them, subtly inhaling. They smelled of Mason.

He snuggled against the pillow. "Whatcha reading?"

Mason: Mason watched from his peripheral and smiled. "The Exorcist. Have ya read it? It's a laugh."

Clarke: He gave a delicate shudder. "No way. The idea of someone being possessed and doing weird and evil things gives me the creeps."

Mason: "Ha," was his only reply. If only his bedfellow knew the truth of the man beside him. "Close your eyes, beautiful."

Clarke: "Okay," Clarke said softly, yawning as if on cue. He snuggled in further, curling up until he was practically in a fetal position.

Mason: The page of his book was turned. His hand then rested in Clarke's hair. It was comfortable there. This was comfortable. Goodnight, sweet pet.

#Disappointing Day thread #clarketaylor #masonatlas #Glimpses Into the Past