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shortythescreen · 5 years ago

Text

come over chapter 2: the invitation.

Warning(s): NSFT/18+, fem reader, dysfunctional family dynamics, semi public sex.

Relationship(s): Octane/Female Reader.

Summary: Octavio’s family is having an event for their donors. He’d really rather not go but you’d make it a lot more bearable.

Author’s Notes: I LLIIIIIVEEEEEEE. It took forever to get here y’all but here it is! Part 2 of Come Over! It was originally like, 10k words so I split it into two. Which means Part 3 is already written and I’ll just wait to see how this does before I put it out.

Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3.

Octavio doesn’t avoid his family.

He doesn’t! He really doesn’t. Seven chances out of ten, he picks up the phone when his mama calls, and if he doesn’t it’s probably because he’s in the arena. Or out. Whatever.

He’s sent his papa text messages during every major holiday he isn’t there for. Not that he isn’t there for a lot of them! He’s hasn’t missed El Dia de los Reyes in. Ever. Even if he didn’t show up for his parents’ New Year’s Eve party days prior. Not that he hadn’t wanted to, he’s just a busy guy. Busy guys don’t have time to go to every social event their billionaire parents host.

That’s what he’s trying to tell his mama.

“Mami, I’m busy with the games-” he tries, pressing his fingers to his temples, for once grateful that his mama doesn’t know how to operate the video camera function on her tablet. Otherwise, she’d see the twist of his lip as he speaks. He kinda thinks she might still be able to hear it, considering Elliot is skirting him as he walks through the common room, trying to distance himself from the hostility in his voice.

“Octavio, ya.” She bites and the tone of her voice seals his lips shut. Fuck. How’s that even fair? “The next game isn’t until Monday. You can be back on planet by Sunday night if you leave tomorrow.”

“Ma, I can’t,” Octavio tries, but his mama cuts him off.

“Yes, you can! Octavio Jose, you use Silva Pharmaceuticals for the games. This party is to celebrate all the donors that give us the resources to create the stim you use. You will come to this party, shake hands, jump hoops and do whatever these people want, or we will revoke your supply. Do you understand me?”

Octavio’s nostrils flare, his leg jiggling as he pushes his teeth against his tongue piercing. The stretch of metal against his muscle is half painful, but he ignores the ache in favor of clenching and unclenching his fists.

“Do you hear me-”

“Yes, ma, I’ll be there, bye.” And with that, Octavio taps the pad in front of him, effectively ending the call. He’ll get some messages later about hanging up on her, but he doesn’t care. All he wants to do right now is put his head through the fucking table next to the tablet.

“That, uh, sounded pretty heated,” Elliot says and Octavio snorts, turning pinched green eyes up to his fellow legend. He’s holding out a water bottle, clutching another in his opposite hand, and Octavio snatches it from his hand, not even bothering to grumble a thank you as he guzzles half of it. “Whoa! Easy!”

“I have to go to a party this weekend,” Octavio bites, ignoring the way that Elliot’s lips stitch shut, like his did when mama told him ya. Elliot hums, sipping more cautiously at his own water.

“Wow, what a predac- p-perdim- that kinda sounds like a dumb reason to be upset,” Elliot drops the sarcasm as he fumbles over the word and Octavio barks a laugh.

“Compadre, I wish it was,” he grits, pressing the flat of his palm against his still jiggling knee. It keeps moving. “My parents are hosting some stupid thank you donor thing.”

“That doesn’t sound that bad,” Elliot says, hopping over the edge of the couch to settle beside Octavio. He throws his boots up, resting them on the coffee table in front of him, the slide of the front door accompanied by some more footfalls. “You’ve thanked Silva Pharm on camera before.”

“It’s not the same,” Octavio grunts. Donors lived for Octane. They lived for his thrill seeking and heart stopping shows. They loved his tattoo and his catch phrases and wanted him to keep it up.

His parents didn’t want Octane. They wanted Octavio. And not even the real Octavio – the one they’d always wanted him to be. The one who was content being a dutiful son. The one who didn’t blow off his own legs with a grenade. The one who didn’t renounce his position as the heir to Silva Pharm.

“My mom said she’ll revoke my supply of stim if I don’t go,” he tells Elliot, who sucks in air through his teeth.

“Ooh, yikes. Guess you don’t have a choice, huh?” Elliot says. Octavio grimaces, now sipping at his water, hand still trying to placate his jittering leg.

“No he don’t. He knew that when his mama called,” a voice says and Octavio glances over, catching Ajay at the fridge on the edge of the common room. She’s pulled out a flavorless yogurt and busies herself scraping it into a bowl.

Ajay has been talking to him little by little, but they haven’t talked about the- incident. Of him lying. He lied to her. He regrets it most days. Right now, he really does, because he could really use her advice.

“Maybe it won’t be that bad!” Elliot says and Octavio sniffs, looking down at the coffee table to avoid Ajay’s eyes as she flops onto the couch across from them. She, too, kick her feet up onto the coffee table, slouching into the cushions.

“Maybe,” Octavio says, not moping into his water.

Silence passes between the three long enough for it to begin to feel stiff. Ajay breaks it with a loud sigh, and his eyes turn up, finding her staring at him.

“What?” He asks.

“Do ya parents still need a photographer?” She asks instead of answering him. Octavio blanches, sitting upright, and his leg stops in its insistent shaking, the click of his metal foot ceasing abruptly.

“What?” He asks again and Ajay blusters her lips, stuffing a spoonful of yogurt between her cheeks.

“Ya parents never let you bring a plus one ‘cause you always bring some so’n’so,” Ajay says and before Octavio protests, she continues, “shut up, yes ya do. If they still need a photographer, bring ours. She’s ya friend, right? She’ll make it more bearable, and she’s official, so ya parents won’t say nutin’.”

Octavio swallows, holding Ajay’s stare. She always seems so critical – like she knows what he’s thinking even when he doesn’t think he’s thinking at all. He wonders if she can tell how he’s been around you recently – if she’s noticed how you show up at his house late at night.

“Plus, she’s totally hot,” Elliot remarks and Octavio bristles and, oh yeah, Ajay notices. Her face remains neutral, but she thumps her foot against Elliot, who whines as the coffee table rattles beneath them.

“I’ll think about it,” he mutters, turning back to his water.

-----

It’s probably a bad idea for Octavio to invite you to his parents’ party.

After his… realization, he’s sort of been avoiding you. Not directly because Octavio doesn’t directly avoid- anything, really. He doesn’t avoid things. He’s not avoiding you. You guys just haven’t had sex since he said te amo into your throat. That’s all.

He’s not totally avoiding you, though. He still sends you shitty memes and you still tell him to let you work. He even brought you lunch the other day because your dumbass forgets to eat. Which is why he’s carrying over some empanadas to your studio.

Apex spared no expense for someone who was going to be key to their marketing. Your studio has vaulted ceilings and the pristine, white walls and tarps are constantly lit by either the natural light of the sun or the way too tall studio lights.

You seem concerned with neither, hunched in front of the triple monitors posed in front of your shooting area. He’s pretty sure that’s a picture of Bloodhound you’re editing.

“Hey,” he says, and you jump, your rolling chair skittering back as you dazedly blink up. Your eyes pinch as you squint, clearly perturbed from looking away from the screen after however long you’d been staring.

“Jesus! Fucking say something next time, Oc, you scared me!” You say and Octavio snickers, lips curling into a devious grin against his will.

“C’mon, amiga, you should’ve heard me coming,” he says, tapping his metal foot on the black tile. You huff, turning back to your computer.

“Shut up. What do you want?” You ask, leaning a little closer to the screen, despite having already zoomed in pretty damn far on Artur. Octavio grabs the chair at your left that you usually reserve for when your bosses come to visit, then flops down. The wheels careen him a little away, but he grabs the edge of your desk and pulls himself up.

“You need to eat, muchacha,” he says, holding up the brown paper bag. You purse your lips, glancing at him from the corner of your eye. Wordlessly, you take the bag from him, then move away from your computer.

You lean back in your seat, kicking your legs up onto his lap. Instinctively, Octavio reaches down, grabbing the edges of your feet to keep them in place on his thighs. He thumbs at the edge of your shoe and his nostrils flare. Damn it.

“Thanks,” you say, the crinkle of the bag the only sound for a little. Octavio rests an elbow on the edge of your desk, turning to look at what you’d been doing to Artur. He can see your notes at the top of the screen, scrawled with some digital pen: no alterations to the bird – it would be disrespectful to Houn-

“What’s the matter with you?” You ask, startling Octavio out of his reading. He turns his head to face you, your cheek bulged as you chew.

“What do you mean what’s the matter with me?” He asks back and you roll your eyes, swallowing hard.

“You’re never this quiet,” you say and Octavio huffs, turning to face the screen once again, his leg beginning to bounce in anticipation.

“Fuck off.”

“Fuck you, stop moving.”

“I’m not a fucking—a fucking—joda, what’s that word?”

“What word?”

“You know, for the- for the thing. When you put your feet up. Reposapíes.”

“What, like an ottoman?”

“No, fuck. I mean, yes, but that’s not the word I was thinking of.”

“A footrest?”

“Eso! Yes! Fuck you, I’m not a footrest.”

You press your lips together and silence passes between you for a moment. Then you snort, shoulders folding in. You raise your brows at him, and he sighs, chuckling through a groan, leaning back in his own seat to drag his hand down his face.

“Kinda lost steam there,” you say, and he squeezes the tips of your toes, half in warning, and you giggle. Your expression softens and you nudge his stomach with the toe of your shoe, tickling at the edge of where a sensor exists in his abdomen. “C’mon, Oc, what’s going on? You can talk to me…”

He knows he can. Octavio has vented to you about lots of things before. He’s vented to you about Anita, back before she started to cut him a little bit of slack. He’s vented to you about his phantom pains, on the days that he wakes up and forgets that he doesn’t really have legs anymore. He’s even vented to you about his parents before – about how his father has never quite accepted the man he’s become and how his mom is like an ice sculpture. Beautiful from a distance, but cold, and quick to melt under heat.

Still, with the… incident, he’s hesitant. He feels like he’s digging himself a deeper hole than he should. But he’s here. On Ajay’s advice. Ajay’s always known what’s best, in a way. At least, it seems that way.

“I have to go to some stupid donor function for Silva Pharmaceuticals or my parents are gonna revoke my stim,” Octavio blurts and he sees your expression soften a little, the edges of your brows drooping, your lips half pursing, and he hates, hates the loud LUBB-DUPP in his ears.

“That fucking sucks,” you tell him and he half snorts.

“Si, I know… But you would make it less sucky,” he says, “you… wanna come? I always have a plus one but my ma doesn’t like when I bring just anybody.”

“And your fuck buddy isn’t just anybody?” You deadpan, raising a brow, and Octavio hums, tugging at the toe of your shoe on his lap.

“You’re a professional photographer,” he reminds you. “It would only be for a night. Less than twelve hours. Fourteen if you include ride time to Psamathe.”

“Oh, Oc…”

“Mami, please? Please. My parents would pay you for the shots. There’s gonna be tons of booze.” He tries.

“Octavio-”

“You don’t even have to talk to anyone but me!” He insists.

“Oc-”

“I hate these things. We can get a hotel right after and you can ride my face right up until I have to be back for the game-”

“Yes! Yes, Octavio!” You cry, reaching over and grabbing his shoulders, your body bending awkwardly, tummy crinkling the empanada bag in your lap. You shake him a little. “Yes, I will come with you, Jesus Christ. I was gonna say yes to begin with!”

“Why didn’t you just come out and say that then?” He huffs, though the tension drains out of his shoulders and he smiles at you, lips pulling up further at one corner. His chest expands with breath, like a weight has been lifted.

“I was trying but you don’t shut the fuck up.” You mutter, shoving his shoulders and he throws his head back, laughing into the vaulted ceiling of your studio.

-----

The week comes and goes within the blink of an eye and Octavio is… Definitely not ready to go to this stupid event. He’s texted you a little more throughout the week, telling you the kind of attire that’s expected at these dumb functions and reminding you that you don’t have to bring any crazy equipment with you.

He calls mama at the last minute, of course, telling her that he’s bringing on a photographer who expects to be paid in full for her services. She’s huffy about it but mostly seems glad someone will be capturing the event from the perspective of the Silva family – though why she kept his pa’s name after the divorce, he’ll never know. Anyway, it’s not like they can’t afford to pay you.

Octavio wears the black tie he knows his mama will hound him not for wearing but he refuses to put the blazer on. Instead, he’ll just carry it, black fabric hanging off his forearm. The sleeves of his white button up are rolled up to his elbows and even though mama could make a big stink, he’d remind her he could have showed up in what he wore in the games – including the Jade Tiger outfit.

It might have been a little too intimate to pick you up. The thought of knocking on your door at an appropriate hour, of being in his monkey suit and offering you his arm, made this feel more like it was a date and not just a favor. Instead, Octavio ordered you a cab and now, he’s waiting for you just outside the entrance of Ship’s Landing.

He’s tapping away on his phone, playing a racing game that he’s definitely going to beat Makoa’s score in. His tongue pokes out and he leans a little closer, glancing up only when he hears the whistle of vehicles going by, hoping to catch sight of your cab.

It’s in the middle of a jump that requires all his attention, a taxi stops right in front of him and the door opens. Octavio glances up, looking back down at his game, only to stop and look back up again, this time lowering his phone to get a better look.

His heart must be running a relay, must be trying to get a lead with a grenade, because the second he sees you, all he can hear is that loud noise again. Like an explosion of movement through his arteries and veins, his heart desperately trying to pick up with the adrenaline in his system. For once, it isn’t a fight, or an explosion, or a race that causes it, though. It’s you.

It’s you, struggling to get some huge camera tote out of the taxi while in high heels (he told you that you just had to bring a camera, damn it). It’s you, wearing a shade of vermillion that matches the fabric of your dress that hugs your figure. It’s you, with the off the shoulder, sweetheart neckline, and Octavio is surprised he can still recall anything about fashion. He’s kind of kicking himself for it too, because he can’t stop thinking of how much of a sweetheart that cut is, how easy it would be to slide it down your chest.

Octavio’s chest constricts, pupils blown wide as he imagines those heels digging into his ass as he fucks you, the sharp pinch of them spurring him faster, harder. It would be so easy to push you back into the cab, pay the driver a little extra to keep quiet while he shucks the dress up to your hips and sucks on your clit until you’re crying.

You guys should skip this. As a matter of fact, he should pay the cab driver to take you guys home so he can rip that dress off you. So, he doesn’t have to see you glide around in it, taking pictures, laughing and holding glasses of chardonnay at some stupid promotional party he doesn’t give a flying fuck about it.

“Oc?” Your voice snaps him from his reverie and Octavio realizes you’re staring at him, lips pursed, half waving to get his attention. “Can you shut the door?”

“Oh, yeah,” he breathes, moving forward to shut the cab door. “You… look really good.”

“Gee, thanks,” you say, smirking his way, and the rare little dance of mischief that glitters in your eyes makes his heart constrict. Fuck, he’s in so much trouble. This was a bad idea. Why did Ajay tell him to do this?

“We should skip this thing,” he tells you, waggling his brows, and you purse your lips at him.

“And get your stim revoked?” Right. He’d forgotten. Which is saying something, a voice in his head that sounds very much like Che says. He bats her away.

“Shut up, I know,” he mumbles and you two walk towards the ship his mama had ordered to take you to Psamathe. It has the Silva Pharmaceuticals logo on the side and he waves away the driver who stands with his arms folded at the passenger doors.

Octavio opens the trunk, taking your camera tote and laying it down in the backseat. You fuss at him, telling him that you can hold it in your lap and that this extravagant looking ship definitely has the space for you to hold your camera. He waves you off, telling you that you’re going to be in the ship for two hours, and you don’t need to be holding the bag in your lap the whole time.

After that, you two set off, towards his home planet. The ship his ma ordered is, of course, top of the line. The interior is plush, and over cushioned, with a tiny little bar on the opposite side of the long seats. You gaze around in wonder, squinting at the compartment at the top of the ship that he knows contains a disco ball.

“Jeez, your family pulled out all the stops, huh?” You ask and he snorts, scooting towards the edge of the seat and grabbing a bottle of Aguardiente his knows his pa keeps stashed for when he has to ride with ma to events.

“Gotta show up in style,” he mumbles, grabbing one of the little cups stacked on top of a fancy looking cupholder. “Would look bad if I came in just a cab.”

He feels your gaze burning on the side of his face and he holds out the first glass of liquor to you. When he looks in your direction, you shake your head, and Octavio shrugs, taking the first shot with a loud ‘aa’ sound afterwards and a little clench of his teeth. Coño, that shit’s strong.

“You’re really stressed about this,” you conclude, and Octavio turns to look at you again. Your hands rest idly in your lap and your eyes seem to look right through him, finding all the little weak spots, the little internal ticks that made him say that stupid thing into your neck.

“I am,” he says, “you can help me de-stress, if you want, chica.”

He waggles his eyebrows at you, masking his discomfort at how easily you read him with a little laugh. To Octavio’s surprise, you reach over, placing a hand on his thigh, and his eyes meet yours with dark intent.

“Yeah,” you say, then lean in, and kiss him. His heart constricts in his chest and he hate, hate, hates Ajay right now.

At the same time, he loves her. Thinks that he should thank her, should apologize and thank her, because you’re kissing him slowly, lips warming him with every gentle slide. Your chin tucks a little closer to your chest as you bow your head, just enough to catch his lower lip between his teeth. He sighs, squirming at the gentle scrape, the distracting buzz of your hand creeping closer to the space between his thighs.

“If we fuck, can you manage not to get cum on this dress?” You ask him as you pull away and his dick throbs at the thought of fucking you.

“Absolutamente, mami,” he mutters, hands creeping out to grab at your hips. He wants to pull you on top of him, pull whatever panties you’re wearing to the side. Watch his dick disappear inside you. Watch you throw your head back while he pulls down that sweetheart neckline-

“I don’t believe that,” you grumble but you’re pushing him down onto the long seat. Octavio lands with a thump and he’s kind of thankful he doesn’t have much hair. He pushes himself up onto his elbows, watching you make your way down his body. You don’t stop to place gentle kisses on his stomach, or any of that other fluffy bullshit that makes his stomach flutter, and he’s grateful and disappointed all at the same time.

You wrangle his belt open, the button of his pants and his fly following. You only scoot his waistband down enough to reveal his boxer briefs and the choked off sound that leaves him as you fenagle his dick out of the small gap in them is embarrassing.

“Shit, mami, you don’t have to, we can wait,” he says, even though his fingers are already tangling in your hair. Impatient. You smirk up at him.

“I don’t think you can,” you reply, before you drag your tongue up the underside of him. He gasps, like the air has been punched from his lungs, hypersensitive from weeks of having not been touched. You let saliva pool in your mouth, then stick your tongue out, watching it drip down. It makes his dick glisten, slippery with your saliva, and a dark spot forms at the base where he’s poking out of his boxer-briefs.

“Baby,” he whines and now his hand has tightened, trying desperately to push you where he wants you. Your licks and kisses are good, but not enough, not for how hard he is, for how he wants to fuck into your throat.

You only smirk, dragging the flat of your tongue up, the tip of it flicking just beneath the head. His hips jerk at the sensation and he rolls his neck back with a little groan. Octavio is always so vocal, so willing to tell you what he wants and what he doesn’t. Right now, what he wants is for you to take it, suck his dick until his eyes cross and he cums down your throat.

“I’m working on it,” you reply, and he definitely hadn’t realized he said that out loud. Oh well. You finally, finally, gracias a Dios, take the tip of him into your mouth. You place your puckered lips over the very tip, tongue poking the salty slit, and Octavio’s mouth falls open. Yours does a moment later and your cheeks hollow as you make your down the length of him.

“Puuuutamadre! Baby! Fuck!” Octavio gasps and he’s thankful to be riding in such a large ship because he’s certain if he kept it up, the driver would definitely know what was going on. He also kind of doesn’t give a fuck, hips trembling with the effort to not fuck your throat. You bob your head up and down, tongue glued to the hard length of him, and fuck, your eyes are closed, like you’re enjoying this.

You have the audacity, in all of this, to drag the tip of your finger around the base of him. He’s so close to being fully buried inside you. You push yourself, making wet noises that go straight to his dick as your lips finally touch the opening of his underwear. Then, the tip of your wet finger prods his rosebud, and that’s all it takes for Octavio to cum.

Toe curling, jaw dropping orgasm. That’s all he can think of when you finally get him to cum, the mere tease of your finger inside somewhere so intimate making his thighs clench. He shudders out, fist clenched tightly in your hair, trying to keep you down and still respect if you need to come up for air, but, coño, do you make it hard to keep that split train of thought going. He feels you swallow, throat folding around his cock, and the motion itself makes him whimper, for once overstimmed.

You slowly pull away, lips swollen and wet and red, sitting back on your knees with a shit eating grin. Octavio is catching his breath, trying desperately to slow his racing heart which, for once, isn’t caused by stim stabbed into his thigh. You gently massage his thighs and, Jesus, he really wishes you wouldn’t do shit like that.

“You good?” You murmur and the husky edge of your voice makes his spine tingle. He nods, slowing his breath to normal.

“I forgot how good you are at giving head,” he tells you and you snort as he looks around. When he doesn’t spy a handtowel, or something that isn’t a napkin that won’t stick to his dick, he gives up, tucking it away with your drool still on it. He adjusts his fly, slowly sitting up, muscles more relaxed than they’ve been in the week since he’d gotten that phone call.

“I expect you to return the favor on the flight home,” you say and he grins, for the moment distracted from the impending doom of his parents.

#apex legends #octane/reader #octane x reader #octane/you #apex imagines #apex lemons #octane x you #fem reader #nsft #lemon #lime?#whatever there's some spicy shit in here #if ur not 18 don't enter lmao #shorty writes #female reader

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incorrect-apex · 5 years ago

Note

If your still doing short stories how about path comforting octane or mirage?

I can do that!

°°°

"Octavio?"

Pathfinder cracked open the door, the little box in his hands crinkling. He hadn't wrapped it well, he realized.

Octavio sat at the far end of his room with his back to the wall. He was gazing at his computer.

"Octavio" Pathfinder repeated, stronger.

"Hey, what's up?"

Octavio sniffled and turned, rubbing his eyes.

Pathfinder's screen faded to blue and a look of concern. "I came to give you this gift. I was worried when I didn't see you at Christmas dinner."

"You don't even eat dinner."

"No, but it is enjoyable to see everyone."

"Good po-int." Octavio's voice cracked and he turned again, presenting his back.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"My sensors indicate that that is a lie."

Pathfinder moved closer, setting his gift down on the table. "Do you require space?"

"Stay."

"Okay."

He stood next to Octavio, hands clasped in front of him. "Talk to me." He said, as he'd heard Makoa do when comforting others.

"I, ah..." Octavio cleared his throat. "Feel really alone."

"Alone?" Pathfinder fell silent for a second. This normally upbeat, bright man felt... alone?

He remembered hearing somewhere that the happiest people on the outside were the loneliest people on the inside, but he didn't know it was true for sure. He learned something new every day, he figured.

"Yeah. I have no one. And..." Octavio trailed off, eyes fixating on the stim injector on his nightstand. "I miss Navi."

"Who is 'Navi'?"

"My bunny. From when I was little."

Pathfinder's screen changed to a smile. "I wish I had one."

"He's gone. He was cute, though. My only friend when I was growing up."

"Was?"

"Bunnies don't live that long. But this one..." Octavio chuckled. "This one lived fast!"

"What do you mean?"

"I did everything with him. A lot of my stunts I did with Navi strapped to my chest. If he wasn't participating, he was watching."

"Sounds exciting!"

"It was. It was. He died, though. Long time ago. I didn't know how to process it, so I told everyone he got blown up after his rocket crashed onto a planet. That got me sent to the counselor's office."

"I see. It sounds like he died in a really cool way."

"No, he-" Octavio gave him a wistful smile. "He did, I guess."

Pathfinder motioned to the gift he had brought with him. "Open it when you're alone. But remember-" He put his hand on Octavio's shoulder and squeezed, as he had learned to do with people who were sad. "-that you will never be truly, truly alone."

Octavio put his hand over Pathfinder's and smiled weakly. "I won't forget."

"Very good. Let's go see if there's any leftovers."

"Okay." Octavio stood and together they went to see how much food was left. Octavio spent most of the night describing what it tasted like to Pathfinder.

•••

When he was alone - at 12 AM - Octavio opened his present. Unwrapping it slowly so as not to cause a ruckus, he pulled out a carved rabbit, painted with bright colors. There was a note written in surprisingly neat print, with a Marvin's smiley face drawn next to it.

"You are loved."

Underneath that, it said "I asked Bloodhound to carve this, but I painted it."

"So cheesy," He whispered. But he smiled, and gently placed the bunny on his nightstand. It was illuminated by the glow from his stim, but some parts of it seemed to just radiate light on their own. Especially the eyes.

"Sick as fuck, though." He added. He put the box in his drawer and threw away the wrapper before returning to the bed, to curl up and fall asleep.

°°°

navi and octane have such a sweet story

#apex legends #octane #pathfinder apex

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shitihaveheardatwork · 4 years ago

Text

See You In Hell, Bratz Passion 4 Fashion: Diamondz!

Contrary to the opinions of many of my peers, I think weeding is awesome and I love it. There’s little I find more satisfying than an item of obviously low quality with no demand whatsoever coming into my attention and having the privilege of removing it from circulation.

Just to be entirely clear, we’re not talking about “extreme” or “controversial” content. I’ve had that conversation done to death a thousand classroom-polarizing times before. We’re talking about cheap. We’re talking about cash-grab. We’re talking about no artistic, cultural, spiritual, or even material value.

We’re talking about Bratz Passion 4 Fashion; Diamondz.

Some personal history first: I’m old enough that my last big toy phase before I reached the special level of adolescence where you have to openly condemn everything you once held dear as a child was Bionicles. I had the black bionicle from every generation up until that point, as well as a complete set of those little rolly-polly guys with the stretchy necks. I don’t know what they were called and I couldn’t be bothered to look it up for this lil micro-essay here.

What’s important is that they were cool. They did action-y stuff, I felt smart putting them together.

Waaaay Cooler, Smarter, Action-y, and REAL than my sister’s interests! Polly Pocket? Dumb! Pre-bronification MLP? Barf! Bratz? How fake can you get? Those were just shallow pieces of plastic made by toy companies. Not like my precious bionicles. So cool. So adult. So smart.

Then I watched the first Bionicle movie when it was on TV and realized I too was a cog in an elaborate toy commercial scheme. Something clicked in my horny mushy pre-teen brain, and I put away all my old favorite toys forever. It was now time to be shitty and elitist about intangible concepts instead, a hobby I’d keep until my early 20′s. But in addition to a change in hobbies, I also started to be a little bit less shit to my sister about her toys.

This confession out of the way, I don’t think my sister would have stopped me from throwing this DVD directly into the trash. My sister didn’t become a high-fallutin’ working-class intelligentsia asshole like her big brother, and we have nothing comparable in terms of media taste, but I think she would support me 100% if I told her I sent this DVD straight to hell. In fact I might call her later just to confirm. This disk was bad, is the moral of my story.

It took six paragraphs, but let’s talk about Day 3 on the job!

It was just me and Lisa today. I’ve upgraded from liking Lisa to absolutely loving working with Lisa. We talked everything from how her kids are doing to politics (she brought up Tr#mps latest satire-destroying phone call) to video-gaming to the history of animation. I genuinely like talking to her and it’s a shame she’s just filling in. If a job opens up at her branch, I’d apply for it, no question.

My boss Wallace, “Yer dad”-level queerphobe and Ron Swanson-esque libertarian, was putting out a metaphorical fire at another branch and I didn’t have to deal with him at all.

I did my opening routine. Checking the drop box, collecting the pull list, putting together holds, refiling returned materials, preparing ILL material, checking my work email, and the like. I was done with it all in about 90 minutes, with 4 hours left to go on my shift.

Wallace had told me to fill the time with anything I can qualify as “professional development” the week before, so I spent some time reading articles on the ALA website and googling “anarcho-librarianism” just to see what would happen. I found an abandoned blog and a twitter.

Then I remembered oh shit. I have to make a twitter don’t I

I don’t like twitter. I’ve tried to use it. I don’t get it. I’m too old to learn a new app. It’s impossible.

And yet I must. That’s where The Discourse is happening. That’s where the minds in my field are saying things. If I’m taking my career seriously, if I want to get a grip on the currents in my profession, I have to bite that checkmarked bullet. Stand by for updates on my professional twitter.

I got bored of being on the ALA site and ran out of productive things to google, and decided to look around the building for abandoned projects and mysteries to solve. It didn’t take long to find one, when I found a cart in the work room with a pile of DVDs in paper sleeves.

“Scratched” a post-it note on top said.

I asked Lisa if she knew how long these had been here, and she confirmed that they were in fact a hold-over from the previous staff that had left in a mass exodus some months before.

Well cool, I thought. I’ll see if these are too fucked up to play.

Commence with an hour of consuming children’s media, a few seconds of a minute at a time. I was fortunate that the work computers both had CD drives AND VLC media player! Thank you, past cool supervisor who put VLC on the work machines! Good call!

So I “watched” a few Dora The Explorers, a Care Bears film, that Trolls movie, Hotel Transylvania, and a Barbie horse adventure film, watching a few seconds before skipping a minute ahead to see if it would choke and skip.

See here’s the thing about scratched CDs. They’re weird. You can have a CD that’s fucked up completely (looking at you, my copy of Rollercoaster Tycoon 1) that still somehow plays fine like it just came out of the box. Sometimes scratches will seem totally superficial but goof up just enough microscopic binary that no machine will touch it. All these DVDs were ugly as sin, but that didn’t mean they were broken did it?

And it turns out a lot of them worked fine. That’s how I ended up watching Bratz Passion 4 Fashion: Diamondz which, unfortunately, played fine.

As I put the disk into the drive I remembered my sister’s participation in the Bratz toy craze. As an adult, a real one not the one I told myself I was at 13, I told myself that I might have a bias against this content, to just check the disk and not get judgy about what might be a kids favorite movie.

I uh... I failed to do that. BUT IT’S OK BECAUSE MY BIAS IS TOTALLY JUSTIFIED AND MY JUSTIFICATION IS RIGHT HERE

If you didn’t or don’t want to click the link, it’s a scene where the Bratz Diamonds are about to head out on some sort of fashion trucking marathon/race. Like any proper racer, the blonde at the wheel has a white-knuckle grip on the wheel, has just put their rig in gear, and in proper high-octane fashion, puts on a knowing smirk.

Except the smirk is, well... the animators just stretched the lips across the face further. I can’t do it justice, you just have to watch it, but I’ve done better animating just by pan-and-scanning around Windows Movie Maker.

This... isn’t content anybody needs. But I’m a librarian. I’m sworn to access. So the question becomes, does anyone want it?

I had to know, I had to know, how much circulation has this gotten? When was the last time this disk was in the hands of anybody at all besides me?

I popped it into Evergreen and behold: 15 check-outs since 2006 when it was released. No checkouts in the last 2 years.

I asked Lisa the proper procedure for removing something from the catalog, and in only a moment the deed was done. The case was repurposed, the disk trashed, the DVD cover recycled. It was time to go. I’d spent my remaining hours quasi-consuming children’s media.

I placed most of what I’d watched in a new pile, which I labeled “SCRATCHED BUT WORK FINE.” I placed one lone Barbie horse movie in a different pile labeled “SCRATCHED AND DOES NOT WORK.”

I felt like I’d accomplished something. I turned off the lights and I went home.

#adventures in librarianship #thisisme #work journal

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steve0discusses · 6 years ago

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Yugioh S3 Ep 18: Noah’s Dad Decides he Doesn’t Love His Son Anymore When Noah Gets Way Too Into Petz Hexing

I was hanging out with Bro and he made me look at a lot of bad Yugi wigs that were 600 dollars each, and because only like...4 good Yugi wigs exist in the world, I decided to help him get out that Yugi itch in a healthier way, by copy editing these posts and fixing the way I spell Gozaburo wrong about 400 more times before this arc ends.

So last we left off, Noah decided to reference that one part of the Bible he knows.

He’s gonna change the playing field to kind of run through the history of the Earth, showing us that in every period of history his outfit was never acceptable.

Also he got the history a...little bit wrong. You had to have people before Noah’s ark but...whatever. I took astrology, there’s a lot about planet formation we’re still kind of guessing on, so do whatever you feel like, Yugioh. It’s not like any kids watching this got real pissy about how Noah was totally botching the Archean period.

He also decides to dump on us how he got so smart. See, Kaiba got smart by studying a lot, surrounding himself with people way dumber than him, and then just bossing everyone around him until they agreed with him that he was very smart. In Noah’s case, it’s because he’s literally a computer.

I’m really glad I get to find another anime that’s all ham about this tree. In this case just slapping it on there for a few seconds, long enough for me to say “WHAT THE HELL, KIDS SHOW?” before it vanishes again.

Good on you, Noah. You just...casually slipped that in there.

Ah, but unfortunately, the AI who is like...not even human and is *pretty sure* He’s Noah Kaiba is still kind of attached to his Dad. Maybe it was a part of his core code that he couldn’t reject his Father? I dunno, just seems weird that he achieved enlightenment and was like “So uh...I guess I’ll play cards and take over a mindless corporation. Good use of my time.”

(read more under the cut)

Kaiba’s reaction to hearing that his brother stores all of human knowledge was “well, it can’t possibly be that difficult. I’ve done way more than that. I have a homeschool degree and half a high school diploma so go to Hell, bro.”

Yo how many people would sit down, turn to their computer, and just start shouting at their core processor about how they’re waaaay smarter than it? Remember that during this entire conversation, Kaiba is shouting at a literal computer.

So anyway, we finally get to see why they bothered showing us spider room a few episodes back. Youknow, that room with the baby in it? Turns out...there was never a baby in this room, since Noah was a kid when he first woke up here.

Before it was covered in spiders, it was covered in blue and off white. This is a very boring Martha Stewart room in different shades of robin eggshell. You can tell this kid is a Kaiba because oh boy that is a...really boring 50 yo housewife look, ain’t it?

I’m sure it’s symbolic for the fact he is hella dead and innocent at this point but like...every time we see Kaiba interior design it’s just the last type of design you expect from this high octane family.

Anyway, Noah’s kind of surprised to be awake because, last he remembers, he was very much hit by a car.

Ya, I mean, if you have to tell your son you Frankenstiened him into a horrible crime against humanity, might as well tell him as quickly and bluntly as possible, I guess.

Anyway, because Noah existing breaks the most basic moral human laws in every country on Earth, they kinda can’t let him go anywhere, which means that to prevent the loneliness, Kaiba gives him...a pet?

So Noah and the dogcat decide to travel through Domino and realized very quickly that there were only like...five NPC’s. There’s like an ice cream girl, and like a couple walking people, and that’s about it.

Noah’s words were something like “man this place is full of glitches!” because his dogcat wouldn’t stop barking and he threw a rock at it and it didn’t care. Glitches.

I guess it’s one way to look at it?

It feels like Noah got somewhat cursed like Pharaoh did, just a little bit. Like not completely it’s just that I can’t help but notice both are trapped in some sort of basic geometry shape--Pharaoh’s is a pyramid and Noah’s is an orb, and both have untold superpowers matched with some heavy depression that goes with having said superpowers. Not to mention, both have a host body all set up for possession, it’s just Kaiba is a little bit youknow...unwilling to participate. They’re very different obviously it’s just...way to trap your characters in shapes.

Anyway, last episode I felt like maybe Noah liked being an orb, this episode he’s made it a little more clear that it is kind of not great being an orb...but only because he can’t throw any rocks at dogs or have real conversations with anyone but his own Dad.

Anyway, Noah got a little bored. So his Dad sent him to virtual Mars.

And now Noah only finds joy in hacking his digital pet. Relatable.

Now I know a good chunk of you are my age--that good Jenna Marbles age--and will know exactly what I am referring to, as for the rest of you, turning your digital pet into a hell creation was just a thing we all did in year 2000ish. All of us did this.

And I was like “I bet you, that someone out there has made a robot Hex, I guarantee” because I spent...I want to say 2 years of my life downloading modded breedz of Catz 4? I even tried to do it myself but I wasn’t any good at it because I was super young and bad at computers, I never actually got Robbie William’s Millennium as a Catz meow (though trust me, I did try. It was my life’s dream when I was small.)

But the closest I found to a Robot Petz was this?

Dang. Look at that thing. This one is actually pretty good because it does resemble an animal. I admire it a lot. Trust me, I spent like days moving my bunniez feet around trying to make a dragon and just ended up downloading someone else's dragon.

And then, from the same page I saw this gem right above it.

HELL YES........

....I freakin love this period of the internet so freakin much. I was only ever really a part of a couple of fandoms as a child and the Petz fandom will forever hold a little part of my heart. I mean, look at this. What’s not to love?

Like, Catz is probably number 3 on my list of best games ever made. Not so much because the game was any good, but because none of the files were protected in any way so even kids like me could hack in there and make the weirdest abominations and post them all to their Angelfire pages.

Well, other kids could, I was so baby that I was still using my Mom’s email address and did not know how to put a damn thing on my webpage. Which I did have. But it had like...only frames. It had like 3 words and just me splitting the page into 50 frames because I did not know what I was doing.

I apologize to all the kids in the room who have never seen a web page covered in ugly ass frames. You lucky bastards.

....but Petz...Noah was into PETZ. I can respect him for that.

I still think he’s a little creep-o, but knowing that he hacked his pet has given me a lot of appreciation for his work.

Anyway, it was after Noah changed the boring ass simpleton dog into a much better dog that Gozoboro decided “I have made a monster, I am abandoning my boy.” Which uh...this was the thing?

This?

I mean as far as body horror goes, Litterbox up there is way worse. As far as body horror goes, we also have, Jinzo over here, but the digital dog with a cute robot head was the thing that made Gozoboro say “What have I done!?” The dog is digital, it’s not even alive.

Especially since I feel like the follow up question Noah made was like way more frightening than the dog thing?

Kaiba glazes right over this entire conversation. Like full stop, he didn’t even seem to blink. No part of this story even slightly surprised him, although I will admit, at least Seto has decided that Noah...exists and might in fact be a robot his Father made once. This in itself is a big deal for Kaiba, who has a goldfish memory and denial wider than the sea he’s trapped under.

First of all, congrats to the storyboarder/animator for drawing a hand in that angle, mad respect.

Second of all, this is pretty close to the actual line from the show, Kaiba legit thinks that his Dad wanted Kaiba to be the president, after he knows full well that his Dad was like “Don’t Take Over My Company, You Little Twerp” and then like tried to even send Seto back to the orphanage whence he came. Kaiba’s pretty sure that his Dad wanted that whole thing to happen exactly the way it happened. No regrets. Just family being family.

And Moki’s still chilling on the Moki couch, just kinda taking this all in before he’s summoned unto the field like a playing card.

Ah, yet another person who is like “KILL MEEE” on this show. It’s been kind of a while. Like, who’s left that hasn’t stood in front of a loaded card-gun like this? Duke? Is Duke the only one who hasn’t sacrificed his body for the greater card-good at this point? Is this why Duke is our amoral Chaotic Neutral? Is this why Duke is still the only one who hasn’t died yet (and I’m crossing my fingers still that he’s gonna be our death 169, it can happen, I can believe)?

I feel like this is the season of weird hugs. Like everyone on this show that has hugged has gotten a little weird. The only not-weird hug was when Yugi attempted to hug Joey once and then Joey dodged the hug and wrestled him into an arm-distanced noogie instead--which is technically still not a hug, but the closest we’ve gotten to something a human would do. It is so lucky for our art team that all the huggers are supposed to be hella weird anyway.

Anyway, next episode we get to find out if Noah also had an AIM username or got really into Jelly pens. I can see him getting suuuper into Jelly pens, with hair like that.

Anyway, here’s a link to Season 1 Ep 1 to read in Chrono order, in case you just got here and you’re looking for that.

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psychnerd47 · 6 years ago

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Monster College Part 2

Rating: G, warnings none.

Characters: Jackson Jekyll/ Holt Hyde, Invisi-Billy, Deuce Gorgon, Frankie Stein, and Operetta

Invisi-Billy pulled out his phone, and started to call Abbey.

“Um, hey Abbey, it’s Billy.”

“Why are you calling so early in the morning?” the abominable snowwoman asked abruptly.

“Heath, has an 8:00 class, but he is still asleep, I was wondering if I should awaken him?”

“You are not his mother, but if you think it’s a good idea?” Abbey added.

The disappearing boy walked over to Heath’s bed and gave him a slight shove. But Invisi-Billy soon realized that really didn’t think this through, as all of a sudden Heath jolted awake with a head full of fire, triggering the sprinkler in their bedroom. Billy pushed his now soaked, blue-black hair out of his face, he didn’t have time to change he was now going to have to meet Scarah all soaked. Heath sat up, totally unfazed by the large amount of water in the room.

“Oh, look at the time,” Heath said as he jumped out of bed, “I need to get to class”.

In the meanwhile Holt ran down the hall towards Jackson and Deuce’s room. “I just need to grab my swimsuit, Holt’s headed to the pool!” the blue skinned monster announced. But since subtlety was not one of Holt’s greater talents, as he crashed the door open he awoke Deuce. Deuce who was actually a morning monster, immediately knew what to do after he saw Holt’s presence. “Hold it there dude,” Deuce called out, “Jackson, has to get to class.” The gorgon boy grabbed Jackson’s headphones and put them on the head of the blue-skinned monster. Instantly turning him back into, nerdy human boy Jackson.

Jackson started to freak out, “Why am I only in a towel? Where are my clothes? I need to get to class.”

“It’s ok dude, Holt showed up, probably while you were showering.” Deuce said calmly, “I’ll go get your stuff for you and then you can go to class, might save you some embarrassment,” Deuce said in a supportive voice.

“Thanks,” said Jackson sheepishly.

Invisi-Billy made finally made it to the dying-hall, to meet Scarah. The Banshee girl was sitting at a table waiting for her disappearing boyfriend. “Are you alright?” she asked when she saw how soaked Billy was.

“Heath had an accident this morning, and he set off the fire sprinkler,” Billy explained.

“You poor dear,” Scarah said. Since Scarah was telepathic Billy always had to tell the truth, even if it was embarrassing.

After Jackson got his backpack and clothes back, he started to run to get to class. He didn’t have time to grab breakfast so he just grabbed a Zombie Energy drink, since he didn’t want to fall asleep in class. When Jackson made it to Coding 101 he spotted Ghoulia Yelps. She was a zombie, who also had a prefect GPA in high school and was even valedictorian for their class, so it was not surprising to see that she also bypassed Introduction to Coding. Jackson grabbed a seat next to her.

The coding teacher was a middle age cyborg who looked like he had been working with computers since they first came out. The class was going well until Mr. Cybernik decided to share his favorite music video about coding with the class. Jackson spent that time hiding under his desk with his hands over his ears. The coding class ended with Mr. Cybernik assigning a whole caskets worth of homework.

Billy went to find his Monster Anatomy and Physiology class, he had written that it was in room 235 of the Stoker Building of Natural History and Science. The disappearing boy spotted room 235. When he walked in he spied some fellow students he recognized from high school: Jinafire Long, Skelita Calaveras, Rochelle Goyle, and Deuce’s mummy girlfriend Cleo de Nile. Invisi-Billy was so glad he would be in a class with people he knew. He found a seat next to Jinafire. “I didn’t realize you were all taking this class,” the invisible boy started, “but I’m greatful.”

The Chinese dragon girl just smiled awkwardly. A pompous looking gargoyle walked into the class room. She was large and wore an expensive looking pink dress. Billy was confused, she didn’t look like the teacher on the My Campus page for his class. He had been expecting a skinny, mad scientist with a long beard.

The gargoyle teacher had a list she was starting to call off for attendance, when she got to Billy she asked him who he was in a voice that sounded like she did not have time for any nonsense. “Um, Invisi-Billy Mann,” the disappearing boy answered.

“You are not on my list, you are taking Introduction to Monstropolgy aren’t you?” the instructor asked.

“No,” Billy answered, “I’m supposed to be taking Monster Anatomy and Physiology.”

The gargoyle instructor rolled her eyes, “You supposed to be in room 235 ‘B’, this is room 235 ‘A’”.

Billy blushed, and then started to turn invisible from the embarrassment. The rest of the class watched as what appeared to be a hoodie, jeans, beanie and back pack walked out of the classroom.

Invisi-Billy quietly sneaked into the correct classroom. Luckily for him the professor Dr. Choppenguts had not begun to call attendance yet. The dark-blue haired boy spied Lagoona Blue and Gil Webber, and grabbed a chair next to the beautiful Australian sea monster girl. “Crikey, Billy. You were almost late for class, that is not like you at all,” Lagoona said.

Insvisi-Billy blushed again, “ I accidently went to the wrong class room,”

Gil laughed, “It’s ok, Billy that could happen to anyone. Yesterday I showed up to the wrong dormroom and I thought I was going to have to be roommates with Kieron Valentine instead of Clawd,” the river monster laughed.

Billy smiled, “I would never want to be roommates with Valentine, with his extra Southern Accent, and he’s so uptight you would think his underwear is three sizes too small.”

“That’s really funny,” Gil whisper laughed, “but you know who won’t be laughing? Johnny Spirit. Operetta says that he and Valentine were assigned to be roommates.”

Johnny Spirit was a Rockabilly Greaser ghost, who played the fiddle and was Operetta’s boyfriend. Operetta was the sassy, high octane Rockabilly daughter of the Phantom of the Opera’s daughter.

Billy laughed again, but then turned to face Doctor Choppenguts who started his lecture about how even though how all monsters are very different, their bodies all function very similarly. Billy started to mentally drift off, he doodled in his notebook, maybe he shouldn’t have followed Mr. Rotter’s advice about being a doctor and followed his dream of being a stage tech.

Frankie Stien, the beautiful and sweet daughter of Frankenstein’s monster and his bride, invited Jackson to an early lunch with her at the campus Ick-Fil-A. Jackson still felt a little awkward with his relationship with Frankie because she had previously broken up with him, when his going back and forth between Jekyll and Hyde had gotten out of control, but he still harbored a crush on her, even if she just saw him as her best friend. “I actually kinda miss having my mom around,” Jackson admitted to Frankie, “she kept me company and helped me to remember the silliest little things I always forget such as clean underwear,” Jackson sighed.

Frankie put her hand on his shoulder, “It will be ok, at least you get to be roommates with two of your best friends. I’m sorry you are feeling discouraged by the ‘Holt’ episode this morning, but don’t give up yet.” The stitched together girl encouraged. Jackson didn’t say anything a quietly sipped his soda, but the quietness was not going to last.

A lilac-colored skinned girl, with a bright red Victory Roll hair style waltzed over to the two of them, it was Operetta Phantom. “Hey, y’all,” she called out with her smooth, charming Southern accent, “Johnny and I are hosting a big ‘ol rockin’ shindig tonight, we got permission to use the student union hall, which is just a floor above this here dying hall. So be there or be square,” she laughed.

“That sounds amazing,” Frankie said in awe, “what is going to happen at the party?”

“Well,” the Rockabilly phantom answered,“ Johnny and I are going to play rockin’ live music for us all to dance too. I’ve even gotten Deuce to help me cook up some of my family’s dang famous gumbo recipe,” she turned to Jackson who looked super uncomfortable about going to a party with hot music, “you are going to come right?”

Jackson grew even more awkward, he jumped to his feet clumsily, “I just remembered,” he started awkwardly, “I really have to go to the bathroom.” suddenly the human boy shot out of the room.

* * *

Jackson sat on the floor of a bathroom stall crying and hoping no one would notice him. Why did people have to keep inviting him to parties, didn’t they understand that he couldn’t come.

From his hiding place Jackson heard someone else walk in, “Hey Jackson dude,”

Jackson recognized the voice to belong to Deuce, “are you alright? Frankie sent me to check on you. She’s concerned.” The Gorgon boy explained, “you need to come out. I know you have been having some setbacks with Holt. But you can’t keep avoiding everything,” Deuce continued, “you really need to get out more often. Frankie and I will look after you, even if you turn to Holt, we won’t let you get out of control,” the snake-haired boy assured his friend.

“Ok,” Jackson answered quietly as he started to leave the bathroom, he hoped that Deuce wouldn’t notice he had been crying.

Meanwhile, Invisi-Billy sat alone in the dying hall with a very pathetic piece of cafeteria pizza, as he sat in his misery, a certain red-haired Rockabilly phantom waltzed up to him. “Why so glum sugar-plum? I bet ya haven’t heard about my party?”

Tags @queenofworry

#monster high #monster high fanfiction #mh fandom #mh fanfiction #my fanfiction #jackson jekyll #invisi billy #holt hyde #deuce gorgon #operetta #frankie stein #monster college #my stories

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askthechronoverse · 7 months ago

Note

Five: Hello?!? RJ??? I just wanted to tell you something, but first... come closer to me...!

[Five seems to be hiding something in his hand]

Hey! I wasn't expecting a visitor. Well, I was expecting my lawyer but this is still an awesome surprise. You can tell me anything you want. I'll listen.

I can't come too much closer to you than I am right now. I'm pretty sure the guy behind me will have something to say about that.

He does lean as close as he can though. Keep in mind that you are in a visitor's room in a high security prison.

#rj is still not askable. but for Five I will make an exception #⌈tell us all your thoughts on god⌋ ⋆❈⋆ ⌈answered ask ⌋#⌈sent from⌋ ⋆❈⋆ ⌈octan-computer⌋#⌈swingin' to my own sound⌋ ⋆❈⋆ ⌈the wildcard⌋#obviously the background is from ace attorney. I couldn't resist

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dreamoftowers · 6 years ago

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The Shanghai Lady

hi uhhhh i posted this forever ago but deleted it bc i just didnt like it anymore, but i was recently looking thru old works of mine and i re-read this and was like “wow! this is p cool” so uhhhh i’m gonna post it again. i edited it a bit, but i hope yall like it maybe?

it’s my take on the shanghai lady’s character. this is a drabble that’s written in media res of a story that i’ll probably never completely write out. who knows idk maybe? *shrugs*

anyway it’s a bit Dark and Edgy or w/e but who cares. hope yall like it anyway!

tw: mention of character deaths / violence, yelling, crying

Sung struggled and squirmed about as two shady figures held tightly onto his arms and dragged him forward through the basement. Vivid neon lights shone from the ceiling, but it somehow still managed to be dark and dim down here, becoming increasingly darker the deeper they descended into the understructure of the place; though, Sung couldn’t even see any of this through the blindfold wrapped around his eyes. High-octane pop music blasted from the upstairs dance floor, becoming more and more faded the farther they walked.

After a few minutes of dragging, struggling, and stumbling, Sung heard a door swing open in front of him. As he was dragged into the direction of the door, he felt the atmosphere around him suddenly change. The air felt cooler, crisper, but heavier, somehow, much heavier in a way that Sung couldn’t quite understand.

He felt himself being thrown forwards, and his body fell face first onto the cold floor. As he lay there on the floor, the figures grabbed his hands, and held them behind his back. Sung felt icy cold handcuffs latch onto his wrists. Hands grabbed at his arms and yanked his upper body up from the ground, and they positioned him so that he was sitting on his knees. There Sung sat, breathing heavily as one of the figures untied the blindfold and ripped it off of his eyes.

The sudden bright neon lighting of the room stung Sung’s eyes. He groaned, and squinted until he adjusted to the vivid lights. He darted his eyes all around the room; again, somehow the room managed to be dim even though there were deep hues of pinks and purples and blues emitting from the neon lights scattered around the room. Decorating the room were ornate paper lanterns, indoor waterfalls and water fountains illuminated in colorful LED lights, and strange glowing plants and vines growing on the walls.

A large pool sat in the back of the room, glowing in alternating hues; and in the middle of it, a rectangular platform rose out of the water. There, the dusky figure of a woman sat cross-legged, her back facing Sung.

The Shanghai Lady.

Exactly who he was looking for- though, admittedly, he wasn’t expecting to meet her like this, sitting on his knees with handcuffs binding his hands together.

He couldn’t really make out what she was wearing, but the shape of it, from what he could make out, was something ornate, something flamboyant. She was surrounded by glowing waterfalls and hanging floral vines.

Sung breathed heavy breaths, taking in the oddly calming sounds of the area: the gentle splashing of running water, the quiet ambient music playing throughout the room, the soft remnants of pop music playing high above them from the nightclub. He was just awestruck from this atmosphere. Who knew that The Shanghai Lady had such a hunch for avante-garde interior design? For someone with as much blood, corruption, and destruction on her hands, one wouldn’t expect such contrastingly calm scenery for her lair.

A robotic female voice rang out through the room. It was shockingly silky, gentle, soothing to the ears, while also containing an eerie undertone.

“I would have never in a million years expected to see you here, Sung.” Her voice reverberated through the room.

An unnerved chill shot through Sung’s body. He frowned, and asked in a demanding voice, “What do you want from us? How did you find us? What did we d--”

The Shanghai Lady cut him off and continued to speak as though she hadn’t heard his questions. “You’re usually so elusive, caught up in your own little world. I was so surprised that you came here. Hmhm.” Her small chuckles seemed to echo and reverberate a bit more intensely than her sentences did. “Why the sudden change of heart? Did you fina--”

“WHERE ARE THEY!!?!” Sung suddenly exploded, his trembling voice roaring over hers. His breaths became just as shaky as his body was. “What did you do to them?!”

She didn’t answer. All she did was chuckle.

“ANSWER ME!!” Sung screamed out, his face turning red and contorted with anger.

“Oh, my.” She said in such a nonchalant tone. “Someone’s upset. I’ve never seen you like this before, Sung. It’s so… intriguing to see you at your breaking point already. Though, I suppose I shouldn’t have expected anything different of you. You’re always gushing about your… damned bandmates. Friendship this, and- and brotherhood that.” When saying these words, her tone shifted to a slight hiss, as though the words were poison on her tongue. Her tone quickly returned back to normal. “Of course you’d be so concerned about them. Pathetic.”

Anger ran red hot through Sung’s boiling blood. Why is she talking like she knows him personally? Does she? He certainly doesn’t know her personally. Hell, he only knows her through rumors and myths.

“Stop talking like you know me,” Sung spat out through gritted teeth.

“I do know you, Sung.”

“You know nothing about me.”

“Hahaha, ah, on the contrary, sweetheart.” In her next sentence, her voice shifted to that menacing hissy tone again. “I know everything about you.”

Sung was shaking so much that he felt like he would explode from the rage burning within him. He balled his hands into tight fists. He couldn’t even respond for a long moment. He just stared daggers at the back of her head. “What… do you want…?”

“Do you recognize my voice, Sung?”

The sudden question stunned him into a brief silence. Bewildered, he furrowed his brows and furiously shook his head. “No, I don’t!”

“Not at all?” The Shanghai Lady asked in a mockingly sad tone.

“N-... No… I don’t- I don’t think so.” Sung began to think about this a little deeper. “Not a lot, it’s just… vaguely… familiar... agh, it-it sort of reminds me of someo-- WHERE ARE THEY?” He snapped again, shaking off the previous thoughts on his mind. She… did sound somewhat familiar, he just couldn’t put his finger on it. But it didn’t matter. He was going to find out where his friends were, no matter what distractions she threw at him.

“You were so, so close,” she said, ignoring his last question. “Still can’t figure it out?”

Sung said nothing in reply.

Suddenly, in the next words she uttered, her voice became dramatically different, but in a way that was somehow still vaguely similar to her original voice. It was much more robotic and monotone, much colder.

“How about now?”

Sung’s heart sank into his stomach. His face fell into immediate horror and dismay, his eyes wide and his mouth hanging agape.

Sung could recognize that voice anywhere.

He tried to utter something, anything, but no words came out. All that could escape his throat were failed attempts at words. “C…c-co…”

The Shanghai Lady chuckled again in her normal tone. “Go on, take your time. I’m waiting,” she said in a whispery voice.

Tight knots formed in Sung’s stomach. His lips trembled as he stuttered out, “Co...c-comp..uter… w-w...ife…”

“There you go,” she congratulated him in a mocking tone.

“No…” Sung muttered, shaking his head. “But.. but why?” Sung whimpered out. “What..--”

“You haven’t changed at all, Sung. A part of me isn’t surprised.” She slowly rose to her feet. The skirt of her dress, or shirt, or whatever she was wearing, swayed as she stood and turned around. Once she was facing Sung, the glow of her metallic amber irises pierced through the darkness. As she approached him, descending down the stairs from the platform onto the floor, Sung could only gaze at her in utter disbelief, utter awe. “You’re not-- you’re not her,” he said, his voice shaking with emotion. “Y-You’re not her, I know it, she- sh-she wouldn’t do anything like this, I…” He seemed to be trying to convince himself of this rather than telling her this.

As The Shanghai Lady came closer to him, the lighting from nearby lamps and waterfalls illuminated her figure, giving Sung a chance to gaze upon her. She wore a slightly loose-fitting black jumpsuit that had intricate gold designs printed on it. A black, armor-like shoulder mantle draped over her chest, and from the back of it fell a long flowing cape lined with gold. Her chrome metallic skin was pure white, like that of a marble statue, other than the dark green circuitry running down her face like trickles of water. Some of her detailing was similar to how she looked before she… left, and abandoned Sung. But others were so much different now. She looked like such a completely different person, but what scared him more was that she still did resemble her old self a bit. She couldn’t have been lying about being his compu--... ex computer wife. Even now, Sung refused to believe his own eyes.

Sung looked up at her as she stood over him, chuckling to herself and leaning over to gently caress his chin with her robotic white hand. The familiar, and yet somehow simultaneously foreign, touch of her hand sent unnerving chills through his heart. “Oh, Sung. Even with all the intellect and genius in the universe, you never did, nor ever will, understand your own finest creation. It’s a shame. So knowledgeable, yet so idiotic.” The Shanghai Lady suddenly gripped at Sung’s jaw, and yanked his head up further. “We could’ve been unstoppable, Sung. With your intellect and my vigor, we could’ve achieved anything we wanted. But you didn’t want that, did you?” She squeezed tighter onto Sung’s face. “No, you’d rather waste your talent building robot drummers and specialty instruments with all of the finest elements of our universe. Never focusing on the bigger picture. Such wasted potential.” She shoved his face away, and Sung let his head droop down.

Memories of their marriage flashed into Sung’s mind. Gradually, over time, the more sentient and self-thinking that she became, the more she would grow tired of him and his experiments. He noticed that she became distant, irritable, and, now that he was looking back on it, more ominous about her outlooks and views. That’s when the arguments began.

She was always urging him to do “more important” things with his time and energy, saying that his talents shouldn’t go to waste on such “trivial” things such as music, but Sung would always calm her down enough to where they could get back to their normal lives. But the arguments only got worse until one day, she disappeared without a word, without a trace, and the only thing she’d left behind was a goodbye note.

But this… how could she have done all of this? Making such a bloody reputation for herself, on Earth of all places? And… more importantly, how was she able to single handedly tear TWRP apart so easily, and take away all of Sung’s friends one by one? He still didn’t even know what she’d done to them yet, and as much as it burned him on the inside to be so ignorant, he had no choice but to listen to her. No words could escape him at this point.

The Shanghai Lady slowly walked away from him, then stopped and stood with her back facing him. “But no need to dwell on the past, right? Not without the proper actions, at least. That’s when you all came in to the picture.” She slowly turned her head to look back at him. Her eyes shone a sharp and intimidating glow. “You made it so easy, I just couldn’t resist exacting revenge on you. You all came running right to me.”

She took a brief pause, almost as though she were thinking about something. She chuckled loudly before turning her head away and speaking again. “You know, Sung, I’ve always been intrigued by the lives of organic beings like yourself. You all have limitations: physically, emotionally, psychologically. It’s so captivating…. watching how you all squirm and thrash about once you’ve reached your breaking point. Blood spilling, bones shattering, hmhm, even watching tears fall is fascinating. Thrilling, even. Such fleshy, emotional little things, you are!” She said this in almost a cheery voice. “I never would’ve guessed that little red one’s neck would break so easily. Or that the lion man’s psyche could be so easily shattered.”

Sung’s heart stopped. A paralyzing horror fell over him, leaving his blood running cold, his skin draining of color. No, no, she couldn't’ have, she wouldn’t do that…right? In just a few short seconds, his entire world began to crumble and fall, and the weight of it crushed Sung’s heart. He started to tremble.

Sung shook his head in disbelief, denial. “No..N-no… you…”

“Yes, the red one… so brittle. His neck just snapped like a twig. Oh, and the lion… he saw everything. He’s usually so calm and laid back.” The Shanghai Lady snickered. “Yet he broke down into such a demented state, screaming and sobbing out… and so quickly, at that. I was genuinely surprised.”

All Sung could do was listen as rage and dread rose within him, making him tremble and whimper. He hung his head and squeezed his hands into tight fists, each word she uttered sending more and more pain into his heart and soul.

“Even that robot broke much easier than I expected. I figured that another one of your creations might have stood a chance, but I was mistaken. He fell just as easily as the rest. The red glow in his eyes flickered away so… gently. It was almost peaceful to watch that heap of useless metal fall to the ground.”

In an outburst of rage, Sung cried out and tried to race over to her, but the two figures grabbed onto his arms and held him back as he kicked and screamed. He tried to struggle as much as he could, thrashing around and cursing and wailing about, but he eventually broke down and grew stiff, letting his body slump in their arms as he erupted into sobs and whimpers. The only movements he made were the violent shakes of his body as he cried, his chest heaving up and down in spastic breaths.

“And now, you…” The Shanghai Lady said, turning around with the same devilish smirk on her face. “Broken so easily, my sweetheart. You always were so sensitive. But I’m not nearly finished with you, yet.” She raised her hand in the air, and a strange golden orb slowly formed around it. It swarmed with electricity and circuit-like patterns.

She began walking over to him, taking her sweet time.

“No, no, I have more special plans with you.”

#tupperware remix party #twrp #doctor sung #the shaghai lady #*shrugs*#i know im not in the twrp fandom much anymore and idek what's going on anymore #but uhhh enjoy???? :0

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freshenthusiasttiger · 4 years ago

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M Audio Profire 610 Driver Download For Mac

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pscottm · 7 years ago

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... Mercer, the fabulously wealthy computer scientist who helped bankroll the election of President Donald Trump, would’ve reported for duty as a volunteer policeman.

...For most of the past six years, as Mercer became one of the country’s political kingmakers, he was also periodically policing Lake Arthur, according to the department. If he followed Norwood’s protocols—and Norwood insists no volunteers get special treatment—he would’ve patrolled at least six days a year. He would’ve paid for travel and room and board, and supplied his own body armor and weapon.

Until a few months ago, Mercer, 71, ran what is arguably the world’s most successful hedge fund. He employs a phalanx of servants and bodyguards and owns a 203-foot yacht named Sea Owl. He was the money behind Breitbart News and Steve Bannon, whose fiery populism helped propel Trump to the White House, as well as the data firm Cambridge Analytica, which shaped the campaign’s messages. Shortly after the election, Mercer donned a top hat and welcomed the president-elect to a costume party at his seaside mansion on Long Island.....

... It shows just how far a man of means will go to get something he can’t buy: the right to carry a concealed firearm anywhere in America.

The Mercers don’t talk to the press, and Robert Mercer wouldn’t tell me why he started volunteering for the Lake Arthur police. When I went there to see for myself, I found that it was unlike any police department I’d come across. Norwood and three part-timers are buttressed by 84 reserve officers, most of whom live hundreds or even thousands of miles away. There are Lake Arthur reservists in San Diego and Virginia Beach. Several are among the most elite soldiers on Earth—former U.S. Navy SEALs. Many are high-dollar bodyguards or firearms instructors, and almost all of them are serious gun enthusiasts. On that count, Mercer fits right in. He once built a personal pistol range in his basement. Through a company he co-owns, Centre Firearms Co., he has a vast collection of machine guns and other weapons of war, as well as a factory in South Carolina that makes assault-style rifles.

Over our own lunch at Piccolino, the Italian place, Chief Norwood passed me a copy of his department’s newsletter, the Blue Heeler. One picture shows reservists training in a two-man sniper-spotter team. The sniper is kitted out in a mesh veil for camouflage and appears to be firing from inside a kitchen. Another shows a door with a hole blasted through it, the result of an exercise in “explosive breaching.” The newsletter gave the impression that Norwood was running his department as a sort of high-octane club for guys who subscribe to Guns & Ammo. It was hard to imagine these skills being put to heavy use in Lake Arthur, where reservists’ official duties include finding lost pets.

Even the coolest drills wouldn’t explain why Mercer would go to the trouble of getting a Lake Arthur badge. With his connections in the gun world, he wouldn’t need to travel all the way from Long Island to have some weekend fun on the range. And if he just wanted to serve the public and wear a uniform, he could choose from several police auxiliary programs without leaving his home county.

Then I learned that in 2012 several of Mercer’s associates had set up a nonprofit in Georgia blandly named the Law Enforcement Education Organization. Among the founders were Mercer’s son-in-law George Wells and Wells’s longtime friend Peter Pukish—both of whom were also Lake Arthur volunteers. Chairing the group was former Georgia Representative Robert Barr, a Mercer lawyer and National Rifle Association board member who got pranked in the 2006 mockumentary Borat. (The movie captures his sour expression when he’s told the cheese he just ate was made from a woman’s breast milk.) Tax records suggest Mercer gave the group’s sister foundation more than $400,000, and his gun company became a sponsor (see note 1, below) . The purpose: to educate local authorities across the country about the rights of off-duty police officers to carry concealed weapons. The group showed up at police conferences and handed out brochures and moon pies.

States vary widely in their approaches to regulating concealed weapons. But in 2004, Congress passed the Law Enforcement Officers Safety Act, declaring that police officers can carry concealed guns in any state with no need of a local license. The law applies to officers who are off-duty and out of their jurisdiction—and includes volunteer reservists.

The law made a police badge an immeasurably valuable item in places such as Suffolk County, N.Y., where Mercer lives, and where concealed-carry permits are granted only rarely. Applicants must prove they face “extraordinary personal danger”; in 2016 the county rejected the request of a man who had helped the FBI take down an outlaw biker gang. Even if Mercer did get a local permit, it wouldn’t be valid if he traveled to New York City or to most other states. For people in Suffolk who want to carry, the Law Enforcement Officers Safety Act is a tantalizing way to cut through all of that—if they can find a police force that will grant them its tin.

Since the law took effect, a few police and sheriff’s departments around the country have been rumored to hand out badges to buddies or in exchange for cash. The gun community calls them “badge factories.” Questions about whether Lake Arthur was such a place swirled last year on a popular gun chat room, after a noted firearms expert from North Carolina who was also a reservist got drunk and accidentally shot his brother-in-law in the leg. (Norwood quickly stripped him of his badge.) It’s not clear exactly when or how Mercer became aware of Lake Arthur’s reserve corps. But he became an officer on Dec. 10, 2011, and since then, Mercer and his son-in-law have supported the town generously. Their foundation underwrote a grant for some Lake Arthur officers to get SWAT training in Las Vegas. Separately, Wells helped start a reserve officers’ association that apparently directed tens of thousands of dollars to the department. (2)

At lunch, Norwood ordered a salad and insisted that his department was no badge factory. “It’s a big help to me, I’ll tell you that,” he said of the reserve program. “It’s better than going out to a domestic violence call way out in the county all by yourself.” Norwood’s head was closely shaved, and he had a hint of reddish stubble on his cheeks. He was dressed from head to toe in black tactical gear, and a patch on his chest gave his blood type as O+. Norwood refused to discuss Mercer or any other individual reservist but said that if a person simply wanted concealed-carry rights, volunteering for his squad wouldn’t be worth the trouble: Department rules require 96 hours of patrol work and 20 hours of training a year. He added that while reservists are encouraged to carry their weapons off-duty for protection, they’re not allowed to use their concealed-carry privileges for outside work. (Later, after I showed Norwood the LinkedIn accounts of two men who seemed to be doing just that—security contractors touting their ability to carry guns anywhere—the men faced “severe” disciplinary action, a department spokesman said.)

Norwood formed the reserve program in 2005, not long after he joined the department. With the nearest backup a half-hour or more away, he didn’t like the idea of patrolling solo, so he turned to a couple of Army buddies for volunteer help. The program expanded by word of mouth. At one point a few years ago, there were almost 150 reserve officers—that’d be a ratio of one to every 2.9 residents—and Norwood, who prefers patrolling to paperwork, acknowledged he wasn’t giving the program the oversight it needed. In 2016 a reserve captain took over administrative duties, tightened up policies, and cut the number of reservists almost in half. Last year, Norwood stopped accepting new members altogether. But even this smaller force is enough to provide him with a visiting reservist or two on any given day, free of charge.

“There may have been some abuses in the past,” said the administrator, Oliver Brooks, who lives 200 miles away and joined us for lunch. “But whenever we find out about them, we take action.”

After a formal request under New Mexico’s open-records law, Norwood sent me documents showing that Mercer, Wells, and Pukish joined on the same day in 2011. Mercer and Wells left the department last September, and Pukish stayed on until February. Brooks said he didn’t know why they left; Pukish declined to comment, and Wells didn’t respond to inquiries.

Many of Mercer’s links to the gun world flow through Wells, who’s married to the youngest of Mercer’s three daughters, Heather Sue. She deserves a beer commercial of her own. A talented placekicker, she made Duke University’s football team in 1995 and then sued the coach for sex discrimination when he refused to let her suit up. She won. Later, after running a bakery in New York with her sisters, Heather Sue moved to Las Vegas and gambled for high stakes. She played $25,000 no-limit hold ’em six-handed at the 2010 World Series of Poker, placing 15th. She married Wells, one of the family’s bodyguards, the next year.

Wells had previously worked as a firearms trainer and a security contractor in Iraq, and he once had a sideline making concealed-carry holsters out of elephant and ostrich skin. Soon after the marriage, he got a new job: Wells and Mercer joined with other investors to acquire Centre Firearms (3), a longtime Manhattan dealer that specialized in outfitting movies and TV shows, and Wells became its president.

Mercer and Wells wanted to expand beyond props, and they soon entered talks with Daniel Shea, a Nevada arms dealer who had a world-class collection of machine guns. His wares included 19th century antiques, a Stinger antiaircraft missile launcher, and the fake grenade launcher that Al Pacino wielded in Scarface, according to documents filed in subsequent litigation. He also rented guns to video game makers. If you play certain Call of Duty titles, you hear their thunder. But Shea was far more than a mere collector: He had brokered arms deals in Jordan and Serbia and trained U.S. commandos on obscure weapons they might face in the field.

Centre agreed to buy the assets of Shea’s company, Long Mountain Outfitters, for as much as $8 million, with Mercer providing the cash, court documents show. Shea stuck around to introduce the new owners to his contacts in the U.S. government and foreign militaries. In a November 2013 business plan, Centre executives described their aim to become “the leading international supplier of arms and training.” As part of their strategy, they wrote, they would “use our relations with government contacts and politicians.”

Wells put his friend Pukish in charge of the Nevada operations, located in an industrial park in a Las Vegas suburb. Pukish is a martial-arts master who once ran a dojo, as well as a training business called Chaos International. In online profiles he claims to be expert in jiujitsu, kuntao knife fighting, and the Japanese healing art of reiki. Meanwhile, in early 2014, Mercer and his partners acquired a warehouse in the Ridgewood neighborhood of Queens, N.Y., and moved much of Centre’s East Coast inventory there. (Ed Leiter, a former owner of Centre who visited the site recently, said the stash includes an Mk 19 belt-fed grenade launcher, capable of hurling 60 explosives per minute. Leiter said he thinks it’s used for training.)

But Centre’s partnership with Shea quickly collapsed. In November 2014, Centre sued Long Mountain Outfitters in Nevada, accusing Shea of keeping guns he was supposed to hand over. Shea denied that and countersued, alleging Pukish was running the business into the ground and that sales trips the two of them had taken to Washington, D.C., Israel, and Jordan had been a disaster. The parties settled the lawsuit on undisclosed terms. Shea left the company, and Centre kept most of his armory. (Through his lawyer, Shea declined to comment.)

While Mercer’s foray into international arms dealing struggled, he moved in another direction: manufacturing guns himself. In 2016, Centre acquired South Carolina’s PTR Industries Inc., the maker of a civilian version of a Cold War-era German battle rifle called the G3. PTR hasn’t disclosed its investors and declined to comment for this story. But according to a person with knowledge of the matter, Mercer appeared at the plant one day in early 2016 and went on an hourslong tour, flanked by Centre executives and a woman said to be Mercer’s nurse. He asked a few questions about the production process but was otherwise silent, the person said. Around plant employees, PTR’s chief executive took to calling the visitor “Mr. M.” (4)

Trump’s victory seemed to vault Mercer to the center of American political power. His two closest political advisers, Bannon and Kellyanne Conway, helped lead the campaign and then moved to the White House, and his daughter Rebekah, who oversees his political and charitable spending, won a leadership role on the transition team. But Bannon has since been cast out of the president’s circle, and Rebekah tossed him from Breitbart News. Liberal activists hounded investors in Mercer’s hedge fund, Renaissance Technologies, until he announced in November that he would step down as co-CEO. And Cambridge Analytica is at the center of a tech and political firestorm after revelations that it improperly harvested the personal data of 50 million Facebook users without their knowledge.

Trump’s win appears to be, at best, a mixed blessing for Mercer’s gun interests. The president supports a House measure requiring states to recognize concealed-carry permits regardless of where they were issued—essentially offering civilians the same workaround Mercer got from Lake Arthur—but after the school shooting in Parkland, Fla., the measure’s chances in the Senate grew dimmer. On the corporate front, it’s unclear if Mercer’s gun company has won any government contracts. And with a gun-rights supporter in the White House, civilian purchases of assault-style rifles have plummeted from Obama-era highs. Remington Outdoor Co., among the nation’s largest gunmakers, declared bankruptcy on March 25.

Mercer didn’t get into the gun business to get rich; the Bloomberg Billionaires Index values his wealth at almost $1 billion. But his family seems to be having fun. They’ve shown off their guns to political allies, taking them to a vault deep under the streets of Manhattan or to the warehouse near Las Vegas and pointing out some of the more remarkable weapons. Visitors, speaking on condition of anonymity, say the spaces are laid out like high-end clubhouses, with fully stocked bars. And in January, Mercer’s manufacturer rolled out a new product: a civilian version of the German submachine gun known as the MP5. It offers a 30-round magazine and an optional threaded barrel for attaching a silencer. It retails for $1,899.

Mercer would’ve used a more modest gun at the marksmanship tests he was required to pass annually to keep his Lake Arthur badge valid. To qualify, he might’ve headed to the local range, in a desolate part of Hagerman, where a bulldozer has piled up berms of earth on three sides. A fellow reservist would’ve planted a man-shaped paper target at a distance and called out instructions, timer and clipboard in hand: “Two rounds, kneeling position.” Mercer would’ve dropped to a knee and fired. “Two rounds, center mass.” Mercer would’ve taken aim, felt the trigger against his finger, and sent two more bullets out into the desert. —With Joshua Green 1. The Mercer Family Foundation reported donations in its 2015 and 2016 tax returns totaling $436,437 to a nonprofit identified as the Law Enforcement Education Fund, located on East Big Beaver Road in Troy, Michigan. There’s no such nonprofit at that address, but there is one with a similar name, the Law Enforcement Education Program. John Walsh, an accountant for that organization, said it has never received money from Mercer’s foundation. The donations appear to have gone instead to the Law Enforcement Education Foundation, a sister organization to the Law Enforcement Education Organization. Both of these groups are based in Georgia and have links to Mercer son-in-law George Wells and Bob Barr, a lawyer who has represented Mercer. 2. Wells was one of the original directors of the Southeast New Mexico Police Reserve Foundation, set up in 2013. The foundation reported raising $93,000 over two years. Under its bylaws, at least half the foundation’s net dues were required to be paid to police departments whose reservists were members. At the time of its founding, all the members were Lake Arthur reservists. 3. A property document filed in New York City in 2014 shows that Mercer and Wells together owned 40 percent of Centre, with the balance owned by theatrical-firearms entrepreneurs Rick and Ryder Washburn, and by Mark Barnes, a firearms lawyer. Mercer and Wells also owned 50 percent of the Queens site. 4. Records on file in South Carolina provide further evidence that Centre Firearms is the new owner of PTR. A vendor to Centre filed a financing statement there in 2016 listing Centre as a debtor, and identifying its address as the site of the PTR plant in Aynor, S.C. In 2017, the same vendor filed another financing statement identifying the debtor as “Centre Firearms Co. (PTR).”

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linuxlife · 5 years ago

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Linux Life Episode 67

Hello ladies and gentlemen and welcome to my ongoing quest regards Linux. Well I did say I was getting frustrated with the slowness of Manjaro well due to having to fight with it virtually every time when I built something from the AUR. I eventually had enough. So now the i7 desktop is now running Archman Mate.

The problem with Manjaro as I said was it seemed to be sluggish to load, respond and generally work. It did work but for some reason everything took far longer than it should. Also building anything would be problematic.

I will explain what I mean. Now Arch has a tendency to build from source which is not a problem. However most Arch versions with the exception of Manjaro if they script is in the wrong order it will normally correct so it will be able to build the program.Manjaro will just stop dead make you find a series of libraries which itself could have made. It's counter productive. Now I know sometimes AUR scripts are not perfect but just installing say Fuse the spectrum Emulator.

It uses libspectrum now every other Arch distro I have used discovers this and build this first and then Fuse. Manjaro just stalls, informs libspectrum is needed and stops. So now I have to go back to pamac install libspectrum first and now I can install Fuse. I'm sure someone seems to think this is a good idea as you see what you need before building the program in question.

However I just need a program to work and find all these unnecessary install steps annoying. If it needs such then like every other version out there install the library first and then build. However it will stop warn and not install.

This is very much like the old issue I used to have with Debian when it will inform you of the dependencies but not where they are. So you end up installing one library, then another, then another and still may not be close to being able to install the program you want.

It's inconvenient. I really don't understand how Manjaro is listed and praised so highly. I really don't. I have found it slow, obnoxious and obstructive. But for some reason people like it. Well let's just say I don't.

If you like Manjaro that's your prerogative. To be honest I admit I think I am pretty fussy about things. This is why I have shifted many times and through many versions of Linux.

Don't get me wrong now I will at least attempt to see if their is a fix if there is an issue which previously I wouldn't. Well I would but I have learned several things over time about symbol links going missing and how to sort them and that amending one or two files may be enough to save you having to totally reinstall the distribution.

As I have said before the reason why I use an Arch system over a Debian/Ubuntu/Fedora system is the applications are in a much more central location on Arch. On the others you normally need to keep adding PPAs and pointing the distros to file servers you have no idea whether they are safe or not.

Admittedly several scripts at the AUR may not work so I'm not saying it's perfect but nine times out of ten I can get the programs I want either from the central repositories of the distribution I'm using or the AUR.

Do they move their mirrors and files. They probably do but that is sent with the updates normally so I don't have to manually enter the movements.

Obviously I understand that if I was running a server I would want a machine that I set up once and then hopefully only have to do occasional updates the likes of Debian/Fedora are commonly used and I respect that. If I was to setup a central server then I would be looking at them but I don't have a server need.

As a desktop user I like to install programs try them, love them or hate them, keep them or remove them so I need a pretty dynamic setup. Hence why the Arch system suits me.

However I have discovered once I find something I like I will tend to stick with it. For example my usage of Shutter to grab screenshots. Sure there is Flameshot and Greenshot and probably others but they don't always manage to grab game shots very well which I normally can get Shutter to do.

Shutter hasn't been updated in a long time and getting it to build on various distros can be a long trek but Archman for example made sure it built without stopping by building the libraries in the right order which Manjaro could not do.

Maybe it's because Archman is using Mate where as when I was running Manjaro it was KDE. Given Shutter is primarily based in Gnome and Perl maybe Mate just knows how to deal with it better as it's based on the Gnome system. I don't know you see for all I am quite technically minded.

When it comes to complex programming my brain has decided it just doesn't want to get involved. I tried programming many years ago and discovered it was not for me. I just don't have the patience to find a missing semicolon or symbol in a several thousand lines of code program.

As much as I like to investigate programs I really don't have the patience to sit and learn programs that are incredibly complex either. I know Blender is an incredible tool and as well as being a 3D modelling software is capable of producing animation and some even use it for video production.

I have sat and rendered a model from example files and sat and waited for several hours for what turns out to be a two minute animation. Yes it's impressive but to be honest I know in my heart I would not sit and do such.

I love Emulation. It fascinates me seeing a machine running on my PC which was never meant to. Being able to try out programs and games I never could.

For example MAME includes MESS so it can run several computer systems as well as arcade games so I was able to play with Irix as there is now SGI Emulation in there. It's far from perfect and obviously not a huge amount of stuff is widely available to download for it.

However I have always wanted to see the Irix system in action and unless I was willing to pay the silly amounts asked on eBay for machines such the Octane and the Indigo. This is the only way I will get to try out such.

Hence why I now have Previous on most of my setups. It's an Emulation of the Next Systems so I can play with NextStep. Once again software is pretty limited and getting some of the stuff to work is a bit of a challenge. However seeing it and how you can see Mac OS X has integrated many of its features and improved makes it fascinating to me.

It never ceases to amaze me how the emulator programmers keep getting things working. I wouldn't know where the hell to start. Seeing them get things like Yusu, Xenia and Citra which are running emulation of Switch, Xbox 360 and 3DS games respectively. OK they are not perfect but the fact they have done so just proves how incredibly dedicated these people are.

I have always said my ideal desktop operating system which would never be possible. Is a machine where I can run Linux, Windows, Mac, Amiga, Next, BeOS and more from one desktop with one simple double click. Integrated Emulation at desktop level. Integration between clipboards and software. It's very idyllic and would never happen as the companies responsible for said technology would vehemently prevent such. But hey a man can dream. Either that or I'm just lazy and want everything under one roof to save me leg work.

Anyway I think that's enough waffle for this episode. So until next time ...take care.

#linux life #waffle #linux manjaro #linux archman #emulation #programming #idyllic

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artificialqueens · 7 years ago

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Just The Game We're In- Chapter 5, Part I- Ortega

A/N: HELLO YOU BEAUTIFUL PEOPLE!!! Do you see how quickly I can work now that I don’t have uni???? (yes a month and a half is quick work in terms of this fic). I have been so excited to bring you this chapter for ages, but i’ve actually split it into two parts because even I draw the limit at submitting 17.000 words all at once, there is only so much mobile users can take. Anyway, this evening we head to Alyssa Edwards’ charity ball. Enjoy! I love you all so much! i have the best readers in the world bc you are always both patient and forever excited and i love you for that. shoutout to my AQ Brit cheerleader hoes ur literally the best

Plot Summary: Willam is a senior political advisor to the government’s minister for social affairs and citizenship, Sharon Needles. Throw in a crush on co-worker Courtney, Sharon acting weird around Willam’s colleague Alaska, an incompetent press department headed by Actual Living Zombie Jinkx Monsoon, and Willam’s job couldn’t get much more stressful. No wonder spin doctor Bianca Del Rio is permanently at the end of her tether…

Question: How do you draw attention from a terrifyingly massive fuck-up of an interview?

Answer: Find redemption.

Except nothing was happening in politics the week before Christmas Day, so there was no way to find this redemption. Willam had already bore witness to the verbal colonic Bianca had thrown Sharon’s way in the wake of the Five Live interview, slapping down the day’s newspapers on her desk which had both Sharon and Phi Phi’s faces on their front looking incredibly sheepish. So Sharon had stayed low for the past week or so, the girls in the office flinging all their efforts behind her refugee housing policy ready for its release by New Year, when Sharon, Alaska and Violet would make the trip over to Brussels. Jinkx had even been behind its horrifically cheesy slogan- Sharon is caring- which made no sense if it wasn’t read in an American accent, but was sadly still the best efforts of a collective group of 5.

Willam was glad, though. Work had been incredibly high-octane of late and it was nice for the department to go into Christmas without feeling as if Bianca was throwing them at a hundred miles per hour towards a wall made of nails, broken glass, and fire. She didn’t know it was possible for the comms team to be even more laid-back than they already were, but they were; Trixie and Katya both on Amazon for each other’s Christmas presents whilst the other wasn’t looking, Jinkx on the phone to someone enquiring about Christmas turkeys, and Violet and Adore not even remotely disguising the fact they were watching Love Actually instead of doing their job. Occasionally an email would be sent or a phone would be picked up, but overall it was all quiet on the Westminster front.

It was great to see Courtney relaxed and happy again too. Their friendship was now completely mended and back to normal after the wobble of before, Courtney now even seeming a little more warm and like her out-of-work self, although that was probably down to the fact it was so close to the holiday season. Every day she would come into work more excited for Christmas than the day before and her cheerfulness was beginning to rub off on Willam, despite the fact that she hated the 25th of December with a burning passion. The pressure to be happy, especially with family, on Christmas Day was frightening and Willam dreaded it more and more each year. But somehow Courtney made her feel a bit better about it all, her voice lilting through the office and making Michael Buble that bit more bearable.

Their work wasn’t completely over, however. There was still one tiny little hurdle the department had to jump before they could celebrate Christmas, and that was Alyssa Edwards’ charity ball at the Dorchester. Alyssa was a Baroness, extremely wealthy and a member of the House of Lords, and yet somehow she wasn’t a complete and utter arsehole. Alyssa was well-renowned for using her money for good, setting up two childrens’ charities and using her wealth and notoriety to encourage everyone who was anyone in politics to donate to them. This ball was no exception, and there would be a lot of big names attending. Willam couldn’t help but feel a little excited. Darienne had never been extended an invite before, and therefore neither had her advisors. But presumably Alyssa had seen something of worth in Sharon, and so this was the first year that Willam had been invited to attend too. Sure, the whole night would really be about politics but she would rather be business networking surrounded by champagne and canapes than the same old scenery of the office.

It was for that reason that Willam arrived to work on the Friday morning absolutely buzzing for the evening ahead. It had been ages since she’d had the chance to dress up and admittedly she was looking forward to a night of mingling and experiencing how the other half lived. Walking from the lift to the corridor and into Dosac’s offices, she felt there was a similar sort of buzz in the air. Even the comms team were chatting excitedly.

“Morning, slagbags,” Willam hollered into the office, met with a couple of yells back. As she flung her bag and coat down on her desk, Courtney shot across the office on her wheely chair, making a beeline for where Willam stood.

“Will, oh my God! I’m so excited for tonight, I’ve been looking forward to it since literally forever,” she babbled, speaking at about seventy miles an hour and causing Willam to simply blink at her with both amusement and affection.

“Yeah, you sound it,” she joked, flinching as Courtney walloped her on the arm.

“Let me have my moment! It’s a Baroness Edwards ball, Willam. This is a big fucking deal!!”

“Baroness Edwards. Girl, it’s Alyssa,” Willam laughed at Courtney’s formality.

Courtney looked up at her with one eyebrow raised, a look of disbelief on her face that Willam noticed made her look cuter than ever. “I’m just being polite. Have you met the woman? Has she said it’s okay to call her by her first name?”

“No, but you’ve seen her interviews. The woman is batshit mental,” Willam shrugged. Courtney mirrored her body language, clearly concluding that Willam was right. Alyssa was a little bit kooky and not by any means a stereotypical baroness; always joking and laughing in the House of Lords, acting as if every interviewer was her best friend, screeching and squawking and generally acting like a big joker. Many of her colleagues hated her, but she was so well-loved by the public that there was never really anything they could say. In Willam’s view, Alyssa Edwards was the best argument against abolishing the House of Lords that they had.

Turning her attention away from Courtney, hard as it was, Willam addressed the comms team who were still chattering like an excited flock of birds.

“What’s got you guys so hyped, anyway? It’s not like Alyssa extended her invite to you guys.”

“Shut up, you elitist cunt,” Katya laughed, throwing a pen at Willam from halfway across the room.

“If you must know,” Trixie leaned over in her chair and batted her lashes. “Us and the comms team from the opposition are having our own little ball this evening.”

“Trixie, stop calling it a ball,” Adore laughed loudly at her friend. Turning to address Willam, she explained. “We’re getting dressed up, eating at Wahacca, drinking until we can’t see and then going out.”

“Wow, guys. Dream big,” Willam said blankly, earning her a packet of staples, this time from Violet.

“It’s a ball because we’re ballers,” Trixie said proudly, leaning back in her chair and receiving a disgusted glare from her girlfriend.

“I’m breaking up with you,” Katya said in her own deadpan way.

Jinkx piped up from behind her own monitor. “I have to say, I’m slightly jealous. Your evening is going to be far more fun than mine.”

“Jinkx, you’re getting to attend an Alyssa Edwards ball. Shut up,” Adore rolled her eyes at the senior press officer, Jinkx’s job title bagging her an invite too.

“Yeah, I’ll take your invite,” Violet offered playfully.

“Rather you than Jinkx, to be honest,” Willam quipped, laughing with Violet as Jinkx shot her a glare.

“I’d throw my post-its at you but I’d like the comms team to at least have some items of stationary left by the time Sharon arrives.”

“Shit!” Courtney looked at the clock and shot up from her chair. It was too late, however, as just then Sharon came round the corner and into the offices with her two red briefcases in her hands and Alaska just at her back.

“Courtney, I really would love to be met at the doors tomorrow. I mean, I am a cabinet minister, not a fucking bag lady,” Sharon chastised her, Courtney pulling a face as Alaska sat down at her desk.

“Why couldn’t you do it?” Courtney hissed at her friend as she sat down. Alaska sighed and shook her head.

“I was late. I had my own bags,” she said not-quite-apologetically as she logged in to her computer. Courtney rolled her eyes as she dragged her chair back over to her own desk and sat down on it.

“You’ve been late more than you’ve been early recently. Lask, I love you, but as your friend and your workmate, get your head out your ass,” she continued, typing forcefully into her own keyboard.

Willam momentarily thought to herself that it wasn’t her own ass Alaska needed to remove her head from.

“I mean, what must Sharon think?” Courtney tutted, her face now nervous. Just then, Sharon’s voice could be heard calling the girls through to the meeting room.

“Well we’re about to find out,” Alaska drawled lazily, swinging her chair round and leading the way towards the room at the top of the department, Willam, Courtney and Jinkx following behind her.

As soon as Willam entered the meeting room, she could see Sharon sitting at the head of the table, a massive excited smile on her face.

“Oh, Jesus, not you too,” Jinkx sighed as she sat down. Sharon raised an eyebrow at her, her expression completely changing.

“What me too?”

“Everyone’s pissing their pants for this charity ball but nobody’s actually seeing it for what it is, which is a massive money-making scheme for Alyssa Edwards’ businesses,” Jinkx sighed, crossing her legs lazily. Alaska snorted.

“They’re not businesses, Jinkx, they’re charities! They help kids.”

“Well, all I’m saying is that if Sharon ends up drunk and paying ten thousand pounds for a Birken bag at the auction, don’t come crying to me.”

“There’s a charity auction?! Ooh!” Sharon gasped excitedly, her pitch rising about an octave. Rolling her eyes, Jinkx pointed her pen in Sharon’s direction.

“Case and point.”

“There’s also poker and roulette tables!” Courtney chimed in, her excitement now reaching boiling point. Jinkx and Willam shared an exasperated look.

“Anyway,” Willam cut in before any more of the meeting was spent on anything else off-topic. “Why are we here, exactly?”

“Right, well,” Sharon started, at once business-like again. “Bianca’s heading here in ten minutes for a meeting, and I’m assuming it’s to brief me about tonight. So I want to be one step ahead. Ladies, give me the info.”

“So the main thing is that even though this night may be guising as recreational, it’s not. It’s all business,” Jinkx began, as the other girls nodded.

“We’ll introduce you to some big names and try to get them onside. Kimora Blac is very up-and-coming, it would be good to get in with her,” Courtney mused, leaning on the table with her elbows.

“Isn’t she just a Buzzfeed journalist? Do we really need Sharon’s coverage to be a listicle entitled ‘TWENTY REASONS WHY SHARON NEEDLES IS #MOM #BAE #QUEEN’?” Willam cut in with a sneer. Courtney frowned at her.

“Hey, she might work for Buzzfeed but she seems very astute. Her articles are really interesting, and she’d be good with The Independent if she ever decided to apply there. Her tweets always blow up too, she might come across as an airhead but she’s actually very sharp. We’ll get you talking,” Courtney insisted to Sharon, Willam shrugging and trusting her faith in the young journalist.

“Anyone else?” Sharon asked hopefully.

“We’ll get you talking to Michaels again, she seemed keen last time and it’s good to keep up appearances,” Alaska suggested, earning her a nod from both Courtney and Jinkx. “We’ll try and introduce you to Raja Gemini too before she inevitably interviews you. She has a tendency to go ham on ministers she doesn’t see eye to eye with, so it’d be good to make a first impression in a more chilled environment.”

“Christ, no pressure,” Sharon exhaled loudly.

“It is a charity ball. That being said, don’t spend mad amounts of money,” Jinkx advised. “Just stay away from any opportunity to spend. The fundraisers are for the rich kids and for the parties who can afford to be seen spending money. We’re the working people’s party, not the spending people’s party.”

“It’s for charity, for fuck’s sake. Would the media really object to me spending if it was in aid of poor little kids with cholera?” Sharon sighed, kicking her feet up onto the table in front of her.

“Trust me, Sharon, it’s maybe not the best idea,” Courtney reasoned.

“Oh, and don’t be seen with a drink in your hand. You take one glass of free champagne and that’s it,” Willam said, her mind suddenly filled with nightmarish images of Sharon vomiting on the red carpet for the world’s media to see. Sharon’s face instantly grew disappointed. Alaska and the other girls laughed.

“Come on, Willam. Everyone will be drinking!” she chuckled, leaning back in her chair. Willam gave her a side glare.

“Well, do what you like. I’m not sold on it, but we can’t control you,” she shrugged, throwing her hands up in defeat.

“So champagne all round then,” Sharon cheered, Courtney clapping excitably in response. No more could be said, however, as a harsh voice rang out through the department and the unmistakable sound of stilettos on a carpeted floor came closer and closer to the meeting room.

“No, I don’t care that he’s saying no. Well just get it done, right? Or I’ll turn you into a human fucking plug socket. And I can do that, by the way, I took all three sciences to A level,” Bianca hurtled into her phone as she arrived before swiping swiftly across the screen, the conversation clearly over. Pocketing her phone, she then turned to address the room. “Okay, good morning ladies. I hope you’ve all had a good night’s rest because the information I am about to impart to you is probably the most important thing you will hear all day, and I need you to retain it.”

Sharon leaned back in her chair lazily. “Bianca, it’s fine. These guys have briefed me already. The ball will be fine. It’ll be just like playing Sims. Mash the Schmooze button with every fucker I see.”

Bianca’s face was immediately painted with a sneer. “This…this is not about Alyssa Edwards’ fucking ball! I don’t care what you do at that, as long as you’re not seen sniffing ket off of the foreign secretary’s balls.”

“Well there’s no danger of that.” Jinkx piped up, bristling a little.

“What is this about, then?” Willam asked, suddenly intrigued. Bianca’s face did look very foreboding, as if she was about to impart knowledge that would make the fabric of reality split in two. Bianca took a quick look out of the glass-fronted office to see if anyone was hovering nearby. They weren’t. Seemingly satisfied, she leaned on the table and lowered her voice.

“The Prime Minister has finally decided to do something about the refugee crisis.”

Sharon’s face lit up. “Oh, thank God! This is amazing, we’re fina-”

“Hold your horses,” Bianca shut Sharon down, lifting one hand up to pause her. “It’s not what you’d expect. He’s…well, within the next few years…wants to take immigration out of government hands.”

There was a silence in the room. Willam was completely confused. Courtney was the first to speak.

“What so like…military control?”

“Privatisation.”

The mood in the room shifted considerably. Willam and Sharon shared a glance. From what Willam could gather, Sharon seemed tense.

“This…” she began, then stopped. Her brow was furrowed, and she appeared to be deep in thought. “I don’t understand how this is going to work.”

Bianca leaned against the glass door. She seemed not 100% at ease with it all either, as if she was the bearer of bad news. “Well, it’s standard privatisation. The government offer a contract for border control. Companies make offers. Lowest offer wins. They control the borders and immigration is out of government hands.”

“This surely isn’t-”

“Yes, Alaska. This is the PM’s legacy. He’s-”

There was suddenly a knock on the half-open glass door. As Willam craned her neck she saw Adore hovering nervously. The room fell silent and she seemed to take that as a cue to take one tentative step inside.

“Sorry to interrupt,” she said quietly. Then, as her eyes rested on Jinkx, she seemed to relax a little. “Jinkx, we’re getting some calls about Alyssa’s ball tonight? There’s rumours that security are going to be keeping Sharon and Phi Phi away from each other?”

Jinkx gave a biblical roll of her eyes. “Who is it that’s phoning?”

Adore pulled a face. “The Sun, The Star. The Daily Mail potentially?”

“Tell them to stick a goose up their arse,” Jinkx snapped back. With a hasty nod of her head, Adore retreated. All focus was back to Bianca, whose face had suddenly taken on a suspicious glare.

“How long had she been there?”

“Oh, Bianca, for fuck’s sake. She’s just a civil service puppet, don’t worry about her. Who you should be worried about is me,” Sharon’s tone was suddenly dark as she looked Bianca dead in the eye. Willam was a little shocked, and judging by the panicked look she shared with Courtney, she wasn’t the only one. “Because I will be fighting this tooth and nail in parliament. This is not happening.”

“It’s sweet how you think this is up for debate. It isn’t. I came here to inform you of this because it will hit the press after New Year, and I want you aware of the line which is obviously that this is the greatest fucking idea since sliced bread. Except it’s better than that, because as good things go sliced bread is a bit fucking shit. Just say it’s the best thing since cocaine and strippers,” Bianca ended flippantly. Sharon narrowed her eyes.

“Bianca,” she began coldly, her voice shaking a little with anger. “I need you to understand that I am going to do everything in my power to ensure that this doesn’t go ahead.”

Bianca lowered her voice and drew her brows together, her face snarling in a scowl. “And I need you to understand that it is your job to ensure that it does go ahead. This is not up for debate, Sharon. ”

Seething, Sharon threw herself back in her chair, her head ricocheting off its headrest as if she was a crash test dummy. She folded her arms across her chest and her face looked deep in thought. Bianca ran a frustrated hand through her caramel curls and exhaled noisily, glad the conversation was over.

“Well. That’ll be that then. I’ll see you lot this evening, you’ll be able to find me at the bar drowning myself in amaretto and trying to pretend I’m interested in what Lord Huxby drones on at me.”

With a few muted goodbyes, Bianca was off again back through the department. As soon as she was out of earshot, Sharon instantly flew out of her seat.

“What the fuck is the PM playing at?!” she yelled, pacing around the small space of office that wasn’t taken up by the huge table. “Privatisation? That’s meant to be Phi Phi’s fucking mantra, I mean what is this party turning into?!”

Nobody else in the room really knew what to say, least of all Willam. It did seem a strange move from the Prime Minister, and one that the public would surely pick up on. Sharon was still pacing, her entire aura one of rage.

“Minister, would you like me to prepare a statement to put out when the announcement of the legacy goes through?” Jinkx asked hesitantly, looking with anxiety at Alaska as she did so. Sharon stopped pacing, waving a hand at Jinkx dismissively.

“No, no thank you, Jinkx. I just need time to think, if everyone could maybe just give me some time on my own,” Sharon sighed, rubbing the back of her neck in agitation. “This is not happening. There is no way I’m letting the lives of immigrants get put in the hands of some company that’s just going to cut corners wherever it can. I just need to think of a way to oppose it without making too many waves.”

Willam let out an incredulous snort which turned all the heads in the room her way. She was a little taken aback, then explained. “Sorry, Sharon, I just don’t know how you’re going to fight the Prime Minister’s legacy without making too many waves.”

Sharon paused, then shrugged and gave a little half-smile. “Well maybe I’ll just have to capsize some motherfuckers.”

Giving her an amused smile, Willam got up and dutifully made to leave, Courtney and Jinkx following behind her. Willam didn’t miss the way Alaska hovered at the door as if to make sure Sharon didn’t want any company, but a reassuring glance from her girlfriend resulted in her leaving the room and shutting the glass door behind her. As they walked back to their desks, Courtney huffed a huge sigh.

“That was a lot,” she said, raising her eyebrows a little.

“Yeah. I’m concerned. I hope Sharon’s not going to do anything rash,” Alaska frowned, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth. Willam gave her a sideways glance.

“Come on, girl. She’ll be fine, she knows what she’s doing.”

Alaska’s shoulders slumped a little. “I just wish I could talk to her.”

Willam tensed a little, wondering if Courtney would pick up on the implications of Alaska’s statement. She didn’t seem to.

“Well, let’s just hope she’s out of her huff before Alyssa’s tonight. I don’t suspect the Baroness will take kindly to Sharon if she’s in a massive mood. Ooh, speaking of Alyssa’s!” Courtney beamed suddenly, an idea only just seeming to come to her. “Why don’t you guys come round to mine before we head to the Dorchester? Then Sharon’s car won’t have to go to every flat before arriving. We can get some cava or prosecco and have a chill. It’ll be cute!”

Willam felt like she’d been shocked by a defibrillator. Why was she suddenly nervous? It was just spending time with friends, she’d done it before, but never in Courtney’s flat. The suggestion of this new setting panicked Willam a little, made everything feel a little more intimate. It shouldn’t have scared her so much.

Swallowing her nerves, Willam forced a smile on her face which she hoped made her look carefree and not constipated. “Sounds good, yeah. I’m down.”

“Same! It’ll be fun,” Alaska beamed, managing to sound ten times more relaxed than Willam felt. Excitement painted on her face, Courtney turned to the comms team.

“Jinkx? Come to mine before Sharon picks us up? We’ll have bubbles!”

Jinkx leaned back in her chair and gave the three an amused smile. “It’s a lovely offer, Courtney, but I think I’ll just get ready with a cup of tea and Nina Simone and Sharon can pick me up before yours. I’m staying off the bubbles this evening, just in case I’m needed.”

“Yeah, who knows. There might be a political emergency where they need someone with an extensive knowledge of televised Poirot murder mysteries,” Willam smirked, leaning back on her desk. Jinkx simply gave her a roll of her eyes. Secretly, though, Willam was glad they’d have two guaranteed sober members of Dosac there this evening. She should probably make it three. Willam was suddenly jolted out of her thoughts as Courtney grabbed both her and Alaska in an animated hug.

“This is going to be such a good night!” she squealed, squeezing them both tightly before legging go. As she returned to her desk, Willam walked back to her own in a slight daze. It didn’t make any sense for her to be nervous. Taking a deep breath, she tried to convince herself that there was nothing to get worked up about; tonight would just be a nice night with friends, and there was no real scope for anything to go wrong.

Casting an eye back up to the meeting room and seeing Sharon still deep in thought only made her worry increase tenfold.

***

Willam stood in front of the full-length mirror that had been crammed into one corner of her studio flat. Sighing and sucking her stomach in, she scrutinised herself ruthlessly. Her hair was good, that was a given. She’d managed to tame it and barrel-curl it into huge waves, then pin it over one shoulder in a sort of Jessica Rabbit style. It wasn’t really her. But it still looked good.

Her makeup was adequate at least. Anything that had gone wrong had been concealed over; one corner of her eye where her eyeliner had decided to backstab her now sported about 15 layers of the damn thing. She cursed herself for how basic she’d gone as she stared down her burnt gold smoky eye and red lip. Casting an eye down the rest of her body, that was where the real insecurity began. She’d fallen in love with her dress when she bought it, but with every passing second the doubt in her mind grew. The bodycon mid-length, long-sleeved cream dress with little dimantes all over it now seemed a horrific choice, like some tacky girl’s prom dress and not a smart ballgown meant for an incredibly opulent evening. Willam grabbed her invite from her adjacent dressing table and read it over again. Was this dress black tie? What even was black tie?! She didn’t wear a fucking tie!

Sighing, she acknowledged there wasn’t much she could do to change it now. Still, the apprehension and panic was eating her up inside. She knew this was still basically work; a massive ass-kissing event to try and get Sharon networked, but Willam also knew this meant she would get to spend an extensive length of time around both Courtney and alcohol and she tried to avoid those situations as much as possible for fear of her stupid mouth opening and saying something she shouldn’t. Thinking back to her uni days, she gave a little shudder at the sheer extent of things she could blame on just that. For a moment, she felt her throat go completely dry as she thought about what Courtney might wear.

She’d not been this nervous in a long time, in fact probably not since she started the job at Dosac all those years ago. She absolutely hated the feeling of not being able to control her palpitating heart, or her shallow breathing, or her pulse that was now thudding underneath her skin at the speed of a freight train. Anger was fine; she could generally channel that into something productive, and Willam never allowed herself to get sad (or at least that’s what she’d tell everyone), but nerves were different. No amount of logical, motivational internal speeches to herself would help. Sighing an incredibly shaky sigh, Willam peered at her phone and checked the time. She’d left enough minutes to allow for traffic so that she would get to Courtney’s bang on time, but now she was overthinking that too. If she was too early, that would seem weirdly keen. If she was late, she would seem rude. If she was on time it would seem like she’d overthought the situation, which she definitely wasn’t doing at all. With a sort of gulp of an intake of breath, Willam began dialling a taxi company to book, managing to speak to the operator despite the fact she felt her vocal cords would crack with how dry her throat was. After she’d confirmed the taxi, she did a double-check of her clutch bag to make sure she had her survival kit for the night. Phone, cards, a few twenties and tens. Keys, caffeine tablets. A miniscule sample bottle of perfume and her lipstick, as well as tissues just in case. She cursed whoever invented clutch bags for making it acceptable to carry a fucking tiny rectangle around under your arm of an evening. Suddenly remembering her invite, Willam folded it in half and stuck it inside her clutch, which was slowly beginning to resemble Mary Poppins’ carpet bag.

As her phone began to ring signalling the arrival of her taxi outside, Willam hurriedly slipped on a pair of nude heels- which she’d later realise didn’t go with her dress- and took one last look around her room of a flat before leaving. It was a total mess of clothes, makeup and hair products, but future Willam could deal with it. Opening the door and then clicking it closed, she carefully made her way down her stairwell and into the black cab that was waiting for her.

Now that she was on the road and on the way to Courtney’s Brixton flat, Willam felt herself calming down just a little. At least she was now on the move, and it wasn’t as if it would simply be the both of them alone together; Alaska would be there too and Willam supposed it was quite impossible to be nervous around the most relaxed human alive. Willam shot a quick text off to Courtney just to let her know she was on the way, and then decided to let herself relax just a little. She couldn’t at all, but at least the effort had been made to try.

Soon enough the taxi pulled up outside Courtney’s unthreatening-looking apartment building. Willam crammed one of her notes through the little pane of Perspex glass that separated driver and passenger and stepped outside, clip-clopping up to the front door and pushing the buzzer for Courtney’s flat. She was met around five seconds later with a loud buzz as the front door was opened, allowing Willam to walk up one flight of stairs. She felt as if she was walking into either heaven or hell; the giddy excitement and the underlying feeling of dread she felt simultaneously made it hard to tell which. Reaching Courtney’s door, she almost felt like the breath was being knocked out of her lungs as it opened, only to find Alaska on the other side of it smiling widely and holding a champagne flute full of orange juice.

“Hiiieee, girl!” she squealed as she wrapped Willam in a welcoming hug, her signature greeting providing Willam with a sense of comfort in the chaos that was currently her mind. “Come in, Court’s not ready yet. Shock.”

Stumbling slightly as Alaska showed her to the living room, Willam quickly scanned her surroundings. Courtney’s flat seemed small but modern, although it had definitely had a couple of previous owners judging by general wear and tear- a scuff on a skirting board here, a chip out of the plaster in one wall there. Then again, Willam would be loath to judge her based on the state she left her own flat in. Alaska ushered Willam through to a bright, airy-looking living room, with two medium-sized leather sofas providing bookends for a coffee table with a few bottles of nail polish, some empty champagne flutes, an open bottle of prosecco, and a few crumpled pieces of cotton wool sitting on top of it. There was a wall-mounted TV sitting at one end of the sofas, and at the other end of the room there was a simple dining setup with a table and six mismatched chairs.

“You look beautiful, girl,” Alaska smiled at Willam, picking up an empty flute and filling it with prosecco.

“Thanks, so do you,” Willam simultaneously accepted and returned the compliment, still getting used to her new surroundings as she accepted the glass that Alaska shoved into her hand without even thinking. She hadn’t planned on drinking anything tonight, but she was beginning to feel as if she’d need just one glass. Realising how flippantly she’d given the compliment back, she examined Alaska’s outfit more closely. She’d gone for a floor-length dress, a simple strapless royal blue number with a fishtail lower half. Her hair was pinned up, but not in its usual bird’s nest; instead it was arranged in an elaborate set of plaits and twists that made for an intricate bun. Her make-up had clearly been well thought-out, and was immaculate as a result.

“So how much of tonight is really going to be about work?” Alaska asked dryly, raising one perfect eyebrow. Willam let out a laugh.

“A solid 100%,” she instantly replied, pausing as she took a sip from her glass. The prosecco was good. “All it’s going to be is us introducing Sharon to various wankers from the media and hoping she goes down well.”

“Well there’s no question around that, of course she will,” Alaska shrugged, leaning back on the couch. Willam felt her top lip curl in disagreement.

“Alaska you’re biased as fuck,” she said simply, Alaska rolling her eyes as she was met with words she clearly didn’t want to hear.

“Yeah, but come on Will. Even you have to admit she’s likeable, and I know you don’t even like many people.”

Willam simply shrugged and took a sip of her prosecco. It was working wonders to loosen her up, although she was still acutely aware of the fact that Courtney hadn’t emerged from her room yet. Alaska seemed to think the same thing in the silence.

“COURT! Hurry the fuck up, Willam’s about to drink all your alcohol,” she yelled through the walls, Courtney giving a muffled reply that Willam couldn’t really make out. Alaska shook her head and laughed long-sufferingly, then seemed to pick up on Willam’s anxiety.

“She looks beautiful, by the way,” Alaska mentioned nonchalantly, avoiding Willam’s death glare by staring into her glass of orange juice.

“Don’t you dare,” Willam pointed one fake-nailed talon towards her friend as a simple warning.

“I’m not doing anything! I’m just saying,” Alaska smiled smugly, tipping a little more of her orange juice into her mouth. Swallowing, she continued. “Do you think you’ll say anything to her tonight?”

“No, and I won’t be saying anything to her for a considerable amount of time. This conversation is ending now,” Willam barked a reply, Alaska’s questioning only putting her further on edge. She didn’t mean to upset her friend and snap, but she was already so anxious and nervous that talking about the situation would surely make it worse. Alaska seemed to take Willam’s nerves on the chin though, simply raising her eyebrows in amusement. Relaxing her face, she then took out her phone, glancing at it for a few seconds. Willam watched as her face grew disappointed.

“You alright, girl?” she asked, concerned about her friend who now seemed to be attempting to conceal her feelings.

“Oh, yeah. Sure! I just…Sharon. Just sent me a photo. And she looks so amazing, and I’m so proud to call her my girlfriend, you know?” Alaska sighed, Willam feeling the weight of her heavy heart hanging in the atmosphere.

“Well that’s good, right? Nothing about what you said is something to be sad about, unless I’ve taken a bump to the fucking skull and woken up in a world where happy is now sad, and sad is now happy, and Lorraine Kelly is the president of Iran, and cous-cous has been privatised,” Willam joked, trying to lighten the mood. It earned her one very weak smile from Alaska.

“No, I’m happy! Of course I’m happy. It’s just…well, I wish I could show her off to everyone tonight and be public and proud of her and disgustingly PDA,” she shrugged, her shoulders radiating disappointment. Willam was confused.

“Girl, not that it’s any of my business but when are you gonna go public? You and Sharon can’t stay under wraps forever, she’s a politician. The media are on her like a hawk 24/7.”

Alaska rolled her eyes. “I know that, Will, of course I know that. It’s not without want of trying. I mean, our whole first date we couldn’t do anything like what couples would normally do in case there were paps somehow nearby. She was so paranoid. She still is.”

Remembering her political stance, Willam pulled a face. “To be fair, I guess she’s trying to keep the professional balance. You have to remember she’s still your boss, girl.”

Sighing, Alaska nodded and picked at a piece of her nail polish that had already developed a chip. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. And I mean I’ll always support Sharon’s career, she’s good at what she does, and that’s not me being biased. I knew what I was getting myself into when I fell for her, I’ve only got myself to blame. I just…sometimes wish we were a normal couple, you know?”

Willam gave a nod of support, and the two sat in companionable silence for a while. Willam was worried for Alaska. She was such a sweet friend, and Willam had never seen her with someone before. She was so conflicted, the professional and personal sides of her brain sitting like a small devil and a small angel on her shoulders. On the one hand, it would be hell for the party if it got out that Sharon was seeing one of her advisors, but on the other all Willam really wanted was for Alaska to be happy, which was clearly what she was. Willam couldn’t help but wonder, though, how long such a relationship could go on for. From her calculations Sharon and Alaska had been together for a month now, a month of sneaking around together and doing everything secretively and privately. It was a little what Willam imagined cheating to feel like, except she couldn’t quite work out who the two women were actually cheating on. It had only been just over two weeks when Willam had found out about them and even that was completely by accident. If the media even got a whiff of an inter-party relationship and made the effort to investigate it, who knew how long it would take before they could raise hell with the information. It made Willam shudder a little.

“You are being careful though, right girl? You and Sharon,” she said quietly, breaking the silence. Alaska snorted playfully.

“Yeah. She uses condoms and I’m on the pill and neither one of us is pregnant.”

Willam couldn’t help but splutter a laugh mid-way through a sip of prosecco. “Bitch, shut up! You know what I mean. I’m only looking out for you. I don’t want the media treating you guys as their chew toy.”

Clearly not in the mood to be serious, Alaska rested her head in her hands and looked affectionately at Willam. “Aww, is Willam Belli actually being…nice? Showing concern? This is impossible. Next minute she’ll be surrounded by bluebirds and shedding tears.”

“You know I had my tear ducts cauterised shut at the age of 12,” Willam joked back, leaning back in her chair and finally relaxing, trusting Alaska’s judgement. She felt her heart give a little judder, however, as she heard a pair of heels approaching from the corridor behind her and saw Alaska’s eyes dart to just behind Willam’s shoulder.

“Well this was a weird point to enter the conversation,” Courtney’s voice suddenly filled the living room, and Willam had to steel herself before she turned round and saw her.

Courtney looked so stunning that Willam momentarily lost her breath. She was wearing black, a colour that she never really wore regularly but which suited her immensely. Her dress was floor-length with a little black lace train at its back, and the bodice was slightly corseted which served to pull her in at the waist. There were little patterned black flowers adding texture here and there, and her shoes could barely be seen under the sheer length of the gown. Her makeup was dark and smoky, a style which Willam was sure Courtney had never worn before but she looked beautiful for it. Her hair cascaded in curls that framed either sides of her face. Willam very suddenly became acutely aware of two things: one, that she now felt like a tramp compared to her two friends and two, that she was now more nervous than she’d ever been in her life.

Courtney seemed to pick up on Willam’s awed stare, as her expression became a little apprehensive. “Fuck. It’s too much, isn’t it? I knew I’d be overdressed, I fucking told Trixie I’d be overdressed, but she made me buy it and ugh, I need to go and change because everyone’s going to be staring at me and-”

“Court,” Willam found herself yelling slightly at her worried friend, if she could even call what she felt for Courtney friendship any more. Courtney stopped talking abruptly, looking at Willam with a little shock in her eyes. Willam tried to summon moisture from somewhere to save her mouth, which now was so dry that it could’ve rivalled Ghandi’s flip flop. “Don’t change. You look really good.”

Willam felt like kicking herself for how feeble the compliment seemed. She’d wanted to say beautiful, or stunning, or incredible, but everything seemed too strong and Courtney would have suspected something. She needn’t have worried, though, as Courtney’s face instantly lit up, pleased that she had the approval of her friend.

“You look amazing, girl,” Alaska chimed in, handing Courtney a glass of prosecco that Willam was unsure when she’d poured. “Come sit, Sharon’s car isn’t meant to pick us up for another half hour at least.”

Obliging, Courtney opted to sit beside Willam on the couch facing Alaska. Willam noticed that Courtney must have been wearing new perfume, one that smelt of vanilla and jasmine and made Willam’s heart hurt at how much she wanted to just blurt out something she shouldn’t.

Draining her glass and reaching for the prosecco bottle, Willam looked up at the wall-mounted clock. Half an hour until they were picked up by Sharon. She could get through this.

***

Willam was happy. Really quite pleasantly happy in fact, as if there was a warm blanket that had been draped over her after her third glass of prosecco. She should probably stop drinking soon. She’d have to have some champagne when she got to the ball, otherwise it would look odd. But when Courtney had unearthed two more bottles of fizz from her fridge, it became increasingly hard to say no.

She was a lot less nervous as well, although she wasn’t sure how much of that was thanks to the prosecco. Willam wasn’t sure why she’d been nervous about coming round to Courtney’s flat. Courtney was so lovely and relaxed, and definitely generous with the top-ups. Every so often Alaska would make a joke, or do an impression of Bianca or Jinkx, and Courtney would laugh so hard she would flail her arms and her hands would come to rest on Willam’s arm, or her thigh, or her hand. She supposed any other time it would have made her even more nervous, but now she simply reciprocated, mirroring Courtney’s hands and making them look a little like Siamese twins. Every time Courtney shot a smile Willam’s way, she felt her heart melt a little bit more, but the feeling wasn’t like how she felt every day at work. The prosecco gave her a little buzz and made her a little more hopeful that Courtney reciprocated her feelings, and only reinforced the sense that this night had something magical about it. Every so often Willam felt that the energy between her and Courtney was electric, especially when Alaska left the room to pee at one point and left the two girls alone together. They were both so giggly and touchy and flirty, although Willam wasn’t sure how much of that was in her own head, and she’d often been very close to closing the ever-decreasing gap between them and kissing Courtney like she’d wanted to all this time.

It was a good thing, then, that Sharon’s car arrived when it did. Around ten minutes late, Courtney heard the sound of the car horn from her window long before she heard her flat intercom buzzer, and started hurrying Willam and Alaska out, Willam sort of blindly grabbing her clutch bag and her coat and hoping she had everything she needed.

She had Courtney, though, and she supposed she’d be alright with just her.

Rushing out of Courtney’s stairwell and clip-clopping into the taxi, Willam was met by Sharon and Jinkx already inside. She couldn’t really see what either of them were wearing, but from what she could see they both looked good; Jinkx scrubbing up well in an off-shoulder black and white striped dress and Sharon in what seemed to be a black sequin dress which complimented her figure. As she raised her arm up to wave, Willam could see it was long-sleeved. Sitting in the far right hand seat, Willam watched as Alaska’s eyes widened when she saw her girlfriend, Sharon smiling shyly at her as Alaska clambered into the car.

“You look…amazing,” Alaska said, her voice full of awe as she took her seat beside Willam. Sharon looked to the ground momentarily, clearly flattered by her girlfriend’s reaction.

“So do you. Absolutely beautiful,” she replied. Willam could see that the both of them were desperate to hold each other’s hands or do something that any other couple would do upon seeing the person they loved looking their absolute best. It was the sort of thing Willam had been contemplating earlier and now she was seeing it played out in front of her, a sad sort of tragedy to the whole scene. Sharon seemed to snap out of whatever spell she had been under and instead turned to compliment Courtney who was climbing into the back seat. Willam didn’t miss the way Alaska looked to the floor, her eyes a little disappointed. Nudging her, Willam gave her a sympathetic smile. Alaska smiled back gratefully.

“Jinkx! You look incredible!” Courtney exclaimed, each syllable more drawn-out than the last as she reached over and planted both her hands on Jinkx’s knees. Raising one eyebrow, the senior press officer gave Courtney a suspicious look.

“You look drunk,” she replied dryly. With that, the other three girls in the car burst out laughing, the amount of prosecco Willam had drunk making everything seem that little bit funnier. Jinkx didn’t seem impressed. “Ladies, please! Pull yourselves together, what is Baroness Edwards going to think?”

“She’s going to think we’re total legends,” Sharon smiled smugly, Willam only just noticing the slight smell of white wine from her indicating she’d done a bit of pre-drinking of her own. A sudden sense of dread began to form in the pit of Willam’s stomach, making her feel as if perhaps she shouldn’t have drunk all that prosecco after all. On the plus side, Sharon seemed a lot more relaxed and carefree that she’d been earlier at work, so if anything at least she would be a happy drunk.

“Sharon, ask your driver if we can put some Cascada on!” Courtney practically yelled. As Sharon turned to face the driver’s seat, Alaska put a hand out to stop her.

“We’re not turning up to the red carpet with Cascada blaring out the car,” she admonished her, Willam glad that Alaska was another representative for sobriety. As Sharon and Courtney both pouted, Willam found herself wondering how long the car journey had to go. Roughly twenty more minutes of Courtney and Sharon begging for some “sick bangers”, Alaska and Willam almost wetting themselves with laughter, and Jinkx attempting to be the voice of reason was followed by the car coming to a complete stop with the driver getting out of the front seat and opening the side door, exposing the five of them to one long strip of red, the Dorchester’s glamorous entranceway, and a border of bright flashing bulbs. Willam felt her throat close up slightly. The nerves were back in full force as she realised the sheer scale of what they were about to enter into. Sharon got out of the car confidently, followed by Alaska and then Jinkx. Only Willam and Courtney remained in the car. Glancing at Courtney, she looked as nervous as Willam felt.

“Hey,” Willam caught her attention, Courtney’s doe eyes wide in fear. “We’ll be fine. This evening will be fine.”

She couldn’t help that she instantly wanted to reassure and protect Courtney. It seemed to kick in in situations like these, almost instinctive. As Courtney smiled at her, Willam felt her heart almost explode as Courtney suddenly reached for Willam’s hand and took it in her own.

“You know, Will, I never told you how amazing you look tonight,” Courtney said, her words slurring only a little bit. As she gave Willam’s hand one final squeeze, let it go and began to leave the car, Willam felt as if her palms had never been sweatier. In her alcohol-soaked mind, she had no idea whether or not Courtney’s compliment was sincere or just as a result of all the alcohol she’d drank herself. With her heart beating so fast she felt she would faint, Willam clambered out of the car in a daze.

Walking a red carpet was something Willam had never done before and something she never really wanted to do again. It was a weird experience, with too many bright lights and people shouting and fake smiles and awkward poses. Sharon, however, seemed in her element, stopping every so often to have her photo taken and each time making Willam pray she was sober enough to decide against pulling out a peace sign or a dab or something akin to the two. By a miracle, the five managed to make it inside the Dorchester without any PR disasters.

Immediately, the elegance of the entire place was apparent. The marble floor glistened as if it was glass, and identical marble pillars stood at either side of the doorway welcoming them. The wallpaper was cream and completely pristine without a single scuff or scratch on it. Willam scarcely had time to take in the rest of her surroundings as a large doorman prompted them for their invitations. Willam dug inside her clutch bag and handed it over, a little embarrassed by how crumpled it had become. Having established that none of them seemed to be gatecrashers, the doorman gave them a friendly smile and unlocked the small red velvet rope that separated the entrance from the grand ballroom.

Here, Willam felt even more overwhelmed, and by the reactions of the others she wasn’t alone. The ballroom looked exactly like something from a Disney film; the marble continued from the hallway, leading down an ornate staircase and onto an ornately patterned floor where hundreds of glamorous media presences stood and chatted to one another. The walls were just as lavish, the champagne-coloured wallpaper interrupted every so often by a vase full of white lilies on a marble plinth, or a stone mantelpiece, or a section of wall covered entirely by mirrors. There was another room just jutting off to the left hand side, which Willam could see held a bar and the promised roulette tables. A small orchestra sat on the opposite side of the room, playing something classical that Willam couldn’t even begin to recognise. As she stood and drank in her surroundings, she turned to face the others. Alaska looked very similar to when she first saw Sharon. Jinkx was practically slack-jawed. The fear was very much back in Courtney’s eyes and Sharon was frozen still.

“Maybe there’s a mistake. Maybe we shouldn’t be here,” Sharon muttered, clearly overwhelmed by her surroundings. Alaska immediately protested.

“No! No mistake. You deserve to be here, Sharon, you’ve made a good impression and tonight is about that! Look at you,” she finished quietly, gesturing to Sharon’s dress. “You have every right to be here.”

Taking a deep breath, Sharon seemed to swallow her anxiety and nodded, taking Alaska’s hand and giving it a quick squeeze.

“So. What now?” Jinkx asked, shuffling a little on the spot. No sooner had she asked that question was Willam immediately alerted to a cry that appeared to come from the middle of the ballroom.

“There she is!” came the unmistakable voice of Baroness Edwards, who seemed to half-elbow her way through the crowd and up the stairs to where Sharon stood. Willam was a little taken aback- Alyssa was a huge presence, her smile so hugely bright and giving the impression that Sharon was an old friend and not just someone she’d never met before in her life. Her gown was equally as loud as she was; bright yellow and patterned with glittering jewels. Her light brown hair was swept up into an elaborate bun, making absolutely nothing about her outfit understated at all. She was intimidating, but not necessarily in a bad way.

“Baroness, it’s such a pleasure,” Sharon replied humbly, Willam glad that her surroundings seemed to sober her up a little. “Thank you so much for inviting us here this evening. Everything looks beautiful!”

Alyssa howled in protestation, smacking Sharon on the arm and causing her to flinch. “Don’t you give me all that Baroness nonsense! It’s Alyssa to you, darling.”

Tuning out of Alyssa’s ramblings, Willam looked over to Courtney and gave her a smug smile, reminded of their earlier conversation. Courtney stuck her tongue out in retaliation, the two both giggling like children.

“I just had to have you here after the big splash you’ve made ever since you came on the scene, Miss Shamu! Oh no, that makes it sound like I’m calling you fat,” Alyssa reeled back in horror, then howled with laughter. “But you know what I mean, Miss Thing! You’ve been causing a commotion, like Madonna. There we are, see, Madonna’s a better comparison.”

Willam was nothing short of amazed that Sharon was managing to follow the conversation without being slightly horrified.

“Well, you and I both know how frantic politics can get, Miss Edwards,” she shrugged, keeping her tone formal. “And sometimes it’s necessary to rock the boat a little.”

“Yes, ma’am! Guys and Dolls style,” Alyssa vehemently agreed, nodding so hard that Willam thought her bun would come apart. “Well, keep up the good work, Miss Needles. The world needs more politicians like you, that’s for certain. Now, you enjoy this evening, won’t you? That’s one thing I want the most from everyone here. That and their money!”

With that, Alyssa gave another yelp of laughter, gripping Sharon’s arm for dear life as she got her breath back.

“It’ll be a lovely night, Miss Edwards, and thank you once again for the invite,” Sharon smiled at her. With an affectionate smile back and a quick hug, Alyssa was gone, now shouting down the corridor as she spied another new arrival. As she watched the Baroness retreating, Sharon turned to the others and gave them all a look of sheer disbelief.

“I feel like I just met the human incarnation of caffeine,” she said blankly, still slightly dazed. Just then, a smartly-dressed waiter with a silver drinks tray approached the group. Sharon gratefully took a tall glass of champagne, Courtney following after. Willam decided to decline.

“You did very well, Sharon. I think you made a very good first impression,” Jinkx praised her, Courtney and Alaska nodding proudly.

“Just do that with everyone you meet tonight and we might have world domination on our hands,” Willam smiled, admittedly proud of the minister. Sharon had done well. Maybe she didn’t need to be so worried. Suddenly, Willam became aware of a presence behind her.

“Oh, well, let’s not get carried away,” a voice laughed rather affectedly. Whipping around, Willam was faced with Phi Phi O’Hara and the Satanic Tweedledee and Tweedledum themselves, Roxxxy and Detox. Their dresses were all equally brash, a mismatched colour chart of hot pink, cream and some pattern made up of lime green and blue. A suited man hung on Detox’s arm, which Willam had an infinite number of questions about. None of them could be answered, however, as Sharon was already giving Phi Phi a faux-pleasant smile.

“Phi Phi, what a tremendous, massive, overwhelming pleasure this is,” she smiled sarcastically, punctuating the end of her sentence with a sip of champagne. Phi Phi simply laughed a little in response.

“I trust you’re enjoying the evening so far? It must be really intimidating, you know, coming and seeing the elite of society all mingling together in one of the most elegant settings available. I’d feel quite out of my depth if I were you,” Phi Phi shrugged, Roxxxy smirking behind her. “The ballroom is quite overwhelming for anyone who hasn’t visited before. I’m not so unfortunate, I mean I actually had my 21st birthday party here. And my 16th.”

“Was this before or after your Dad kicked a homeless man in the face?” Willam found herself saying, shocking herself slightly but only blinded by the anger she felt coursing through her veins. Or maybe it was the alcohol. Willam heard a splutter of laughter from behind her, but she couldn’t tell who it had come from. Phi Phi looked as if she’d been slapped. Detox spoke up from behind her.

“You know there’s a lot of journalists here this evening, Willam. You should watch what you say.”

“Oh, hey Detox. Nice date, where’d you get him? The fuckin’ pound store?” Willam continued, the words tumbling from her mouth like vomit. Someone behind her was now fully cracking up, and from the laugh she recognised it as Alaska. All four guests in front of Willam were now looking suitably shut down, looking as if they wished to be anywhere than in front of their opposition. Phi Phi gave a little sniff of derision.

“Yes. Well. Enjoy your evening. I hope you don’t make any horrific social faux pas, Sharon. Would be a shame to see your face on the front pages tomorrow, especially when I’m announcing my new policy.”

“Turn your policy on its ass and spin on it,” Willam snapped, heartily sick of the sight of the people in front of her. With a raise of her eyebrows, Phi Phi led her small clique away down the stairs. Still full of rage, Willam breathed a huge sigh and turned around to face her friends. Courtney, Alaska and Sharon were beaming at her. Jinkx looked vaguely ill.

“Willam, don’t ever-”

“Oh, Jinkx, shut up! That was fucking amazing. I want that on tape,” Alaska cried excitedly, happy that the opposition had been put in their place.

“Did she say she was announcing tomorrow? Why haven’t I heard about this?” Jinkx questioned, her tone full of concern. Courtney gave her a smile of reassurance.

“Don’t worry, Jinkx. She was probably just bluffing, the big sack of wind that she is.”

“She’s a big sack of a lot of things,” Willam practically hissed, still absolutely livid. She calmed a little as Courtney stroked her arm in an attempt to calm her down.

“Shh. You’ve shut her up now, Miss Hero of the Night,” Courtney giggled, her voice having the same effect on Willam’s rage as water on fire. “Should we go find Bianca? I kind of want to see what she looks like in a ballgown. Morbid fascination, you know?”

As Willam nodded and made to move away, she was interrupted by a smart waitress with another drinks tray full of long flutes of champagne. Shrugging, Willam reached out and took one from the shining silver platter, thanking the girl as she left. Taking a sip, the cold, slightly metallic taste soothed her anger a little more.

What harm would another drink do, after all?

#ortega #just the game we're in #witney #shalaska #au #group fic #willam belli #courtney act #sharon needles #alaska thunderfuck #bianca del rio #rpdr fanfiction #submission #jtgwi #lesbian au

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Cool It: You Don’t Have to Be on Every Social Media App

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Author: Jon Mooallem. Culture

03.14.17

11:30 am

CHRISTOPH NIEMANN

Do I have to try every social media app?

You’ve Got Mail starred Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan and was an awful movie. I watched it in a hotel room recently and found myself thinking about you—thinking about all of us, really. To summarize: It is 1998. Hanks is the cocky, hard-charging scion of a massive Barnes & Noble-ish bookstore chain, about to open a new location on the Upper West Side. Ryan, meanwhile—vulnerable, sappy, like a human kitten—owns a tiny children’s bookstore nearby called the Shop Around the Corner. Ryan’s shop is everything that Hanks’ is not: quaint, neighborly, beloved. And, of course, it stands to be crushed by this encroaching tentacle of Hanks’ Machiavellian empire.

There’s a lot of anxiety in the air. Thematically, the film is concerned with what modernity (symbolized by Hanks and maybe also his high-octane girlfriend, who literally shouts, “Hurry, hurry, hurry!” at her espresso machine) might be doing to our souls (symbolized by Ryan and her boyfriend, who is referred to at a party as the “greatest living expert on Julius and Ethel Rosenberg”). This anxiety is everywhere. It’s a shame kids don’t know what handkerchiefs are, someone says. When office workers play solitaire on their computers, it’s lamented as “the end of Western civilization.”

It’s all so heavy-handed. But here’s the thing: As the bitter Hanks-Ryan bookstore rivalry escalates on the street, Hanks and Ryan are falling in love with each other via email, anonymously. They meet in some kind of chat room and begin emailing each other relentlessly, pouring out their feelings and the poignant whispers of their simpleton hearts. It’s dramatic irony, you see—they love each other in cyberspace, hate each other in meatspace—and the filmmakers milk it for all it’s worth. Scene after scene cuts back and forth between Hanks and Ryan, reading emails on their laughably briefcaselike laptops. Every time that cheery voice tells them “Welcome. You’ve got mail,” it’s a Pavlovian cue that flutters their stomachs and tingles their privates. It’s hard to think of two happier people in the history of film.

But you know what? Joke’s on them. Because what Hanks and Ryan do not know, and can’t possibly predict, is that the same series of tubes that’s serving as a conduit for their love will soon obliterate both their businesses! Soon they’ll both be irrelevant! They’re just too blissed out by each other’s electronic mail messages to recognize that this thing in front of them—this Internet—is also a merciless destroyer of worlds.

Reader, they are us; we are them. We’re blind to the transience of so many things we feel attached to, or else we are so attuned to their transience that we don’t allow ourselves to get attached. The truth is, even as I type this, laughing and smirking at You’ve Got Mail, I understand that someone in the near future will be similarly laughing and smirking at me. (“Typing?!” they’ll say.)

Are you obligated to try new social media apps? Not at all. Use what you enjoy. Try what you think you’d enjoy. Or don’t. You alone get to map out the borders of your online life. But you are, I think, obligated to stay open to exploring new social media apps—to keep yourself from becoming too jaded, too dismissive—and to always entertain the possibility that one of them might become meaningful and useful to you. I mean, I sunk a lot of time into Friendster back in the day, and I don’t regret it. I recognize that, like Hanks and Ryan, I was merely living contentedly in the present, without knowing that the magic of that moment would inevitably crumble—or even worrying about whether it might.

“Sometimes I wonder about my life. I lead a small life … And sometimes I wonder, do I do it because I like it or because I haven’t been brave?” Ryan typed that, sent it to Hanks. Now I’m putting the question to you.

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Author: Jon Mooallem. Culture

03.10.17

11:00 am

Christoph Niemann

I’m horrible at emoji—it’s like a foreign language for me. I always get “???” replies from friends. What should I do?

In 1918, a moderately but fleetingly famous Belgian man named Jean Pierre Pierard published an intriguing column in an American newspaper. Pierard was an actor, sometimes billed as “Le Colosse,” since he happened to weigh 342 pounds. (He was just a tremendous, tremendous fellow.) He was also the “Most Married Man in the World,” and this was the particular expertise with which he was writing. What does it mean to be the Most Married Man in the World? Well, at the time, Pierard was on his 23rd wife. Since 1886 he’d averaged one marriage every 1.4 years. But still, he felt strongly that “it is not good for man to be alone.”

This is the most important thing for you to know about Pierard—and I mean you specifically, my weird emoji-aphasic friend: Jean Pierre Pierard loved being married. He loved the institution of marriage—held it in the highest esteem—and felt a strong obligation to defend and venerate it against anyone who was starting to view it with the least bit of cynicism. “I believe in marriage,” he wrote. Deep down in the hallows of his giant being, the man was a romantic. And an optimist. And nothing about the clumsiness with which his optimism or romanticism kept colliding with reality was going to drain those feelings out of him. “It may surprise you to hear it,” Pierard wrote, “but it’s the truth, that every one of these 23 times I’ve taken out a marriage license I’ve done so with the same glow of hope and faith that I had the first time.” Being married brought him joy, so he kept getting married, even if he was lousy at it. Then he kept getting married some more.

I assume that you see where I’m going. It should be obvious, especially since I’ve written it all in not-fun alphabet letters. You’re correct that emoji are essentially a foreign language. So the only way to increase your fluency in them is with real-world practice—which is to say, by failing a lot, but paying enough attention to your failures to learn from them, and by asking more skillful speakers, people you feel totally supported and unjudged by, for help and safe opportunities to practice. But most important, don’t let anyone, with their snide ???s, spoil the pleasure those emoji bring to you. Don’t be ashamed!

OK? Just one more thing about Pierard: For a time, he attempted a career as a professional wrestler. It seems like the ideal job for Le Colosse—he could just fall on people and flatten them—and yet he was terrible at this too, maybe even more terrible than he was at marriage. Because he was ticklish—tremendously ticklish. He simply could not “permit of any contact with his ribs while wrestling,” The New York Times wrote, without being debilitated by his own giggling. All that his opponents had to do, no matter how small they were, was flutter their fingers around Le Colosse’s colossal midsection, topple him, and hold him down for the count. It was basically over before it began.

And, honestly, that’s how I’d love to picture you: joyously thumb-typing your syntactically jumbled, incomprehensible kissy faces, fires, whales, and eggplants without a care in the world, pinned on the mat but laughing and laughing and laughing. Do that and you’re .

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Author: Jon Mooallem. Culture

03.09.17

11:00 am

CHRISTOPH NIEMANN

My girlfriend got me a Fitbit, but the data makes me feel lazy and ashamed. Do I have to keep using it?

I was in my kitchen the other night, slow dancing with my toddler before bedtime, when the Coldplay song “Fix You” came on—a song, I remembered reading, that Chris Martin wrote for then-girlfriend Gwyneth Paltrow after her father died—and I found myself feeling genuinely bummed, all over again, that Chris and Gwyneth had split up. I wondered what had torn them apart or whether—as these things often go—they hadn’t been torn apart but slowly undone by some dark, unspoken dissatisfaction or resentment that gradually multiplied until there was so much cumulative darkness between them that it blotted out whatever had been luminescent about their love. And that’s when I thought about you and your girlfriend and your Fitbit.

I also thought about Steve Etkin. Etkin is an engineer by training and by temperament who enjoys walking. And so a year ago, his daughter, Jordan, bought him a Fitbit. It seemed like the perfect gift. “I started receiving daily updates,” she told me, “about the number of steps he walked, the stairs he climbed. After a few weeks, I was like, ‘Hey, Dad, you’re really treating this like a job.’ ” (She was also like, hey, Dad, I don’t need all these updates.)

Anyway, it got her thinking. And, because she studies consumer behavior at Duke University’s Fuqua School of Business, she designed a study to test whether, as she put it to me, trackers like Fitbits have the capacity to “suck the enjoyment” out of previously pleasurable activities. Guess what. They do.

Etkin’s study was published in the Journal of Consumer Research. She ran a series of six experiments. In one, for example, she gave her subjects a 16-pack of Crayolas, then made a big show of tracking how many shapes one group colored in while letting others color freely, unencumbered by quantification. She did similar experiments with walking and reading, and in every one discovered the same basic result. “Measurement led participants to color more shapes, walk more steps, and read more pages. At the same time, however, it led people to enjoy coloring, walking, and reading less.” In short, people did more but felt worse doing it. Tracking redefined fun activities as work.

One problem here is that by focusing on quantifiable outcomes, trackers can diminish intrinsic motivation, which makes people stick with activities. Therefore, “measurement may sometimes actually undermine sustainable behavior change,” Etkin writes. Those insurance companies giving Fitbits to their policyholders might be shooting themselves in the (demotivated, stationary) foot.

But you know all this. It’s precisely the cycle of incentivizing and disincentivizing, of judgment and anxiety, afflicting you: that feeling that you can never take enough steps or unlock enough REM sleep. (“When you try your best but you don’t succeed … When you feel so tired but you can’t sleep.”) And, as it afflicts you, it widens the emotional space between you and your girlfriend—it feeds a smoldering grudge, because she handcuffed you with this thing. She tried to fix you, my friend. But her fixing made you feel more broken.

So you’ve got to talk to your girlfriend and take the Fitbit off, even though Etkin’s research suggests this is the worst thing you could do. (When people start tracking then suddenly stop, the fun is still ruined, but they also lose the benefit of increased output—a double whammy of underperformance and joylessness.) But who cares? It could be the only way for you and your partner to remain consciously coupled.

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Author: Jon Mooallem. Culture

03.08.17

7:00 am

Christoph Niemann

When my 5-year-old asks a question, is there a difference between looking it up in a book and just using my phone?

Recently, I watched David Kwong do some sleight of hand in a crowded theater lobby. Kwong is a magician who often consults on Hollywood films. (When a director needs, say, Jesse Eisenberg to learn a magic trick, they send him to Kwong.) Anyway, Kwong sauntered over to a guy with a deck of cards and asked him to pick one.

Honestly, I don’t know how to describe what happened next. For 30 minutes, Kwong made cards materialize in outrageous, stupefying ways, as though he were nonchalantly sliding them in and out of a parallel universe. Someone’s card flew out of the deck, spinning through the air. Another turned up in a guy’s back pocket—and not just in his back pocket, but buried deep, between his wallet and a bundle of crumpled receipts. Kwong asked someone to rip a card into four pieces, then hold them in his fist; when he opened his hand, the card was reassembled!

Maybe this doesn’t sound that impressive, written down. We all know card tricks are a thing. But the way Kwong kept relentlessly confronting us with the impossible—seeing this sorcery at close range—seemed to not just entertain people but to make them feel vulnerable and a little scared. People mewled and screamed, “No!” One poor man was reduced to crouching on the floor, laughing so euphorically he couldn’t catch his breath. (OK, that was me.) The guy with the ripped-up card in his fist refused to open it at first, shaking his head like a child terrified to look at his boo-boo, afraid of what he’d find. “He has total power over us,” one woman said quietly, gravely. She sounded creeped out. It was so much fun!

Now, I’m sure everyone in that crowd wondered how Kwong was doing it, but it’s a rare bird who goes home and actually labors to understand the mechanics of how such tricks are engineered. (Those rare birds become magicians—it’s how Kwong got his start.) Most of us perceive magic tricks to be unreplicable, to violate the reality we inhabit. They’re, you know, magic.

To a 5-year-old, phones are magic. The internet is magic. An older kid might be able to understand the technology and infrastructure involved, the nature of Wikipedia, and so on, but for a child so young, the answer just appears, miraculously, like a playing card yanked from a bystander’s back pocket. Leafing through a book together, by comparison, is a more collaborative, tactile, self-evident process. It’s a journey toward the answer, one that your child gets to go on.

What I’m talking about is the difference between learning and being told, between answering a specific question and getting a child excited about answering it on their own. It’s fun to amaze your 5-year-old, sure. But it’s more gratifying to set your kid up to one day amaze you.

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Author: Jon Mooallem. Culture

03.06.17

11:00 am

Christoph Niemann

Is flirting on LinkedIn less weird than on other social media? After all, it can vouch for you in a substantive way.

Whoa. Hang on. Let’s first poke at the premise of your question, because the implications here are huge. Notice how you casually presume your résumé offers a more substantive representation of your basic humanity than, say, all the tweets you’ve tweeted or all the digital artifacts amassed on your Facebook page. Think of the photos on Facebook alone: You in a rowboat with the gentle-looking man playing a banjo whom we understand to be your deceased (too young) father. You being silly—but not obnoxiously silly, just innocently, endearingly silly—in the Halloween aisle of a big-box store. You tagged in a photo of that kid you mentored that one summer, as he graduates from Berkeley. You climbing a goddamned mountain! Like, with pickaxes and stuff!

Do these not substantively communicate the substance of your life? Don’t they “vouch” for you to potential dates as a safe, noncreepy, sufficiently together human being, a sympathetic soul tumbling through the fundamental experience of being alive and looking for companionship? Or is that better captured with a line like this: “January 2013-November 2014, Senior Operations Associate, Mobitly Inc.”?

You seem to think it is. And I’ll admit—begrudgingly—that you may have a point. Because the lines have been blurred between our work lives and our emotional lives, our careers and our intrinsic selves. We subconsciously gauge a person’s character by their professional standing, and our experiences and attitude toward our work aren’t only sometimes relevant to our love lives. In fact, the two can feel crucially interwoven: The best startup founders are those who operate out of passion and devotion and with a kind of hyper-monogamous obsession. On the other hand, we all feel obligated to work on our relationships with the same myopic, idealistic intensity. And it can feel natural to apply the lessons we learn relating to people in one realm to our relationships in the other.

Take, for example, Jeff Weiner, LinkedIn’s CEO. I confess, I’m not a LinkedIn user, but I’ve been reading up on Weiner and, I have to say, he seems like a wonderful guy—a principled, thoughtful man who says very grounded, Jerry Maguire-type things like, “I’ve never been title-driven; for the most part, I’ve been purpose-driven.” He also reads books by the Dalai Lama, contemplates the difference between compassion and empathy, and practices mindfulness techniques like “being a spectator to my own thoughts,” which enhance his ability to relate to and motivate his employees. He calls his style “compassionate management.”

In an essay he wrote a few years ago, Weiner described leaving work one evening, feeling proud of the strides he’d made as a compassionate manager, only to be felled by the epiphany that he’d been very uncompassionately neglecting his wife. He was working so hard, he wrote, that at night, “when my wife would try to bring up her day, or talk about the things we need to get done, I would reflexively say something to the effect that it had been a long day, I was exhausted, and could we talk about it some other time?” In other words: “For as hard as I worked to manage compassionately at the office, I was not always actively applying the same approach with my family.” So Weiner applied the same compassionate management style to his marriage and made things right.

I worry that sounds off, like the emotionally tone-deaf insights of a stereotypical tech baron. But trust me, the way Weiner explained it, it sounded cool—real. (And know this too: Worried that I’d gush in this column about Weiner’s coolness and realness only to learn later that Weiner is actually not cool and not real and is, in truth, as imperious as Genghis Khan or a Grade A, misogynistic, steroidal jerk, I sat down and Googled “Jeff Weiner LinkedIn jerk” and was happy to find, as the first result, a post singling him out as a “counterweight” to the industry’s many other CEO-jerks. So that was reassuring—even if the post was published on LinkedIn. But even that can be interpreted as a testament to Weiner’s character, because it was Weiner, I learned, who had the vision to expand LinkedIn from a bland résumé farm into a successful publishing platform.)

I’ll go even further. I wouldn’t be surprised if a man as smart as Weiner already knows all this, knows that we live in an age where one of the prime, romantically reassuring things about another person—the thing that “vouches” for them best as a potential mate—is that they’re a trustworthy, hardworking, successful employee. And therefore, he also secretly knows that LinkedIn could be the ultimate dating site, though he wisely stops short of saying it. Instead, he just dog-whistles about that potential to attentive users and eagle-eyed investors, thus preserving the opportunity to pivot the company explicitly in that direction should the climate change and the need arise. Recently, for example, he told an interviewer, “Our core value proposition to members is to help them connect to opportunity,” and touted “the power of this as a platform to enable capital”—especially “human capital”—“to flow where it can best be leveraged.”

Isn’t he talking about dating, about setting people up? When Tevye and Golde’s daughters sang, “Matchmaker, matchmaker, make me a match,” weren’t they basically asking a kind of social networking platform to send their own human capital flowing toward whichever shtetl boy would give it the highest valuation and invest? Why shouldn’t you flirt on LinkedIn? Why shouldn’t love be one of the opportunities LinkedIn connects us with?

So, yes. You are right. And you’ve taught me a lot—you and Jeff Weiner both. I can see clearly now how we’ve all tied ourselves into a knot of careerism and affection and equity and sex, and maybe that’s just the way it has to be. I’m remembering now what happened when Jerry Maguire—the real Jerry Maguire—showed up in that living room, shivering, trying to win back his wife, who also happened to be his business partner at their new sports-agenting startup, how he told her, “You … you complete me.” But, more important, there was the line he slipped her right before that famous line. Suddenly, in the middle of his monologue, he was compelled to say, like a man giving a keynote at a conference, “We live in a cynical world, a cynical world, and we work in a business of tough competitors.”

Why? Why include that? What could Jerry Maguire possibly have meant? I think he meant: The internet is full of sinister strangers. It’s a hostile place in which to offer up your soul. But here I am. Look at me. View my profile. I’d like to connect with you on LinkedIn.

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Author: Jon Mooallem. Culture

03.03.17

11:00 am

Christoph Niemann

I work in a casual tech setting and I’m shocked by how much everyone swears. Should I say something?

Imagine what it was like to be a Puritan in 1642. You’ve come to America. The landscape is crude and endless; the soundtrack, all hissing insects and howling wolves. “Everything about the place seemed godforsaken,” writes the natural historian Tim Flannery in his book The Eternal Frontier. That lawless emptiness is why you’re here—it means freedom. But in all free and empty places, there’s also room for wickedness to grow. Everybody in your little settlement is aware of this, which is why they panic when, one day, someone happens upon a young man named Thomas Granger having sex with a horse.

It’s worse than you thought: When confronted, Granger rapidly admits he’s also had intercourse with three cows, two goats, five sheep, and a turkey. This behavior is so savage—and feels like such a threat to the ethical society you’re laboring to build there in the wild—that you respond with a campaign of ruthless cleansing. You round up each animal Granger has had sex with and force the young man to watch while you slaughter it. (Not the turkey, though; for some reason, Flannery notes, no one bothers with the turkey.) And since you can’t tell which of the village’s sheep were the particular sheep Granger penetrated—his descriptions are imprecise—you herd every sheep in front of him, like a police lineup, and force him to ID the five in question. Then you kill those five sheep too. Then you kill Granger. Then you throw all their bodies together in one big pit.

Now, fast-forward 373 years. Let’s talk about you.

It’s easy to imagine you, hunched in your tech company’s open floor plan, forced to sit on an inflatable ball or perhaps issued one of those iconoclastic standing desks without a chair at all. You are a wary pilgrim on the wild, godless edge of America’s economic frontier. And, as such, you understand that the foul language your colleagues are using isn’t just unpleasant but morally precarious; if it continues unchecked, it could lead you all—your entire industry, really—to much darker places. You know, just as the Puritans did, that this kind of impropriety needs to be nipped in the bud.

That’s how you feel, right? Well, you’re wrong.

You’re not the Puritans. You’re the kid shtupping the cows. Because the lesson of the Granger story—as I read it—isn’t that morality always wins. It’s that the mob always wins. The majority’s norms always beat back and outlast the minority’s. And the mob can be cruel: They’ll kill the thing you love right in front of you, then dump you in the ground.

I think you need to go along with the mob.

Does it matter if my kid’s handwriting is terrible?

Well, I happen to love handwriting. I think it’s curiously fun to look at and a considerable, if mostly esoteric, value-add to the written language—even in an era of tablets and smartwatches and speech-recognition software. But does it matter if your child writes illegibly? My answer is no, probably not. Handwriting is an old technology—about 5,000 years old. And as with newer old technologies (muskets or floppy disks or cars with human beings driving them), some people may inevitably feel a tinge of melancholy watching it sputter into oblivion. And yet the truth is that humanity has always replaced old tools with new ones, and often, once we’ve pushed through the emotionally charged transitional phase and come out the other end, everything feels fine again.

Take, for example, a woman named Kristin Gulick in Bend, Oregon, who often has trouble reading messages scribbled by her chronically illegible office receptionist. “Yesterday I tried to dial a number that she’d written down, and I couldn’t read it,” Gulick told me recently. “I had to go back out and ask, ‘What does this say?’” And the receptionist was just like, ha ha ha, I know my handwriting’s terrible—you know, giggling the annoyance away. Was Gulick peeved? Yes. But was this a fireable offense or some irrevocable inconvenience? Not even close. In fact, Gulick really had no choice but to laugh the whole thing off too. “Thank God she’s good at other things!” she said, and life went on.

So there’s your answer. But who is Kristin Gulick, anyway? So glad you asked!

Handwriting may be one of those fundamentally human abilities—one that binds us to our own identities.

Gulick has been an occupational therapist for 28 years, specializing in arms and hands. She’s in private practice now, but shortly after 9/11 she found herself working at Walter Reed Army Medical Center in Washington, DC. A recent government report disclosed that more than 1,000 of the 50,000 soldiers who’ve been wounded in action in Iraq and Afghanistan—2.6 percent—have come back missing limbs, and Gulick was there to greet some of the first ones, helping them work around their loss and rejoin their life. Part of this work involved “transferring dominance” from one hand to the other; if a righty lost their right arm, say, they needed to learn to be a lefty now. And part of that was relearning handwriting—even just enough to fill out the deluge of hospital forms and sign their name.

Gulick found a total dearth of tools and curricula. Really, there was nothing. While she encouraged people to use first-grade handwriting primers early in her career, they were full of infantilizing penmanship exercises involving anthropomorphic animals. These books were not only unhelpful but degrading: Having lost a limb, many of these people were already feeling vulnerable and diminished. Now they were being treated—literally—like children. Gulick and an officer in the Army Medical Specialist Corps, Katie Yancosek, decided they could do better. “We’d give them exercises about balancing their checkbook and not about a little bunny or whatever,” Gulick said. The result was a six-week program, laid out in a workbook called Handwriting for Heroes. (The third edition was published this year.)

Look, I don’t mean to play some righteous, wounded-veteran card and make anyone feel bad. But I think we all see where this is going: It’s easy to write off handwriting only because most of us take it for granted. But I listened to Gulick talk about handwriting for a while, about what the ability to jot off a simple grocery list or be-right-back note for your spouse—functional but maybe also aesthetically pleasing or expressive, something you have created—does for a person’s sense of self-sufficiency and pride after working hard to regain that skill. How handwriting, really, may be one of those fundamentally human abilities—one that binds us, in a tiny way, to each other and to our own identities.

Your child won’t feel anything remotely like that sense of loss if they let their handwriting go to seed. Their lives will move forward in standardized fonts. If they absolutely have to write anything by hand, it may be disordered and illegible, but they can just laugh it off and explain (or text) what they meant. And that’s why I’ll stick with my first answer: It probably doesn’t matter. But I also think that, if we’re prepared to let handwriting go—to not care how ugly it gets—we should, at least, take a second to think about how beautiful it can be.

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Author: Jon Mooallem. Culture

03.01.17

11:00 am

Christoph Niemann

The same person keeps accidentally pocket-dialing me. Should I confront him?

Let's zoom out for a second: For more than 40 years, scientists have been debating whether we should be actively sending messages into outer space or just using projects like SETI to listen for messages sent to us—and not just whether we should broadcast anything, but what and how. Do we shoot out a bunch of math, to show aliens we understand math? Do we send pictures? Music? And if so, what math? What pictures? What music? There have been scientific workshops to hash this out in Toulouse, Paris, Zagreb, Houston, and Mountain View. There have been peer-reviewed journal articles with titles like “The Art and Science of Interstellar Message Composition.” It's a big, messy, excruciatingly meticulous back-and-forth.

And yet—all this time, while all those eggheads have been arguing—gobs and gobs of our satellite transmissions, television broadcasts, radio shows, and cell phone conversations have been quietly, sloppily spilling into outer space. It's all just oozing off our planet and into the cosmos like so much electromagnetic sewage—a phenomenon scientists call leakage. In other words, we're already beaming messages into the void—weak signals, but millions of them every day, without even realizing it or being careful about what we say. We are butt-dialing the universe!

Now say someone out there actually picks up that call. Wouldn't you like to know? Yes, it's embarrassing to realize we've made that sort of clumsy connection. But isn't it always just a little bit nice to know we've made a connection at all? So my advice is: Tell this person. Tell him he reached you. Tell him you were there.

CHRISTOPH NIEMANN

Is it unethical to crowdfund a project I don't totally believe in?

A month after the Boston Tea Party, in January 1774—with the idea of rebellion gaining momentum in Boston and patriots feeling more powerful than the remaining loyalists in town—a strange character who called himself Joyce Junior started stoking that new sense of boldness on the streets. Junior walked around elaborately costumed, like some anarchist harlequin, and posted flyers threatening any “vile ingrates” who were still loyal to the crown. Loyalists should be punished, he wrote. And he slyly suggested precisely how, signing his treatises: “Chairman of the Committee for Tarring and Feathering.”

Ten days later, a low-level British government customs official, John Malcom, got into an argument with a well-known patriot shoemaker on the street.

One thing led to another, and soon an angry mob had “swarmed around [Malcom's] house,” wrote Nathaniel Philbrick in his book Bunker Hill. Very quickly, all of Boston's frustration and resentment with England began to come down on this one middling bureaucrat. The rioters bum-rushed Malcom's home with ladders and axes. Once inside, they lashed him with sticks, then pushed him on a sled for hours through the snowy, unlit streets and bitter cold, collecting more irate Bostonians as they went. The mob mocked him. They threatened to cut off his ears. They beat him and beat him. Soon more than a thousand people had joined in. They ripped off Malcom's clothes. They coated his skin with steaming tar. They covered him with feathers.

The abuse went on for hours. When they finally dumped Malcom in front of his house, Philbrick wrote: “his frozen body had begun to thaw, his tarred flesh started to peel off in ‘steaks.’”

It was awful—all of it. And apparently, it was particularly distressing to Joyce Junior, the Wavy Gravy-esque performance artist who'd threatened British loyalists with tarring and feathering in the first place—the man who'd hammered that idea into the public consciousness, inspiring all that brutality. We know Junior felt culpable, because he immediately started doing damage control, scrambling to disown his idea. Junior issued another statement. It began: “This is to certify that the modern punishment lately inflicted on the ignoble John Malcom was not done by our order.”

Now, I don't think this project you want to crowdfund is likely to inadvertently encourage an angry mob to parboil an innocent man in his own flesh, then blanket him with feathers. But it's important to remember that ideas are volatile, powerful things. And so are crowds. They have a way of infecting each other and taking on a life of their own. So all I'm saying is, be honest—be real. If you only kind of think it's a good idea, it's OK to say so. The crowd will decide for itself if you're right. And it may surprise you.

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Author: Jon Mooallem. Culture

02.28.17

11:00 am

Christoph Niemann

My dad leaves incredibly embarrassing comments under every photo I post to Facebook and Instagram. What should I do?

Let’s face it: Dads are embarrassing. I remember, a couple of years ago, reading a newspaper story about a boy named Brooklyn who was so distressed by the prospect of his friends catching sight of his dweeby father that he insisted his dad drop him off around the corner from school and stay out of view. Why was this a newspaper story, you ask? Don’t millions of mortified children do this every day? Yes, and that’s my point. In this case, however, the dad in question was David Beckham.

See, dad-barrassment is universal—a condition of existence, like the weather. What matters is how well we endure it: whether we slough it off or allow it to seep inside us.

Consider another famous dad: Teddy Roosevelt. Yes, that guy—America’s first presidential man’s man. This is a guy who hunted bears and lions, who got into bar fights with cowboys, who resigned as assistant secretary of the Navy to actually fight a war rather than just plan one. Teddy Roosevelt loved war. War was his jam. As the historian Alexis Coe told me recently, “He treated everything like a battlefield.” In October 1912, Roosevelt was about to give a campaign speech in Milwaukee when a would-be assassin shot him in the chest. The bullet ripped through the copy of his speech in his pocket. There was a big bloody wound. Still, Roosevelt spoke for more than an hour, like a wounded infantryman still bayoneting people on the battlefield.

I’d called Coe after listening to the podcast , which she cohosts with former Daily Show head writer Elliott Kalan. Their Roosevelt episode suggested that Teddy’s warmongering machismo was bound up in his dad. During the Civil War, Roosevelt had watched his father, Theodore senior, pay for a surrogate to fight in his place. For Teddy, Coe says, “this was always a great source of shame. His celebration of masculinity and war, his romanticization of war as an experience to all men, is a reaction to his dad.” And if, to overcompensate for this excruciating embarrassment, Roosevelt felt compelled to speechify for over an hour while his torso hemorrhaged, then that’s his decision. But it also affected his own parenting.

Roosevelt had four sons, and he wanted his boys to be the valorous warriors his own father hadn’t been. When World War I broke out, the youngest, Quentin, memorized an eye chart to ensure he’d pass his exam and be able to serve. He was, in short order, shot down and killed by the Germans. Roosevelt was crestfallen. “To feel that one has inspired a boy to conduct that has resulted in his death has a pretty serious side for a father,” he wrote. He died himself six months later.

But the misery he wrought continued. One son, Archibald, had his knee ripped apart by a grenade. Another, Ted Jr., was wounded in France, then died of a heart attack while serving in World War II. Kermit, Roosevelt’s second son, served in both wars, then ultimately shot himself in the head on a base in Alaska.

You wrote because you didn’t like some comments on Instagram and Facebook. I’m talking about shame and war and death. It’s hardly fair, you’ll say, and you’re right. But this story shows, I think, that dad-barrassment is a powerful and unpredictable force; it warps the imagination, it pollutes the soul. The perpetrators are, inevitably, also victims.

By all means, ask your father—gently—if he wouldn’t mind toning down the comments. Tell him to text you privately instead, if you’d prefer. But ultimately the onus is not on your father to stop embarrassing you, but on you to reconcile the embarrassment you feel. I worry you’ve started seeing your father primarily as an engine of embarrassment, not as a complex human being entitled to express his wit, his playfulness, his love.

So, stomach it. Take the bullet, carry on.

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Author: Jon Mooallem. Culture

02.27.17

11:00 am

Christoph Niemann

I’m an omnivore, but are there animals that are just too intelligent to eat?

During high school, I went to visit a friend in Louisiana. Because I was a Northerner who’d never been to the South, I was given a lot of exotically Southern stuff to eat, like alligator and rattlesnake. Then came the big Louisianan feast: heaps of spicy crayfish, which we savagely twisted the heads off of then washed down with gallons and gallons of Dr Pepper.

When I got up to go pee, one of the men at the table told me to be sure to wash my hands first. He said it with a tinge of darkness, a whiff of trauma. He explained that it was unwise for a man to go from handling spicy crayfish to handling his penis. He’d been careless once and paid the price. So I washed my hands. But I still remember how worried I was, unzipping, and how hesitantly I moved my hand down, like a kid playing Operation, dreading that horrible bzzz. I’d absorbed the trauma vicariously, but my anxiety was real.

I thought of this when I read that researchers at the University of Bordeaux in France detected a similar kind of intelligently learned anxiety in crayfish. (After suffering a trauma, the crayfish were reluctant to venture into brightly lit, risky areas.) The scientists also found they could alleviate that anxiety by giving the crayfish a Valium-style drug. And while the scientists were careful not to embellish these findings with any anthropomorphic presumptions, I think we all sense the underlying epiphany here: Crayfish are a little more like us than we expected.

These days, it seems, everybody wants to know how smart their meat is. There are all kinds of startling farm-animal-cognition studies. We know that cows enjoy solving problems and have been known to jump into the air excitedly when they finally crack a tough one. Chickens are exceptionally good at delaying gratification, understand small numbers and basic physics, and can adroitly manage the thermostat of their coop. Sheep can remember and recognize as many as 50 human faces without making a mistake. Pigs excel at videogames played with special pig joysticks. And even opossums—yes, some people eat them—turn out to be excellent maze runners. One study ranked opossums’ “probability learning” skills second only to humans’ and higher than dogs’. Opossums! Those things that do very little and look dead most of the time!

The upshot, I’d argue, is that all animals are likely too intelligent to eat. Whether you go on eating them, with that knowledge, is up to you. You probably will. I do—proof that intelligence may be massively overrated.

Should I worry that my kid can’t spell? Does spelling matter anymore?

Did you hear about Thomas Hurley III? He was on Jeopardy! last year as an eighth grader—a likable kid from Connecticut with Peter Brady bangs and a blue dress shirt buttoned up to the jugular. He lost. And he lost, in part, because in Final Jeopardy, he wrote “Emanciptation Proclamation” instead of “Emancipation Proclamation.”

Does spelling matter anymore? Honestly, I don’t think so. I mean, initially, even schoolmarmy Alex Trebek read right over Hurley’s mistake. As a defiant Hurley told his local newspaper, “It was just a spelling error.”

Then again, spelling isn’t just about communicating. The culture still views it as a sign of intelligence, diligence, and sophistication. Bad, lackadaisical spellers are not looked at kindly. And neither was Hurley’s contention that he’d been “cheated.” (“Learn how to accept defeat, kid, or you will be disappointed for the rest of your life,” one Facebook comment read.) Clearly, autocorrect and other technologies have started a slow sea change, and maybe one day the persnickety spelling police among us will all have died out and we’ll be free to spel thingz howeEVA weeeeeeeeeee wonte. But, until that day, allowing your kids to blow off spelling may empower them to go against a societal norm without considering the day-to-day discomfort and judgment it could bring: the consequences for them but also for you, their parent.

“He was a little stunned by it,” Hurley’s mom said after the defeat. “He felt embarrassed. It was hard to watch.”

Should I give myself a weekend phone time-out? What if I miss important work?

What kind of job do you have? What kind of boss do you have? How tolerant? How demanding? One possibility is that you’re a senior adviser to the secretary of state, and your inability to be reached during a flare-up by a North African paramilitary group—because you’re lying in a park with a kale-and-bee-pollen smoothie and that copy of The Goldfinch you’ve been meaning to get to—leads to a severe diplomatic misstep and a weeks-long umbrage carnival on Fox News that can only be quelled by the semi-ritualistic firing and public shaming of the bureaucrat responsible: i.e., you. Another is that you’re a beverage distribution middleman, and your boss—who happens to be triple-checking stuff at the office on a Saturday night because he’s going through a divorce and doesn’t know what to do with himself—discovers a niggling glitch in your paperwork that may have sent an extra case of Fresca to Denver, but because your phone’s off he calls Greta, and after a couple minutes of digging she assures him that all the Frescas are, in fact, where they need to be.

See the difference? You’ve given me absolutely no information—just dashed off your question as quickly as possible without a second of reflection. And this suggests that you’re whizzing recklessly through life and, still accelerating, throttled by permanent urgency. You need a break. Your soul needs a break. I have no idea what the consequences might be—how could I?—but I think you should switch off that phone.

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Author: Jon Mooallem. Culture

02.24.17

11:00 am

Christoph Niemann

I read that mice injected with blood from younger mice improve on cognitive tests. Should I bank my blood?

So yeah, I went and read about this too. I read that for years scientists have been taking an old mouse and a young mouse, putting them next to each other, and stitching their circulatory systems together, just like jump-starting a car. Then they let the blood of one mouse circulate through the other—a process called parabiosis. And introducing the young mouse's blood—or even just introducing one particular protein found in the blood, called GDF11—to an old mouse does all sorts of wonderful stuff: It allows the old mouse to run longer on a treadmill. It changes the old mouse's brain in ways that suggests its memory has been improved. I read that it even rejuvenates a crusty old-mouse heart. Like, voilà! The heart isn't crusty anymore.

I also read that a Harvard scientist named Amy Wagers was “already working to commercialize” GDF11, which is found in human blood too. And this was the eye-opener for me: Even as scientists are always cautioning the media that it's way to soon to speculate about their studies' implications, one of these scientists—the one named Wagers, aptly—was already placing her bet.

Good for her, I say. I'm all for capitalism! But I'm also all for hematological self-determination. (Or, say, blood freedom.) I'd hate, one day, to have to pay some multinational corporation for a synthetic knockoff of my own younger self's blood—the very stuff that was pumping through my body for decades without costing me a damn cent. What a dystopia that would be! There'd be kids on the corner with clipboards, asking for donations so Americans for Hematological Self-Determination could sue these corporations. There'd be Blood Freedom teach-ins and Blood Freedom protest songs—which would be hard because “Blood Freedom” really doesn't rhyme with much.

So my answer is yes, absolutely. Stockpile your blood now, as much as can be squirreled away at the proper temperature. Just in case. Think of it as a tiny hedge against the Wagers of the future.

I get a lot of swag from startups—messenger bags, fleeces, hats, T-shirts—and my girlfriend makes fun of me for wearing it. Which is the douchiest to wear? Like, is a fleece cooler than a hat?

Look, I don't care what you wear, but I do think that a startup fleece is definitely not cooler than a startup hat, because a startup fleece puts the name and logo of the startup in closer proximity to your heart than a startup hat would. My instinct is, keep this stuff away from your heart. Far away. The closer to your heart, the douchier.

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Author: Jon Mooallem. Culture

02.23.17

11:00 am

Christoph Niemann

My best friend dropped our Snapchat streak, and I’m hurt. What should I do?

Oof. I know how it feels. Streaks are magic; streaks are wild. There you are, you and your bestie, slinging those pictures and videos back and forth, getting that sacred pendulum of digital adorableness and hilarity moving between you, and you start to feel momentum, don’t you? A rhythmic bond—a fellowship, a closeness—taking hold. You’re in it together! And, better still, that little flaming number keeps ticking up, higher and higher. You’re watching your progress, reciprocally microdosing the endorphins. Then suddenly, all that excitement stops. You send a snap, and no snap comes back. It’s a gut punch. It’s over. You’re dropped.

Like I said: Oof. I empathize. And yet I can’t claim to understand the hurt of being dropped nearly as well as Maica Folch, who has been literally dropped and literally hurt from the dropping.

Folch is an aerialist in San Francisco who spent much of her adult life working as a trapeze artist. She started when she was just a teenager. Has Folch ever been dropped? Yes. Yes, she has. And, somewhere beneath the acute pain of impact, did she also feel something akin to the abandonment and resentment you’re dealing with? No, she did not.

It’s 1987, Barcelona. Dress rehearsal, the day before a big aerial dance performance. Folch has been hoisted 80 feet off the ground in a meticulously engineered elastic harness. And yet not so meticulously, because there’s been a miscalculation with the rigging and, before Folch can comprehend what’s happening, she sees the floor racing toward her.

She is falling, most likely to her death. And it’s just like everyone says: “I saw the movie of my life,” she tells me. She hears her gasping colleagues calling out as she speeds down at them. What happens next is unexpected, and yet it happens so naturally. “I was so peaceful,” Folch says. “And I fell down like a feather.”

She hits the ground. She bounces. Bounces! Remember, she’s basically tied to an enormous rubber band, and this serene feather of a woman bounces so high that she’s able to grab a rope up there and steady herself. “If I had freaked out and come down with an intense energy,” Folch says—if she’d stiffened and steeled herself—her body would have shattered. Instead she was bruised, like a fallen apple, but “didn’t break a bone.”

And here’s the most helpful part of the story: It never occurred to Folch, after being dropped, to feel jilted or angry. “When something goes wrong,” she says, “there is no one to blame.” It’s a kind of aerialist credo, really—put loyalty and trust first. You say to each other, “I love what I do, I love doing it with you, and if I start doing it with you, it’s because I trust you,” she explains.

“We don’t live in a perfect world,” Folch says. Carabiners fail. People fail. Friends don’t always return your snap. And it’s probably not because they don’t love you but likely just because none of us, zipping around on our phones and in real life simultaneously, swinging like trapeze artists between these two platforms of frenetic distraction, can be expected to do it all perfectly or to recognize the many distant and private emotional burdens our little snaps might bear. We will let each other down. It’s just a fact. But we all deserve some slack, some good faith—especially from our best friends.

The secret to a thriving trapeze partnership, Folch says, is not necessarily forgiveness but refusing to think of the inevitable disappointments of life as requiring forgiveness in the first place. “You create unconditional relationships. There is pain. There is guilt. But you don’t disappear from the picture.”

And so my answer is: Move on. You’re fine. Learn to love more. Learn from Folch, who knew, deep down, how to handle being dropped and how to bounce back too.

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Author: Jon Mooallem. Culture

10.28.16

7:00 am

Christoph Niemann

I pictured this Nest Cam looming over you—pictured its one dark eye, unblinking—and I immediately thought of that nasty old Cyclops who terrorizes Odysseus and his men in The Odyssey. What was his name? What was the story, exactly? I figured I better reread that bit.

In a nutshell, Odysseus and his men are returning from a long, atrocious war. Landing for a stopover on the island of the Cyclopes, Odysseus confesses he’s at a loss to understand this mountaintop-dwelling race of one-eyed savages: They don’t fear the gods! They have no laws! They are just too alien to be intelligible; Odysseus sees them only as “brutes,” beneath his regard. So he leads his men into a cave—the home of one particular Cyclops who isn’t home—and ransacks it. They build a fire and help themselves to all his many cheeses.

Well, the Cyclops—his name is Polyphemus—is pretty ticked off when he returns (the original “Who moved my cheese?”). And Odysseus suddenly turns diffident and cloying: “We’re at your knees in hopes of a warm welcome,” he tells the Cyclops. But does he apologize for what essentially amounts to home invasion? No, he does not. Instead, he demands a gift! That’s right, Odysseus asks the giant for a “guest-gift,” the giving of which, he explains, is a mandatory and sacred custom between guests and their hosts, as dictated by his Greek gods.

Let’s pause the narrative right there. I was sure the story had something instructive to say about what happens when the expectations of a guest and the expectations of his host don’t match up. Because your problem seems to be that you expect privacy, while your hosts expect to continue protecting their home with the latest Wi-Fi–enabled surveillance tools. They’d like to keep their minds at ease; you’d like to keep their eyes off your privates. And I felt obligated to defend their interests—privilege them—and conclude that the host-guest power dynamic is tilted toward the host and that, like it or not (and in your case I certainly wouldn’t like it either), being a guest means accepting a degree of powerlessness. Keeping the camera running is disrespectful to you, and creepy, but maybe that’s just how it’s got to be.

But then, back in The Odyssey, things escalated. Polyphemus bashes two of the men on the ground of his cave until “their brains gushed out all over,” then rips off their limbs and eats them. So Odysseus sharpens a stake, heats it in a fire, and stabs it through the Cyclops’ single peeper. It’s an ugly story, in other words. And its ugliness snapped me back to reality. Because you are not some pea-sized Odysseus trapped in a terrible colossus’s cave. You are a human being staying in another human being’s house, and part of what makes us human is our willingness to engage in empathic back-and-forths to reconcile conflicting expectations. We compromise. We try to act decently toward each other.

And suddenly I pictured you, alone in another person’s cavernous house, with that ominous, unyielding eyeball trained on you 24/7, and I imagined how vulnerable and exposed you must feel—how stripped of self-respect—and also how resentful. Because why else would the first solution that occurred to you be, essentially, to blind the camera? No, you don’t have a right to do so. But couldn’t you take a more obvious, less defiant tack? Couldn’t you just respectfully ask your host to deactivate the camera? Or to program it around your daily schedule, so it only flicks on when you leave?

I really don’t think it will be a hard conversation to have; part of me assumes it never occurred to the homeowners how uncomfortable leaving that camera on would make you feel. But I get it: Sometimes we stew for so long that we get lost overthinking these things. Maybe what we learn from Homer, ultimately, is that not every problem is epic.

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Author: Jon Mooallem. Culture

09.25.16

6:40 am

christoph Niemann

My cat will only drink from a running tap—not even a cat fountain. But I live in a drought-stricken state. Help?

You’re familiar with the Misfits, I assume. They are iconic, the so-called horror-punk band that played hard and demonically fast while singer Glenn Danzig—a huge, dark creature from New Jersey with a forbidding curtain of long black hair—screamed. Danzig’s songs had titles like “Skulls” and “Die, Die My Darling” and, of course, “Mommy, Can I Go Out and Kill Tonight?” That last one could, arguably, be read as a bloodthirsty anthem written in solidarity with America’s imprisoned house cats because, as the world would eventually discover, Danzig is a cat fancier.

A few years ago, pockets of the Internet had a good laugh at Danzig’s expense when a photograph surfaced of him walking out of a grocery store carrying a tub of Fresh Step kitty litter. (If you don’t understand why this was funny, one incredibly left-brained commenter on the site Metalsucks.net provided this analysis: “It is funny because it is something of an ironic satire to see someone who has widely been written about as an offbeat satanist buying kitty litter.”) Danzig himself had another take: “Why do people even care?” he shot back. “Why are they wasting their lives on this?” He had a point. People laughed at him for not being punk enough; he outpunked them all by not caring.

“Glenn Danzig is my spirit animal,” Daniel Quagliozzi told me recently. Quagliozzi is the proprietor of Go, Cat, Go!, a feline behavioral consultancy in San Francisco; he comes to your house and troubleshoots your cat problems. DQ, as he’s known, also grew up in New Jersey and spent his formative years deep in the punk scene, whipping his then-mohawked head around to the Misfits. “They don’t want to be told what to do. They don’t want your hands on them or their lifestyle,” DQ explains—and this, he adds, is precisely what he appreciates about cats as well.

“I relate to them. I relate to their F U attitude toward society. They make you wonder, ‘Why the hell did I invite them in the house in the first place?’” In fact, DQ has regularly seen owners of defiant felines reduced to “wearing shrouds of cardboard to protect themselves from their swatting cats, or carrying water pistols or air horns to blast their cats away.” One guy resigned himself to keeping the litter box on his couch, because that’s where the cat insisted on pissing and crapping. All too often, DQ says, people are “just not ready for the hostile takeover.”

When I asked DQ about your problem, he let out a long sigh and said, “The running water thing is so … God.” There are countless reasons why a cat would demand a running faucet. “Maybe the water in the bowl is stale or not the right temperature, or the bowl might be too small and it’s creating whisker stress.” (Yes, whisker stress: Google it.) Maybe the cat feels more secure on the counter. “Or it could be boredom.” Maybe your cat leads such a dreary life that trickling water qualifies as fun.

My advice? Hire DQ. Fly him in if you have to; frankly, the guy’s aptitude with cats blew me away. Otherwise, he suggested trying to “mimic what’s happening in the same location.” Start by putting a recirculating fountain next to the sink; often, DQ says, we overlook the importance of location when assessing cat problems. (Maybe, for example, your cat just wants its water separate from its food, or up off the ground.)

But most of all: Steel yourself for confrontation—for a kind of protracted, brutal brinkmanship. Your cat isn’t likely to go on strike and die of thirst, DQ says, but any change you make will likely leave the animal “anxious and unsettled.” And that is “definitely going to be harder on the guardian than it is on the cat.” That is, the cat will try to own you—belittle you. Find your inner Danzig and flip the script.

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Author: Jon Mooallem. Culture

05.24.16

9:00 am

I think someone is hate-retweeting me. She has 25K followers! Should I call her out?

Easy. Couldn’t be easier. Hate-favoriting and hate-retweeting is childish behavior. So if you want to be bold, by all means call her out. And if you want to be less bold but perhaps more effective, just block her: Game over.

And yet, can I be honest? This may be the most subtly perplexing question I’ve ever had to pretend to be a know-it-all about. Because if I push just a bit on your premise, it all goes soft. I can see ancillary dilemmas, qualifications, and niggling unknowns pile up until the kind of clear, objective truth I’m required to find gets hopelessly boxed in. There’s a lot here to pick apart. Let’s start with the corrosive, discombobulating nature of spite.

Ever heard of the Spite Fence? Go back to 1876. San Francisco’s Big Four—the four main bazillionaire railroad barons—all decided to build mansions on a scenic, empty hilltop: Nob Hill. At least, it was mostly empty. Bounded within the large property purchased by one of these magnates, Charles Crocker, was a little house on a small, separate parcel owned by an undertaker named Nicholas Yung. Crocker wanted Yung gone; Yung wouldn’t sell. Crocker, bewildered that his money hadn’t made this inconvenience go away, kept making offers. Yung kept declining. So Crocker—overcome with spite—started a flame war. Or a wall war.

Crocker built his mansion. Then he built a 30-foot-high wall on his land that effectively surrounded Yung’s property. It shut out the light. It shut Yung in. It was ridiculous looking, and people came from all over to gawk at it. There was a kind of class war brewing in the city at the time, and one activist pamphlet singled out Crocker’s fence as a “very obnoxious” symbol of “the domineering spirit” of the wealthy. The San Francisco Chronicle called the Spite Fence an “inartistic monument of resentment” and a “memorial of malignity and malevolence.” Yet Yung—the simple undertaker, just wanting to live his life, in his house—didn’t sell. The undertaker was himself essentially buried, though still aboveground. But he just took it, took the high road, and let that towering manifestation of Crocker’s out-of-control id speak for itself. Yung never even retaliated, though he thought about it. His wife said, “There are some things to which people like ourselves do not care to stoop.”

You must feel like Nicholas Yung: tweeting through your life in a pure, happy-go-lucky way, only to see a wall of spite building up in this other person’s timeline, one hateful retweet at a time, to rebuke you. And like I said at the outset: How nasty that is; how immature. But why do you think these likes and retweets are hate-likes and hate-retweets, as opposed to supportive likes and supportive retweets? What would lead you to this conclusion? I can’t help but wonder if there’s something you’re not telling me—if you yourself worry there’s an arrogant, airheaded, obnoxious, or self-congratulatory tone to what you’re tweeting, the sort of attitude that typically elicits that kind of resentment online. Are you, for example, relentlessly issuing tidbits like “So lucky my baby sleeps for 12 hours each night!!!!!! Almost enough time for tantric sex with my amazing partner!” or “Just had lunch with Bon Jovi! #blessed”?

I’m not saying you are. I’m just wondering. Honestly. I don’t want to blame the victim. My point is, the victim of one kind of obnoxiousness can be a perpetrator of another. You ought to give that a hard think and figure out which side of this Spite Fence you’re actually standing on, before you poke your head over and start shouting.

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Author: Jon Mooallem. Culture

04.07.16

11:00 am

Christoph Niemann

Two stories. Try to hold them together in your mind.

The first involves a man named Muki Bácsi, at a Hungarian wedding in 1879. Muki was a drunk, apparently, but a beloved and awe-inspiring one. He was the region’s “champion drinkist,” according to the London Telegraph. And so, arriving at the wedding banquet, Muki found a tremendous 3-pint glass at his place and was told that, as the party proceeded through toast after toast, he was expected, each time, to suck this hulking receptacle dry, then fill it up again.

Muki sighed. “Lads, I am about to die,” he began. He was certain he was on the verge of a stroke, and the last thing he wanted was to flood his ailing innards with wine. And yet, Muki also knew he was at a gosh darn wedding and that weddings are specially charged, sacred days that temporarily reorganize the universe entirely around love and joyousness and mirth. Muki considered this, considered his glass, and pushed a great gust of air out of his weathered lungs. His lips formed that air into words: “So be it! A man can die but once!” And then Muki started to drink and drink. He drank until 2 in the morning. Then Muki asked to be carried to a bed, groaned once, and died. He was, the paper reported, “the merriest wedding guest of them all.”

The second story is shorter: In 1912, Elizabeth Lang shot a woman dead in Indiana. The case was open-and-shut, according to The New York Times. Elizabeth offered a clear confession. “She said I was ugly. She said I was old. I killed her for that, and I am not a bit sorry for it,” she told police. If it sounds extreme, it is—I’m not going to excuse it. And yet, monitor the slight shift in your own understanding and feelings when I reveal that this incident occurred at Elizabeth’s wedding.

It’s possible these stories aren’t entirely true—that they are, instead, the truth extruded through the melodramatic, yellowish journalistic conventions of their time. But even as fables, they offer some relevant lessons.

From Muki, we learn that the ideal wedding guest is submissive. Making the day a success requires that, to some degree, everyone subsume their needs and join with a larger collective spirit of conviviality. We guests arrive when we’re told to. We wear what we’re told to. If Abba comes on, we dance to Abba—even subpar Abba, like “Fernando.” We do these things because we care; it’s the Muki in us.

And from Elizabeth, we learn never to piss off the bride and groom. Even as all of us guests work to put our individual feelings aside for the day, we must understand that the bride and groom’s desires can become grotesquely elephantine and should be allowed to carry extra weight.

These are extreme examples, of course. But you are not being asked to festively drink yourself to death. You are being asked to use a hashtag on Instagram. And if you didn’t use the hashtag, and the bride murdered you for it, that would be nuts. So no, I can’t claim you are “required” to use the hashtag. But whatever your objections, using it seems like such a trivial sacrifice. The couple is merely asking for help gathering your photos into a larger virtual collection, easily viewed by them, their guests, and their would-have-been guests (excluded by head count costs, travel expenses, family feuds, and so on).

Hashtags can be dumb. I get it, I do. But this hashtag genuinely feels like a force for good. Like the wedding itself, it’s a mechanism for bringing people together. Why stand in its way?

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Author: Jon Mooallem. Culture

02.10.16

4:35 pm

Christoph Niemann

I’ve declared evenings and weekends a digital holiday. Should I set up an email autoreply to let people know?

Compassion. Sensitivity. Openness. Tolerance. I’d like to think that these are the core values of the Mr. Know-It-All column—the imperturbable foundations on which, every month, I try to build this tiny chapel of words. I’m not going to lie: This job is intimidating! Your questions come ricocheting into my inbox from WIRED HQ, sweeping toward me like a flurry of screeching bats from the mouth of a dark cave. And it’s up to me—only me—to lasso one of those unruly mammal-birds and tame it, transmute it into something more approachable, a gentle, sweetly singing canary whose song is Truth. Admittedly, sometimes it goes better than others. (Like that weird bat-and-canary bit—that one kind of got away from me.) But my feeling is, if I approach your questions with an open heart—if I try to locate, within that cryptic line or two you’ve submitted, some glint of shared humanity and try to understand you—then I cannot fail.

But I don’t understand you. I just don’t. I read your question on Friday evening, after a hectic week. I typically like to get an early jump on knowing-it-all, but I figured—just this once—I could mull over your question all weekend and bang out a thoughtful answer just before it was due. Then I thought to myself: “Why wouldn’t you set up an email autoreply?” I assumed I was missing something.

I fell asleep wondering what it might be—wondering about you. I slept very well. On Saturday I woke up to discover my car was dead in the driveway. I jump-started it. Then my sister-in-law visited. I made some soup. Sunday: took my kids on a hike, learned to use a chain saw, caught a few minutes of The Bourne Ultimatum, cooked a so-so chicken dish.

Now it’s Monday morning. The sun is rising; the column is due. I still don’t understand you. Do you have a justifiable reason to not set up an autoreply? I can’t imagine one. (How much of an inconvenience can it be? It’s automated!) I also wondered if, in a society where we all seem slavishly and often necessarily tied to our devices—where so many of us feel perpetually on call—you worry that your obstinate rejection of email every weekend will come off, to the rest of us, as a preposterous, selfish luxury. Does an automated email responder rub your privilege in our faces?

Yes, maybe a little. But guess what else it does: IT TELLS US YOU’RE NOT THERE. Imagine if I’d reached out to you for clarification on your question on Friday. Now imagine me waiting for a reply, consulting my phone as I continued to turn your question over in my mind. Imagine how that would have colored my weekend—impinged, just a bit, on my enjoyment of my family, my soup, my chainsawing, my Jason Bourne, my chicken. And, as you depleted my various joys with your unresponsiveness all weekend long, imagine how I might have come to resent you for it.

But I don’t resent you. Because, although you say you’ve declared your weekends a digital holiday, you’ve so far only declared it to me. And thanks for that. It saved me some hassle. Me and you are totally cool.

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Author: Jon Mooallem. Culture

02.09.16

4:40 pm

Christoph Niemann

How long should you wait before shutting down someone’s Facebook account after they die?

“This is for all you lovers out there.” That’s how it begins—one of the most existentially horrifying moments in American cinema.

I’m talking about the Enchantment Under the Sea Dance in Back to the Future, in which we see a temporally displaced Marty McFly onstage, sitting in with the band on “Earth Angel” with a guitar, while his teenage parents, George and Lorraine, move toward their first kiss.

This is it: the precise, excruciatingly brief moment in which the cosmos will offer up the possibility for them to fall in love—a doorway they can step through or not step through. But if they do, it’s a straight shot from here through the sinews of the spacetime continuum to marriage, and to Marty’s birth, and to all the circumstances of life that Marty had always mistaken for the one and only, inviolable reality. But he’s wising up now. While traveling through time, he’s learning that his life, like all of our lives, is only an exquisite and provisional fluke—a haphazard product of so many collisions and coincidences that were never guaranteed. Up on the stage, he’s about to be confronted with this truth in a deep and terrible way.

You know the scene, right? It turns on an obnoxious redhead who tells George to “scram,” then cuts in between him and Lorraine and sweeps her away. Slowly, a warped and nightmarish score rises over “Earth Angel.” Marty becomes disoriented, diminished. His strength—his selfhood—is draining out of him as, out on the dance floor, that insufferable ginger cackles and whips Lorraine around like a rag doll. He is dragging Lorraine farther and farther from George—and dragging our universe (or maybe all of this is proof of a multiverse?) farther from its capacity to produce Marty’s life, diverting the sacred headwaters of his personal history.

Marty’s compromised hands batter his guitar, making a discordant mess of “Earth Angel.” He raises one hand and watches it turn … translucent! His face is stupefied, powerless. Somehow Michael J. Fox—that cocky scion of 1980s precociousness—pulls it off: this look of violated innocence and panic, of a carefree boy suddenly thrown down and dying on the battlefield of time.

What is happening to Marty? Doc Brown has already explained the process: Marty is being “erased from existence.” Stop and think about those words for a second. They are horrifying. (A thrash metal band from Belfast called Scimitar even wrote an abrasive, ear-pummeling song called “Erased from Existence,” inspired by this scene. It’s very hard to listen to.) But the worst part isn’t even that Marty himself is being erased. The true, piercing horror comes when he looks at the photograph slipped through the strings of his guitar: the one of his brother and sister and him standing against a low rock wall. Earlier in the film we’ve seen the images of his two siblings vanish from that photo, and now Marty’s image is fading too. This is what it means to be erased from existence. And this is what frightens me most: not just that Marty is vanishing but that all evidence of his life will vanish. No one will know who he was, because—here’s the thing—he wasn’t.

You ask how long you should wait before shutting down the Facebook page of a loved one who’s died. I ask why you’d ever want to delete it. Consider the ripple effects—the many ways their absence would be felt across that platform, on so many other people’s pages and their community’s collective, digital memory. Everything the deceased had said, not just on their own page but on others, would be gone. And so would everything people had said to them. They’d be instantaneously untagged from hundreds or even thousands of other people’s photos, exiled into some anonymous interloper status: a nameless human void.

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Source

https://www.wired.com/2017/03/kia-social-media-apps/

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