#((prepare for foreign monkey madness))

[marshalforgotten]

WUKONG SPOTTED!!

[crackspinewornpages]

It Can't Happen Here 6/38 -Sinclair Lewis

1 

The dining room of the Hotel Wessex was reserved for the Ladies' Night Dinner of the Fort Beulah Rotary Club. Not as picturesque but it had its moments of humor, but the whole affair was serious. “All of America was serious now, after the seven years of depression since 1929. It was long enough after the Great War of 1914-18 for the young people who had been born on 1917 to be ready to go to college...or another war, almost any old war that might be handy.”p.1 The Rotarians weren’t outwardly funny, Brigadier General Herbert Y. Edgeway’s topic, Peace Through Defense-Millions for Arms but Not One Cent for Tribute. Mrs. Adelaide Tarr Gimmitch who was known for her anti suffrage campaign and her effort to maintain the barring of divorced, or foreign movie directors who haven't sworn to the flag or Bible. (she sounds like that type of person but wait she’s much worse) 

They were all listening to General Edgeway’s rhapsody on nationalism, how the United States have no desire for foreign conquest their highest ambition is to be left alone. Their only relationship with Europe is to educate their masses of ignorants and we must prepare the shores against alien governments who eye America’s mines, forests, cities and fields. (flip that around) “For the first time in all history, a great nation must go on arming itself more and more, not for conquest-not for jealousy-not for war-but for peace.”p.2 (that sounds like an oxymoron) They all cheered save a few pacifists and Doremus Jessup, the editor of the Fort Beulah Daily Informer. 

The dinner culminated in Adelaide’s speech, she wanted to send every soldier in the Front a canary but was denied by the Quartermaster General, (of course it was) and claims she gave him a piece of her mind. (yeah she’s also a Karen but wait she’s worse) She called every soldier she met within two blocks her boy and her speech listing them all lasted an hour. Now she was busty purifying films, she had advocated for then fought Prohibition and daily sent President Hoover lengthy advice and despite being childless she wrote about Child Culture. (would you believe she’s even worse) Now she was a member of the Daughters of the American Revolution, women who boast of being descendants of seditious American colonists and attack contemporaries who believe in the principles their ancestors struggled with. They became beyond criticism, contrived to be just as ridiculous as the defunct KKK. (...insert that monkey puppet meme here) 

She went on that women did nothing with the vote, if they listened to her she could have saved them all the trouble, women must resume their place in the home. (quotes an author who thinks women should have six kids) Lorinda Pike was appalled and interrupted her, she was the village scold and crank, criticizing every interest in the county and she asked if a woman can't get a man should she have kids out of wedlock. Adelaide countered that if a woman has any charm, she won't have to hook a man, they’ll be lined up at the door. Adelaide went on that too many are selfish and won't help responsible businessmen (ha) bring back prosperity, the labor unions are money grubbers extorting their unfortunate employees. The country needs discipline, peace is a pipe dream, they need to be in a real war again to learn discipline, all this intellectuality is just a toy for grownups.  

She turns to General Edgeway to fess up that he thinks when a country goes money mad so the thrift has to pay for ne’er do wells, to get some iron in them a war might be a good thing. People clapped and cheered and Edgeway confesses that while he abhors war, there’s worse things a state, labor organizations, nations out of Russia, where professors and authors are seditious and people lacking pride of a warrior. He really wants is the country to come out to the world. “Now you boys never mind about the moral side of this. We have power, and power is its own excuse!”p.8 (no not it’s not) Italy and Germany had enough honesty to say to other nations to tend their own business, (this takes place in 1936 WWII hadn’t really ramped up yet) nobody ever loved a weakling. In 1936 there's less than seven percent of colleges that don't have military training as rigorous as the Nazis, now the youth demands it. (this sounds a lot like our modern performance activists they have no legacy or sense of purpose in life so they join whatever gives them a feeling of belonging to something) Three years ago a big percent of students were pacifists, now these meetings (calls them exhibitionist orgies) have been raided and Red students beaten so severely they won’t rise the banner of anarchism in the country. 

When he was applauded Lorinda stood up again but was interrupted by Francis Tasbrough reminding her Edgeway and Adelaide were invited to speak and she is just a guest. Then Doremus Jessup popped up that Lorinda should apologize to Edgeway. “My friend, Mrs. Pike, ought to know that freedom of speech becomes mere license when it goes too far as to criticize the Army, differ with the DAR, and advocate the rights of the mob.”p.9 (freedom is only as free as those in power allow it) They should be grateful for Edgeway explaining what the country’s ruling class really wants. He was looking at Lorinda with sternness, but Medary Cole wondered if he was actually kidding but Lorinda caroled an apology. It wasn't a bother to him and people laughed and the program ended with patriotic ditties by Louis Rotenstern. 

Rotenstern was 100 percent American and frequently stated they should keep foreigners out of the country. (slurs for everyone who’s not white bread American like Kikes Wops Hunkies and Chinks) He was convinced if ignorant politicians could keep their dirty hands off banking and labor hours, the country would profit, and everyone would be rich. (he’s like those Boomers that don’t realize those checks and associations are there for a reason then wonder why they’re sick from food after the FDA was dismantled just go read The Jungle by Upton Sinclair) After the choruses everyone said their goodbyes and gossip. Doremus’s wife Emma says he did right butting in, Lorinda always parades her Socialists ideas. As people got to their cars Frank Tasbrough invites Doremus to an after party. 

2 

After taking his wife home he went to Tasbrough’s and let the hills break up his thinking of Edgeway’s epidemic patriotism. “It was a downy town, a drowsy town, a town of security and tradition, which still believed in Thanksgiving, Fourth of July, Memorial Day, and to which May Day was not an occasion for labor parades but for distributing small baskets of flowers.”p.12 He thought about Vermont, Fort Beulah, Pleasant Hill and the people in it. “But most of the wishy-washy young people today-Going seventy miles an hour but not going anywhere-not enough imagination to want to go anyewhere!”p.13 Music by dial, phrases from comics instead of the Bible, Edgeway and Adelaide were right, maybe they do need a war. (careful what you wish for on that monkey’s paw) 

Tasbrough was the general manager and chief owner of granite quarries, rich, persuasive and had labor troubles. Now in his private barroom only Tasbrough, Medary Cole and Emil Staubmeyer were comfortable in his caped elegance. Tasbrough told Doremus to stop playing Liberal and join the family, it’s going to be ugly with the Jew Communists potting to control the country. They even tried to ruin his business and is still sore at Doremus for taking the side of the strikers. These labor racketeers and Communists are determined to ruin the country, to tell men like him how to run his business and they won't serve the country if they go to war. Doremus agrees and Senator Windrip has an excellent chance of being elected President and his buzzards will get them in some war. 

“People will think they’re electing him to create more economic security. Then watch the Terror! God knows there’s been enough indication that we can have tyranny in America-”p.16 Democracy hasn't been universal, even if it’s given industrialists too much power and money, it’s given ordinary workers more dignity. That’ll be now menaced by Buzz Windrip into a real Fascist dictatorship, Tasbrough calls it nonsense. “That couldn’t happen here in America, not possibly! Were a country of freemen.”p.17 Doremus says the hell it can't, no other country is more hysterical or obsequious, Windrip owns his state, Americans will casually accept crookedness. (just a page of examples) “Why, where in all history has there ever been a people so ripe for a dictatorship as ours!”p.17 

RC Crowley thinks it won't be so bad, why is he afraid of fascism, it’s just a word. It won’t be so bad with all the lazy bums living off his income tax, a strong man like Hitler or Mussolini and have them make the country prosperous again. Staubmeyer points out Hitler saved Germany from Marxism, he’s got cousins there, (for now) he knows, but Doremus isn’t impressed. “Lure the evils of Democracy by the evils of fascism! Funny therapeutics. I’ve heard of their curing syphilis by giving the patient malaria, but I’ve never heard of their curing malaria by giving the patient syphillis!”p.18 (this was an actual thing the doctor got a Nobel prize for it) Tasbrough thinks Crowley is right, it might be good to have a strong leader but it can't just happen here in America and Reverend Mr. Falk said the hell it can’t. 

3 

By twelve Doremus was well read and would graduate from Isaiah College where he wrote bad poetry and become a book addict and track athlete. After graduation he was a reporter, in 1901 his father died leaving him almost three grand (the inflation calculator only goes to 1913 but this is still about 96k) and his library, so Doremus moved back to Fort Beulah. Despite the Republican state he was independent in politics against injustice, considering himself the opposite of politically loose. He married Emma and had three children (Philip Mary and Sissy) and one grandchild. (David) His house he described as ugly in a nice way, he went up to his private study (two pages describing his study) and looked out over the countryside, every year he loved it even more.  

He checked his letters, one from his old college, something dangerous is rising there and they’re worried the undergrads have gone war like. “When I cautiously ask them what the dickens war they are preparing for they just scratch and indicate they don't care much, so long as they can get a chance to show what a virile proud gents they are.”p.24 The faculty was warned if they criticize any military organizations they’ll be fired and students that have proof will get extra credit. (oh they’re turning the youth against those that could speak reason) Doremus realizes Tasbrough was a trustee that voted for it and encouraged them to be Gestapo. 

4 

All week Doremus was waiting for the broadcast of Bishop Paul Peter Prang, now six weeks before the 1936 National Conventions. Senator Walt Trowbridge will be nominated for the Republican party, Senator Berzelius Windrip for the Democratic party, though it’s said his secretary Lee Sarason is the real brain. Windrip went through several colleges before settling for his home state, a boisterous speaker, willing to lend money, drank as the people did and in twenty years ruled his state. He built up the farmlands, knew America would deal with the Russians so had the state university teach the language and quadrupled the state militia, rewarding the best soldiers. The militia considered him their god so rose against the town that wanted to indite Windrip for grifting two hundred thousand in taxes. (so he has his own private army) He took the Senatorship for six years and preached of redistributing wealth and the rich given a five hundred thousand a year (about 11 million today) allowance, so everyone was happy. (I doubt the rich were actually happy) 

Reverend Dr. Egerton Schlemil once stated Windrip coming into power was like the blessed rain. “Dr Schlemil did not say anything about what happened when the blessed rain came and kept falling steadily for four tyears.”p.28 No one knew how much of Windrip’s career was really Sarason, who’s background was a mystery. (ah so it’s a puppet government pay no attention to the man behind the curtain just keep the puppet content) Officially Sarason was Windrip’s secretary, but he was more everything and most consulted in Washington and least liked by newspapers correspondents. He had done the actual writing of Windrip’s book (so it’s not really Windrip’s words then) on exhibitionist boosting economic program, Zero Hour-Over the Top. (a lot of idealistic American imagery of his childhood on a farm) The most quoted paragraph saying they have to change the system, maybe the whole constitution. (legally not by violence and if that’s not foreshadowing I don’t know what is) 

1936, the most confusing campaign, the Republicans begged for office and the Democrats were professors, city slickers and yachtsmen in wagons. Windrip’s rival was Reverend Prang, he was sentimental reviled enemies by name, told stories, he was pure Middle West. He had power over his audience, as he told them fifty thousand wrote to the congressman to vote on a bill. “Thus, by the magic of electricity, Prang made the position of any king in history look a little absurd and tinsled.”p.32 

Doremus could never forgive what political gossip he preached, nationalization of banks, mines, transportation, increase wages and strengthen unions, (these all sound great) but no one expected them to be carried out. (yeah...not surprised there) All Perang wanted was his listeners to obey him in everything (and that is dangerous in the wrong hands) and to Doremus that made him a worse fascist than Napoleon. (see even Doremus thinks so) He doesn't believe the rumors of embezzling dues to pay for his radio time. “It’s much worse than that. I’m afraid he’s an honest fanatic! That’s why he’s such a real Fascist menace-he's so confoundedly humanitarian,”p.33 So noble the majority will let him boss them in everything, a country this size it’s quite a job. All while Trowbridge, suffering from being honest, wouldn't promise miracles, they lived in America not a highway to Utopia. (even in Utopia the slaves wore chains of gold) 

5 

A quote from Windrip’s book that slanders editors, they have no interests in family or the outdoors and only plot how to put out their lies and advance their positions, preying on statesmen who give their all for the common good. (hmm sounds like he wants to discredit the press) 

Doremus’s son Philip and Mary's family popped over for the weekend, the whole family is demanding a picnic, Doremus insisted, as an editor, it was his job to listen to Prang’s broadcast. They laughed and teased him until he promised to go and snuck along a portable radio. Lorinda Pike and Buck Titus came along and the hired man, Shad Ledue, who complained because he had to carry everything. Philip tells his father he should fire him, but Doremus thinks of it as an experiment, to train him to be a gracious Neanderthal, he even reads (you’d think someone as smart as Doremus would know this kind of treatment can breed spite and resentment) and believes Windrip will be president. Philip says Windrip just shoots his mouth off but the only thing he could do is protect them from the murdering Bolsheviks and Jew spies that pose as American liberals. (this book was written in the 30s) 

They set up the picnic and have trivial conversations and admire the view. The only flare on conversation was Buck calling all these politicians new Messiahs, his favorite is Father Divine who doesn't just say he’ll feed the underprivileged in ten years, he’s already handing out food. (huh someone who actually practices what they preach) Sissy’s boyfriend Julian Falck appeared, Doremus thinks he’s nearly tolerable compared to the others. Doremus adjusted his radio and gets annoyed by the sponsors and who was singing the oldies (a male sextette called the Smoothies) he thinks the country needs Windrip, then came Prang’s broadcast. He announced he only has six more weekly petitions before the national conventions to decide the country’s fate, it’s time to act.   

He quotes the sixth chapter of Jerremiah, time to prepare for war. “Far from the leasy of them even unto the greatest, every one is given to covetousness; and from the prophet even unto the priest, every one dealeth falsely...saying Peace, Peace, when there is no Peace!”p.41 It was spoken in the book of old and again in 1936, the League of Forgotten Men has warned there is no peace and they have demanded money be taken from private banks and soldiers be given their dues, farmers and unions be recognized and be made a part of the government. They have no problem with individual Jews but these subversive organizations which are unfortunately largely Jewish, must be driven from the earth. (also says Jewish communism anarchism and atheism be stopped from all activity) How long have the politicians and Big Business pretend to listen, there is no more time. 

The ones before died on the guillotine, perhaps they can be more merciful this time with the New Constitution and New Deal. Like Windrip said, it is the Zero Hour, after months of taking counsel they secured the Democratic nomination of Berzelius Windrip. He pledges to take their advice, and they’ll back him with their money, loyalty, votes and prayers. (so of course he’ll say he’ll listen to them) Doremus had his family listen to history, Emma calls Prang a Red Radical but does it really mean anything. “Why, nothing much except that in a couple of years now, on the ground of protecting  us, the Buzz Windrip dictatorship will be regimenting everything.”p.43 Julian has tempted to turn Communist, Buck jeers they’re out of the frying pan of Windrip into the fire of Stalin, the Five Year Plan, what do they expect his horse to foal six colts a year. Dr Fowler Greenhill says, “Why, America’s the only free nation on earth. Besides! Country’s too big for a revolution. No, no! Couldn't happen here!”p.43 (people say that because they think it’s true but only those that know it could happen are the ones preemptively stopping it) 

6 

Zero Hour quote that says people could call him a socialist all they want as long as they help him slash poverty and intolerance to pieces. 

His family believed Doremus had fickle heath, he raged at their worrying but knew they had a point, but sill snuck around staying up late and smoking. These deceptions gave him satisfaction, but his wife was sad by his aging and failing health, only happy when he was snappish before breakfast meaning he was energetic with ideas. After Prang’s announcement the summer went to words, political conventions that disturbed Emma since Doremus was silent at breakfast. 

Back in the 1920s Doremus advocated to recognize Russia and Fort Beulah thought he was turning Communist. He was milder, somewhat, Liberal and disliked pomposity and the itch for notoriety. “But for all the cruelty and intolerance, and for the contempt of the fortunate for the unfortunate, he had not mere dislike but testy hatred.”p.46 He alarmed his fellow editors with his advocacy and politicking and was called a Bolshevik losing over a hundred papers in circulation. Maybe he was a little, he stopped at a Communist camp once and thought they resembled the YMCA. He once supported a strike against Tasbrough who reviled him still eight years later even after the strike lost. If Doremus wasn't from there generations of Vernaters he’d be penniless and less detached from the Sorrows of the Dispossessed. (Return With Bombs Strapped To Their Chests~   sorry reflex) Emma complains about what people must think of him, they don't understand he’s not a Socialist.  

NEXT

[talesofsonicasura]

Madness Reborn

Chapter 1: Dharma and Karma

This was a bitch to write thanks to Writer's block so it might be awkward at the end. I'm trying to add more worldbuilding as the story progresses since Hank and MK's worlds are drastically different.

By the way, this particular chapter gets gory so if you guys came for any fluff, then I'll put markers for any that wish to skip. Type of violence being dismemberment, decapitation, electrocution, bisection and such. Madness Combat is a violent especially with our protagonist Hank. Also, incoming trauma towards children! Enjoy.

*Crck!* Fragments of a fine white lotus shaped porcelain plate laid ominously on the pristine stone floor. Tortured agonizing screams and maliciously vengeful roars tore these cries of help asunder. A thick aura of hatred, torment, madness but also sorrow follows behind the fierce howls. Not one of a monster but that of a mortal.

A frighteningly familiar sensation that can only be felt by one single soul. To this person, there was one other being who once held a malevolence just as great. He had gotten a lot better since then but this soul barely had any good kharmic energy to match a candlelight.

Yet that very tiny candlelight held a chance to grow and have their dharma renew. That hope is enough for action to be taken. Start preparation for a small trip that needs to be done. If her dear monkey can have his soul saved, so too could this new foreign one.

"'I am Hank the Zhànshì, you ain't getting out of my…'/Seems my goggles and mask were taken by a squirt." It was surprisingly warm for a sunny day in the middle of Fall. Morning sun had barely broken the last sunrise remnants so most people weren't awake at this hour. The perfect time for a certain child and his giant guardian to get ready for the day ahead.

Childish laughter rang from one of the city's very few forested parks. MK was currently being held up in the air from the scruff of his shirt by Hank's tail. The assassin's goggles wrapped around the boy's head, his face mask around the child's neck. Without these two items the man's facial features were easier to see.

He had no nose, eyebrows or visible eyes. Just a huge cross on his face as the horizontal one furrowed similar to an amused person's eyebrows. The man didn't have a lower jaw but a dark grey prosthetic bearing two large fangs. Lipless upper jaw presented long razor sharp teeth for a horrid underbite. A sight made more terrifying from the long tongue which hung as Hank howled in amusement.

Well it wasn't really scary for the young boy since he impishly stuck his own tongue out. The cross for a face and floating hand were natural traits of Hank's species: Grunts or Crosslings. Both eyes alongside their mouths were just concealable. MK had seen the giant's eyes on quite a few occasions. Nearly sunken pitch black bearing ominous red slits for pupils.

For why he's so big is because Hank is a Magnified Grunt or MAG. Actually a failed one since his magnification got interrupted halfway through. Otherwise the man would've been around 7 ft at most. As for the metal jaw… "A psychopathic zombie clown eviscerated it from pummeling my head a few times." MK didn't really question that bit and took Hank's word for it.

"Now why did you snatch my goggles and face mask?" The question held an amused tone rather than what usually would be irritation for him. Another sign that MK dug himself a place in the assassin's heart: Stealing From Hank is a death sentence. He brutally killed his fair share of thieves dumb enough to try.

"They look cool so I thought about trying them on-ZHÀNSHÌ!" MK giggled uncontrollably when the assassin began licking his cheek. It wasn't the first time the man had done it. Since MAGs were closer to their animal instincts, grooming tendencies were an uncommon trait.

MK would often compare it to doggy kisses since Hank didn't have any lips. The man only stopped his licking when the kid gave him back both items. "Knew that work. Now come on, I can't get you a pair of goggles if you aren't with me at the store." He barely managed to put on the face mask before MK tackled him in excitement.

For someone barely even reaching his knees, the seven year old had some impressive strength. "Thank you bàba!" MK didn't notice the giant stiffen as his patchwork brain blue screens. He heard that word many times during his entire stay in this world so the failed MAG knew what it meant. Father.

Was…was he? 'Can I really think of myself as his bàba?' Even when MK fired a thousand questions about his new goggles while they headed over to the city's shopping district, Hank remains lost in thought. Too distracted to notice the feeling of being watched.

"What a fascinating addition to my collection. Glad I was able to snatch one of the last remaining three for such a good bargain!" Within a pitch black abyss, the silhouette of a single figure could be seen before the only light source. A fluorescent lamp that shone down on a stone statue of an enchanting fox. Its 10 tails all fanned out, sharp teeth in a vicious snarl and eyes sharp in rage. The unnerving lifelike visage of a cornered predator.

More light came pouring inside when the door to the room flew open. "Sir. I believe I found a very unique item for your collection." A photo was handed over to the shadowy person. The darkness kept many from seeing the malicious smile that etched itself on the stranger.

"How peculiar yet so intimidating! Those sharp spines, powerful claws and ferocious visage! A new species or a survivor of a near extinct one? Call an assembly now! This fantastical beast cannot slip through my fingers."

More lamps suddenly came to life one by one, each with a terrible truth. Hundreds of statues sitting atop their own pedestals. Rage, fear and even teary sorrow painted on every stone face. One empty pedestal held a picture depicting a bloody Hank standing in a street full of fresh corpses.

"Another bust!" The assassin could only pat his little ward on the head. Both of them had been searching for a place to get some goggles. A task proving harder than it should be as every store had an issue. Goggles were sold out, not in MK's size or there were no options to order any kind. Hank would have threatened the clerk like he usually does but he wasn't in Nevada and MK is there too.

Thus they lucked out from being target practice for the weapons he stole off that gang. Not like the dead pricks have any more use for them now. After the tenth shop, Hank believed a snack break was needed. He currently sat outside a sweet shop for his order of egg tarts, red bean buns and sweet egg buns while MK played on the store's small playground.

In Nevada a lot of things were very scarce to the point they're either nonexistent or overpriced to hell. Anything sugar related was just that since a desert covered wasteland isn't exactly a good place to farm, w/o bandits and Zeds. Hank's recently acquired funds would be enough to pay for the order and leave a nice tip.

The man's swaying tail came to a halt when someone sat down on his table adjacent from him. EVERYONE had given this particular spot a wideberth the moment Hank set off some killer intent. Only stopping so the waitress could take their order without issue.

He looked up to see the culprit being a human woman. Quite beautiful with neatly braided long raven hair, soft light peach porcelain skin, slim elegant figure draped in a simple pink dress covered in white lotus embroidery. Other than her closed eyes, Hank felt something was off with the woman.

A familiar otherworldly feeling that he got being around Jebus, Phobos, the Auditor and even damn Tricky the Clown. The fact he DIDN'T feel like hurting someone just solidifies it for Hank. She wasn't human but instead something closer to a god.

"I hope you don't mind me sitting here for a moment. You seemed awfully lonely so I thought of providing some company." Her voice so soft, light and soothing made Hank even more wary of her attentions. "Who are you really?"

The woman tilted her head a bit in curiosity at the miniscule killing intent from the assassin. Although it wasn't fully malicious in nature because of the child currently sliding down the plastic slide. "Just a mere curious soul. How are you doing today?"

Hank kept silent for a moment as if looking for any red flags. "Irritated." If it wasn't for this strange pacifying aura, he would be growling right now. To have something like violence engraved in your soul to suddenly be cut off from it felt WRONG for Hank.

Not even the MAG part of him could imagine causing harm . "Hey bàba! Look at what I can do!" Hank focused on MK who was now doing a handstand. The kid was slightly shaky but otherwise had great balance. His tail wagged pridefully at the sight much to the man's betrayal.

When Hank went to face the woman, she was already gone. Almost if the lady never existed if it weren't for the small note on the table and a pair of goggles… The headwear was a similar type as the assassin's but had sky blue lenses instead.

'I hope these shall greatly assist you and your child. Be wary though as more dangerous beings have taken notice of your peculiar nature. Mercy isn't something they shall give. It's best to tell the difference between a potential friend and foe.' Hank haphazardly pocketed the offending paper.

Cryptic gods were something he absolutely loathed as they liked to dance around the damn answer. Only clue he had on the lady's identity being the whole lotus motif. Maybe MK might have some answers. For now, he got the kid's goggles and a warning.

Night was quick to swallow up the day over Megapolis. Too fast for those more conscious of the dangers that prefer stirring trouble in total darkness. Hank and by proxy MK can easily agree with the sentiment. After they had enjoyed their snack break, it was about time to find a squatting spot for the night.

The earlier you are to an abandoned building, the less likely someone else would be living inside. It didn't help that they weren't having much luck either. Nearly every place in the area had eerie signs of someone still living there. Doesn't help that the occupied homes had no attics or basements they could slip inside.

As it looks now, MK and Hank will be sleeping outside tonight. The latter being more on edge about the prospect especially when that little note is still in his breast pocket. He could see and smell the signs of sabotage on every building.

It aggravated the man's animalistic maternal instincts when MK grips his hand tighter. The boy's new goggles sat neatly atop his head. Strangely the headwear was the perfect fit for the youth and felt completely comfortable to wear.

MK put on his new goggles in hopes that they give him some courage. It seemed to work as everything felt peaceful under a blue tinted view. Probably explains why Hank rarely takes his off except for bedtime or alone with his ward. Speaking of said grunt, he had finally stopped to check the city map he nabbed from a tourist stand.

"Hmm… there should be a camping store nearby. Probably get ourselves a tent or even a tarp if we're lucky." MK paid more attention to looking at the scenario with his goggles than Hank's mumbles. Right now they were in the industrial district which meant dumpsters and abandoned businesses would have all sorts of goodies to find.

Now the brunette never really saw anyone but Hank with his new goggles. Something that made his double take more reasonable when he saw someone else. It was an approaching human man with a gold aura around him intertwined by thick black smoke strands. Flairs that weren't there when MK didn't have the goggles on.

Almost if it could see… His heart dropped as blue tinted eyes saw the sheen of metal in the man's jacket sleeve. This man wants to hurt them. MK didn't know if it was the sinister smoke or the ornament butterfly knife sliding out the sleeve into an awaiting. But his right hand frantically dove towards Hank's pocket. He took whatever he pulled and… *BOOM*

*Warning! Incoming gore related violence.*

The assassin immediately went stiff from the brutal tempo of a very close gunshot. His eyes caught someone lying in a growing pool not too far from them. Part of the guy's head was gone and his new gun in a shaken MK's hands. It didn't take a genius to know what happened… Kid had gotten his first kill.

Things only grew worse once the dead man's associates came swarming out from everywhere. All human with every one brandishing weapons from swords, lances to even shock batons. A sight that flared a primal instinct within Hank. One he still wasn't used to: Protect.

MK found himself pressed securely against the giant's chest, the gun now absent from his small hands. Hank's black trenchcoat and floating hand blanketed the small boy from sight of the impending slaughter. The Failed MAG got on all three, his tail arched back like a scorpion as the pale spines on his body crackle in black electricity.

Hank took a deep breath then let out his killing intent in a bloodcurdling roar. The stillness of the night torn asunder by pure fury, hatred and malice. All unlucky to hear it were either paralyzed with fear or collapsed from the overwhelming ferocity. Even the district itself shook as every animal resident fled in sheer terror.

The duo's attackers were the unluckiest victims for whatever bravado and fighting spirit they had shattered. Realization that this particular target wasn't just a predator. No, the beast is something none of them could ever fight. They foolishly try to hunt wrath's incarnate, an Asura.

Every fighter went to turn tail, some dropping their weapons, most tripping on their feet and very few were able to turn around. A bad move for Hank viciously slammed his tail into the ground. The street shattered underneath his prey as black electricity carved out destruction.

Hank was on them in seconds for a bloke in the far back found sharp claws tearing their neck out. The sight enforced their fear of death as it seemed the giant had the power to teleport. In truth, it was something far greater: probability.

Some men manage to raise their weapons and stomach the fear. If they could at least hurt the beast then maybe there's a chance to survive. Even a sliver to capture their target as a more burly warrior swung his large battle-axe. An idea crushed literally under Hank's beartrap maw alongside the smuckerfuck's head.

The Grunt's long tongue licking up every bit of gold tinted crimson viscera on his face hurled that hope instead of just some blokes' dinner. Screams fill the night as Hank continues to paint the street red. Bullets through the heart or head were merciful compared to what happens by the beast's own hand.

Heads shredded by teeth, black electricity, boots or claws. Limbs ripped off like a doll in the hands of an angry child. The unluckiest prey found themselves bisected by hand or disemboweled by teeth. Grisly display of wrath that makes even a devil piss themselves.

Despite everything, none of that blood and gore reached the child held protectively by the 'asura'. Not a single drop when sharp teeth tore out a spine, pale spikes shred through the neck flesh, or electrically charged claws destroyed someone's rib cage. MK was shielded from the brutality and safely wept in Hank's chest.

Then something happened that made the small child still. It wasn't the fading screams of their attackers nor the heavy iron scent. Before the last thug went silent, Hank let out one last roar. "NO ONE MAKES MY BABY CRY AND WALKS AWAY ALIVE!"

*Gore ended.*

Baby… The giant who had been caring for him really thought of MK as his child. He had been on his own for so long that such a reality will always be a dream. An idea the boy craved whenever he saw children being happy with their families, blood or adopted. Something he had believed became impossible as no one would want a killer as their son. Even thought that his relationship with Hank would be nothing more than guardian and ward.

But it did come true. He really does have a family now. Something MK held onto as if fearing it would slip from his grasp. Hank enforced it because he never let go as the man looked for shelter. Even when he had finally sat down within a small temple deep in the woods and covered MK's small body with the bloodless side of jacket.

MK would soon drift to sleep from the soothing beat of Hank's heart as large arms cradle him protectively. For now, this family will rest peacefully before the statue of a woman that eerily looks like the person Hank met. Safe from the dangers that their actions will cause.

"Breaking News! A massacre consisting of 36 bodies have been found in the industrial district. Shockingly every single victim was immortal. Film production for a scene in the Monkey Cop reboot has been put on hold as officials attempt to find clues on Megapolis' vigilante dubbed The Asura. Only lead so far is the blood found in a small temple for the Goddess of Mercy, Guanyin. Strangely there was water under the statue's eye."

MK got his first kill so he's a bit messed up from it. Trust me when I say that him living on the streets was something he chose as the alternative is worse in his opinion. Hank isn't really one to express comfort in words but his actions. First kills are difficult for someone to process especially out of self defense.

And yes, it was Guanyin that Hank end up encountering. Guanyin is the Goddess of Mercy and a main character in Journey To The West as she was responsible for Sun Wukong's chance at redemption.

She is depicted as a deity who sees that every person has a chance to become enlightened in one of their incarnations. In one iteration where she was sent to the Underworld, Guanyin nearly turned all of Hell into a paradise from her good kharmic energy and King Yama, the one in charge of this realm, had to make her leave. Yeah, she practically devastated the Underworld with good vibes.

Guanyin is often depicted with a pacifying aura that practically neutralizes any chance of violence around her. Anyone, she is definitely going try and help Hank similar to Sun Wukong. For MK's goggles, to put it simply it has the ability to tell friend or foe amongst strangers.

Now for why Hank knew she was a deity in disguise, some of his enemies either had godlike powers or were some type of godly entity such as Jebus, Phobos and the Auditor.

He been on the receiving end when it comes to such things but also came in contact with a sacred artifact bearing the same power. As for the Asura, they are wrathful gods portrayed in various versions of religion including Buddhism. Sometimes they are depicted as a form Buddhas can become when their fury is summoned.

Trust me when I say that Hank and MK killing immortals is going to land them in a lot of trouble. Especially since the Collector hires immortal mercenaries more often than yaoguai. Just know that immortals are harder to kill that enchanted weapons are mostly required if one doesn't have any good alternatives such as magic.

Next chapter is the consequences and should be introduction of our two monkeys. Until next time folks, continue to thrive in the madness and I'll see you back in Megapolis. BTW, the scene with MK and Hank at the beginning is based on this.

[kit-the-dreamer]

Heyyy,man i really love you're oc knithrine!! But can i know about her backstory and perhaps her relationship with the Characters on saba??bc She really seems like a deep Character....

Anyway thanks!!!

Well, I'm happy that you have that impression of her :D. She's a character that I deeply appreciate, so someone asking about her makes me very happy ^^. I'll give you a slight peek of her backstory:

(Warning: Even if I tried to be as brief as possible, this got a liiiittle too long. Sorry ;w;)

Knithrine is a sackling that comes from a different Craftworld (that's not Sackboy nor Scarlet's) where she was chosen and trained to join the selected group of the so called Knitted Knights. As one of them, she had the important duty of protecting a special power that hid beneath their planet's story, a power that in wrong hands could cause true chaos in the whole Imagisphere.

However, their efforts only delayed what was inevitable. With her planet being a target for power-thirsty beings, the constant and brutal attacks caused it to perish, along with all its inhabitants. But she... she 'just' nearly died. Nearly. She didn't understand how or WHY she was still alive. She fell into madness after a while though, because the loneliness, the guilt, the mistakes, the consequences... she wasn't prepared to hand it all. Fortunately, a young determined soul, a survivour, found her. They managed to make her come back to her senses, so they became her reason to push forward and to try to fix the mistakes that've been made. Knithrine finally had a reason to fight for again.

She and her companion traveled in an abandoned pod through the Imagisphere for an unknown period of time looking for a solution, until they had to make an emergency landing on another planet: Craftworld. Nethless to say, they were quite surprised by that name, since they were unaware of the existence of diverse 'Craftworlds' (but that's discussion for another time).

The first foreign face that came across when the accident happened was Sackboy, who offered her a helpful hand and a resting place for them both. Since then, Knits estimates him very deeply and sees him as a brave, kind, gold hearted kid. (Sackboy's nickname: kid)

Scarlet was the second foreign face to come around. However, Knithrine seemed afraid of her everytime they interacted, something confusing for Scarlet (and Sackboy as well). This is why Knithrine refered to her as 'Madam' at first, but as confidence was built up (and a backstory was told) Knithrine forged some bonds with Scarlet and now calls her Scar(s) or just Ma'am.

A third character she interacts with (at some point) is Vex. She had met him before though, but when she still lived on her planet. They never really talked to each other though, since they only saw each other on the battlefield. Strangely enough, when she encountered him along with Sackboy and Scarlet later on, she acted kind and friendly with him. Were her actions kind hearted, with a will of giving the villain a second chance? Or were they just foolish and naive? Anyone can judge really. However, she stands that she has her reasons to be.

For the other SABA characters, I'll just make a quick list of their relationship with Knithrine:

• Gerald Strudleguff: She likes sharing evolution theories with him, as well as making sure that there are no anomalies in the surroundings that can negatively affect the fauna. She added ''Reading 'Creatures of the Imagisphere: by G. Studleguff' " to her 'to do' list.

• Mama Monkey: Knits likes her motherly acting and admires her strong and brave character when it comes to protecting her Baby Monkeys (these ones are good company for her 'apprentice'). Mama Monkey has sometimes given advice and comfort  when she's on a low, and can clearly identify when Knithrine is feeling troubled even if she tries to hide it.

• King Bogoff: Knithrine isn't a huge fan of him. His avarice sometimes makes her feel kinda angry because she finds annoying the fact that Bogoff puts his treasures' importance above anything else. However, she wants to think that he has a reason to act out like that, maybe some sort of trauma? She doesn't know, but has the desire to find out and help him with it (if there's actually a true problem), but hasn't made much of a progress yet.

• N.A.O.M.I.: Knithrine likes her (in a friendly way). Her way to be makes her feel comfortable around her. She loves learning new tech stuff with her, specially since she needed help to fix her crashed pod. They built up a good relationship.

Aaaand that'd be it for now :P

I hope I didn't bored you with all of this, but beleive me, this could've been waaaay longer.

Thanks a lot for your ask!! ♡°.•

[liamscxtt]

Dear past me

Dear past me,

You’re in for one hell of my a ride, my dude — and as much as I would like to tell you that it’s a good one, I can’t.

Your life is going to be filled with more pain and heartache that one would argue is too much for any normal being to stand. You’re going to fall time and time again, and the person you want most to be the one to pick you back up won’t be there. Truth be told, you’re going to have to grow up, and you’re going to have to grow up FAST. Your whole world will change in just a matter of an hour; and everything about the world you once thought you knew so much about, will suddenly be different. Foreign, even. You will suddenly feel like the little boy you once were, running around and jumping off those monkey bars because you didn’t know how much the ground will hurt — just to fall down and start crying your eyes out because that shit hurt like a bitch.

I want to take a moment to tell you a few things, the first being: don’t take any part of life for granted. When your coach yells at you and tells you to do another sprint, don’t give him an attitude and just do that shit; that could be the last time you are able to run for a while. When your teacher desperately tries to do those corny group activities that are meant to hit deep into the soul, don’t make fun and take it seriously; those are the lessons that you’re going to take with you when you graduate. When that annoying english teacher gives you crap about the assignment you missed and causes you to sit out the next game, I’m not going to say don’t get mad because that’s hard to do, but try to understand where she’s coming from; turns out, she’s going to be the best teacher you’ve ever had, and you’ll one day realize she was just trying to look out for you and prepare you for the real world…and you’ll realize this when it’s too late.

And the biggest thing I want to say: when your parents want to do things together as a family, things you might find stupid like family game night or a trip to Dairy Queen, just do it, and stop fucking complaining about it; you don’t have that much more time to spend together as a unit. The Fantastic Four, they used to call us. When your sister wants to spend the whole day watching Harry Potter movies, you’re going to want to stab your eyes out with rusty nails, but still watch them — and actually pay attention; one day you’re going to watch them on your own and wish that you had remembered the fun facts she was so proud of knowing…the fun facts people like us don’t really care about. Enjoy your birthday, and enjoy celebrating it with your twin; one day, you’ll have the day all to yourself, and it won’t feel as great as you think it will. If anything, that’s the day you feel most alone, and long for the presence of your literal other half.

Savor each moment, William. Savor those Friday night lights out on the field. Savor the post-win dinners at the diner with your teammates and family. Savor all of the lessons that your teachers teach you, and ask lots and lots of questions about both school and life, especially the older ones — the know a lot, and they speak from experience. Savor those summer nights you spent with Grace and Sky making their lives a living hell and get them into as much trouble as you can — turns out, they’re your best friends, and the ones who will go to hell and back for you. Savor those family picnics and vacations…and savor your sisters sweet voice. Save every voicemail, video, anything you can so that voice doesn’t slip away into the depths of our memory. That’s going to be the sound that keeps you grounded whenever you feel like giving up.

There are days you’re going to absolutely hate everything and everyone, including yourself. There will be days where you pity yourself and assume that thing will be easier if you just give up. There will be days you don’t even want to be here anymore, because life is just too damn hard, painful, and lonely. Don’t ever give up, no matter what anyone tells you.

Because just as there are the bad days — and trust me, it seems like there are more bad than good — there are some days that are pretty bearable. You’re going to surprise yourself every single day with just how much you can do, and soon you’ll realize that although you’re broken, you’re a fucking survivor. Not a victim. A. Fucking. Survivor.

You’ll learn how to walk again, despite doctors telling you otherwise; walk, run, go on hikes — do everything you can, while you can. You’ll live out your sisters legacy by doing your absolute best in school, being kind to everyone around you, and living out her dreams of going to one of the top schools. And not only that, but you’ll be starting your second degree, when teachers in high school would’ve never even imagined you finishing off one. You won’t take shit from anyone, and you’ll put anyone and everyone in their place, but you’ll still have a bleeding heart for those who are dear to you. You’ll keep your cards close to your chest and won’t allow anyone to hurt you; nobody can hurt you as much as he hurt you.

You’re going to struggle, a lot. There will be times you’ll go days without a real meal, and there will be times you get absolutely no sleep, because campus security kicked you off campus and you saw a drug deal gone wrong on one of the side streets in downtown. You’ll have early morning just so you can shower and make yourself look like a decent human. You’ll live off of coffee, water, and protein bars. There will be days where you can only afford water and nothing else, but you’ll figure that shit out. You always do.

And remember this — 95% of people living on this earth would not be able to go through the shit you went through and make it out mentally sane or alive. You did that shit. Nobody else. You. Nobody will never be able to truly understand you, but you should be proud of the person you will become. Grace would.

You probably won’t read all of this, but I hope you take everything in when it’s happening. Because it’ll all be taken away from you, but you’ll be okay. You’re smiling and laughing a lot right now, and that smile will soon go away — but I hope you get it back soon. Now go bust your ass and get good grades without stealing Grace’s notes. Turns out, academic scholarships go a much longer way than athletic scholarships do.

Take care, number 12. There’s nothing in this world that can take you down.

With love,

The man who wished he knew better

[afrojonathan]

Day 19: Marrakech, Morocco

Marrakech is a chaotic feast for the senses, and I (mostly) love it. I can’t stress enough how insane it is. But first, in the interest of being boring and chronological, let’s talk flights (I think this is what they say in the biz is “burying a lead”).

My 11-hour flight to Istanbul wasn’t nearly as bad as I thought. I didn’t sleep much the night before (by design), so it was pretty easy to just pop on a flick (my second-only movie, in the theaters or at home, since 2017 [the first being Rocketman a few months back]) and zone out. Other than the jarringly loud announcements from time to time, I was able to pass out with a good travel pillow (TRTL v2). The only real issue is my ankles were pretty swollen (this would affect me later).

In Istanbul, I had ~7 hours to kill in the massive airport, but opted to find a comfy chair and sleep for most of it. All the marketing for Turkey did its job, as I was very intrigued to come back for a visit. I thought about it for this trip, but it’s not recommended by the US government. Not sure if things will calm down (crazy dictator), but if so, it seems a worthwhile trip. Again, great marketing!

I wasn’t thrilled to support an airport Starbucks, thinking how I’d rather support a small business...then I realized we’re in a massive airport. None of these are small businesses. I then felt justified my boring globalism choice.

Upon landing in Morocco, I was pleased to see that while it was hot, it was nothing compared to Qatar earlier in the trip (95 vs 115). I got a transfer to my hostel (more of a luxe hotel), and quickly started to realize just how careful I’m going to need to be around the mopeds that seemingly whip out of every nook and cranny. As my brother Garrett said, “you’d think there’d be no way a moped could be here” and, yup, there it is! And it’s going outrageously fast!

I also checked with my driver how my Arabic pronunciation was for “hello/peace be with you” (a salaam alaikum) and “thank you” “shukran”. I got the thumbs up, perhaps out of politeness, but it gave me confidence. 

Once checked in, my first move was to try to find a pharmacy (my mistake was A) losing my hair product and B) not getting contact solution in Cape Town). I dressed appropriately(ish) with long pants and a linen shirt, and off I went into the medina (the crazy markets of the old town). It is pretty chaotic. People beckon you at all times, and you really need to be headstrong and ignore them. One guy kept following/leading me via moped for a few minutes even though I never once said a word to him. It’s rather annoying, but important not to get rattled. 

The pharmacy was closed, and of course, many other people tried ushering me into another store when they heard me ask. I eventually found a barber who sold me some product after haggling, but it turns out it’s not really what I needed. This would not be the first incorrect hair product I bought.

I went back to the hostel to regroup for a second, as it’s really quite an intense and amazing experience (I thought, not yet knowing the insanity that night would bring). I then found a cab station to take me to the “new city” to go to a pharmacy. I haggled the price here, because of course. 

The gentleman spoke very little English, and clearly did not know of an open pharmacy (it was Sunday afternoon, after all), so we drove around for quite a while. He was asking people on the street, and eventually we found one that only had 1 of the 3 things I needed (toothpaste, not contact solution or hair product. I was proud of my miming skills here, as that interaction with the pharmacist was English-free). I got a ride back to the “old city” market area, and stopped at a rooftop restaurant for some Couscous Royal. I feel I may have paid the tourist price (~$10), but it was a peaceful and breezy respite from the markets below. After eating, I was back to the hostel for just a moment before venturing out into the medina at night. This is where the real sensory overload takes hold.

I noted my swollen ankle was bothering me a fair bit, but there’s nowhere really to even sit and pause a moment, The second you take out your phone or stop walking, you’re being harassed. Completely ignoring folks and not making eye contact is super key. I first headed towards a UNESCO World Heritage Site called Djemaa el Fna Square, but on the way, winding through so many streets. Your eyes feast on the colors of blankets, lamps, t-shirts, random toys, etc while your nose enjoys the popcorn, spices, candies, hookah, etc. The medina was so much more crowded at night, which actually made me feel safer. I stood out less in the crowd, and wasn’t harassed quite as much. Plus, at least I was trying to fit in the culturally appropriate dress, versus the tourists wearing shorts, skirts, tank tops, etc. I even at one point saw a group that looked confused and out of place and I said “stupid tourists” as if I’m not one. Yes, perhaps I’m not blending in, but I’m not overtly sticking out. 

Adding to the insanity and throngs of people is the fact that folks are regularly mo-pedding through this all. You think “this place is wall to wall people, no way a moped will try get through this. Incorrect you would be! It could be scary for sure, but you realize the locals seemingly know what they’re doing, aren’t drunk (Muslim country after all) and probably won’t hit you if you don’t make any sudden moves. I did get a wee bit clipped (just an arm hair), and you note many of the bikes are missing a mirror (probably dinged off on a tourist’s elbow). Now, the biggest problem is it seems they rent these to tourists as well, so every so often you see an uneasy foreigner trying to navigate, which throws the whole delicately balanced chaos into unbalanced chaos. I saw 2 minor moped-to-moped collisions, but they seemed relatively unphased by it all. It’s all insane, and they really should not be renting mopeds to tourists. At all. But I imagine if you’re willing to pay, you can get anything. (Including a “drug dealer” who whispered to me that he could get me hashish).

With my valuables wedged in my tight pants pockets, I moved through the crowd with what I thought was a perfect speed. Not so fast that I couldn’t take it all in, but not so slow as to get harassed by the shopkeeps. I made it to the Djemaa el Fna Square, and I’m not sure anything could have prepared me for this.

There were so many brightly lit stands set up in a massive square (so, a very different feel than the narrow, windy streets I was just in, and it reminded me a bit of the madness of Oktoberfest). Merchants and people everywhere. There were street performers banging drums and dancing. There were snake charmers wailing on flutes and men carrying monkeys (I tried to pay them little mind as I believe this is a very bad practice for all animals involved, and if you look too long, you’re being harassed). Men are hocking balloons and light up aerial toys. There are women proselytizing in Arabic and crowds cheering and applauding. In Arabic, whatever they’re saying sounds so violet/guttural to my ignorant ears, but they’re probably just speaking about equality or something. I did my best to be a New Yorker, taking in everything around me without being obvious, even as my senses were being assaulted. Except for buying more (ineffective) hair product. 0/2, and this trend would continue.

At the far end of the square and across a street was a mosque (I think) with a massive tower that was doing the call to prayer. Never sure if it’s OK to take pictures during that time, I was surreptitious with my picture taking (as I was in the medina markets as well). But let’s talk about crossing streets.

I consider myself a savvy and aggressive street-crosser, but this was at a whole new level. People are weaving between fast-moving cars and mopeds, the green walk sign is merely a suggestion (the traffic keeps creeping through the throngs of people), and when the green walk sign goes away with no warning, do NOT be in the street. My sore ankle needed to propel me mere feet away (like, one meter, to use local measurements) from fully accelerating traffic.

I noted all the colorful dressings of the women in burkas, surprised with the fact that the standard black was not all that common. I ended up taking a few surreptitious pictures of these women in front of the tower as well, but tried not to be disruptive. I’m the right kind of tourist! (This is what I tell myself).

Back into the medina to do some more exploring and sneaky picture taking. One man said to me “sir, what kind of spice do you want”, and I wondered why he thought I would want a pile of turmeric, cumin, cinnamon, or anything else. My ankle was really bothering me now, but I was so enchanted by the medina at night. The shops on the outskirts started to close at 9, and this is where it starts to get creepy. If you stay in the well lit and heavily-populated areas, all good. However, it is very easy to take a turn (or just keep walking straight) and end up in a more locals part of the market where you are really standing out. This was not the best, and it felt like a race against time as I was trying to head out and back to my hostel. As you’re walking, things get less lit, and shops are shuddering loudly all around you. 

I felt I had overstayed my welcome, and now people kept telling me it was closed and tried ushering me in different directions. It was getting harder to ignore folks now as they were touching me and trying to corral me towards “the exits”. Perhaps they were well-intentioned, but I don’t think everyone there is “my friend”, as they say. I continued to not talk to people and stormed past them, definitely on high alert as I backtracked towards the populated area, being followed and harassed. This is one thing I learned quickly - in NY, I never try to backtrack, always looking “cool” and knowing where I’m going. Here, you’ll hit dead ends where you shouldn’t be. You need to suck it up and walk right back past the people who are trying to wrangle you.

I made it back to the crowds and action (I could tell because there were people in shorts and t-shirts [damn tourists!]), but realized this was a temporary reprieve. I would likely need to go back to the quieter areas en route to my hostel. The internetz weren’t working, so I couldn’t get directions (instead following along my map as it was tracking my movements, but couldn’t tell me specifically where to go). I tried to really look purposeful with my walking, as any time you pull out your phone “my friend” is bellowed towards you and people try to send you one way or another. I also was kind of limping now due to my ankle, which, too, was unideal. 

I finally navigated (some by memory, though the medina looks so different at night) and some by barely working map back to the hostel, and found myself involuntarily and audibly sigh with relief. I loved the experience, but the constant needing to be on your guard, and the end of the night where I felt a bit helplessly lost was a bit much. Plus, y’know, I had flown 17 hours and had a 7-hour layover prior to all of this. 

‘Zauhsted, I hit the hay at 10:30, looking forward to the insane adventures that Morocco held for me the next day.

[isakthedragon]

Super Sonic Thieves Chapter 20

Chapter 20- Kung Tsao Rooster

The Set-Up:

Sonic, narrating: “Wait, hang on, who’s left for us to defeat again?”

Sly, narrating: “Unfortunately, it just so happens to be the terrible General Tsao. To put it bluntly, he is very sexist to women, thinking he can force them to marriage and be his *ahem* ‘wife’, which is more like a servant. We fought him when we helped Panda King rescue his daughter from marrying him, and he’s definitely tougher than he looks. He’s strong, brazen, and will do anything he can to get what he wants. He even found our safe house and took Bentley’s computer right out his hands, just in an effort to stop us. Since he has left prison though, I’m guessing he’s looking for someplace to conquer and make his home. And he kicked a puppy supposedly.”

Cream, from afar, but hearable: “NO! Not the puppy!!”

Sonic, narrating: “Don’t worry, Cream, we’re going to teach him a thing or two. He seems to be visiting a part of our world that looks more Chinese than anything and take over there. We are going to stop him before he harrasses anyone else.”

-----

Zone Layout: The first two acts here take place in the daytime, crossing the Great Wall, long and winding dragon statues, and large lines of pagodas, and even going across the river the dragon boats cross on. The last two Acts take place at night, following along the river of Chun-nan’s village, which is being terrorized by General Tsao.

Enemies:

Pig-bots: Robot replicas of General Tsao’s pigs. Similar to Tsao’s original pig guards, they will either try to karate chop you or send a missile shaped like a dragon head at you that needs to be avoided. Carries 22-24 coins and has a 10% chance of treasure to pickpocket.

Monk-keys: Robotic copies of Tsao’s monkeys with all the downloadable knowledge of kung-fu. But since these are Tsao’s guards, they still aren’t very smart. Carries/drops 26-28 coins and has a 25% chance of treasure to pickpocket.

Tigerots: Eggman’s robotic copies of Tsao’s impressive tiger guards. Be careful around these robots, as not only do their punches hurt, they also carry spears that they can throw and poke you with.  Carries/drops 26-31 coins and has a 50% chance of treasure to pickpocket.

Mantis Vampires: For once not robotic duplicates of Tsao’s guards by Eggman but the real deals, Tsao managing to strike a deal with the mad scientist to keep. The Mantis Vampires were servants of General Tsao’s ancestors that, upon their deaths, were reanimated into undeath by the Tsao family’s dark magic, becoming hopping vampires. Fortunately, given the nature of vampires, they cannot appear in the day, but at night… The Mantis Vampires move slow, but they come in large numbers and explode upon death. Ranged attacks recommended. They drop any amount of coins when they explode.

Egg Launcher: These missile happy robots will send their payloads after you relentlessly until they are destroy. They can fire horizontally, vertically, or both. Drops 26 rings when smashed.

Egg Fighter Knight: They’ve come back bigger and tougher, and will fight to the bitter end. Though, since these knights don’t play fair, back attacks are fair game. Drops 28 rings when smashed.

Egg Cannons: They fire cannonballs at you in an effort to trip you up. They’re built strong so a few hits are going to be needed to take these out. Drops 30 rings when smashed.

Dark Master: The wizard force of Dark Gaia that can heal its friends and attack with a ball of energy at you. Drops 32 rings when defeated.

Deep Nightmare/Nightmare: The big grunts of the Dark Gaia force, they use their stretchy arms to attack at different ranges. Drops 34 rings when smashed.

Titans: Equal to being the Dark Gaia commanders, they carry around wooden clubs and swing them, but can also create shockwaves to unbalance enemies. Drops 36 rings when smashed.

Treasures:

From Guards:

Bronze Coin: Worth 125 coins and 63 rings.

Silver Coin: Worth 145 coins and 73 rings.

Gold Coin: Worth 165 coins and 83 rings.

From Pedestals:

Legendary Hot Dog: Found in one of the pagodas in Act 1. Worth 2500 coins and 1250 rings.

Golden Dragon Fangs: Found on one of the islands in Act 2. Worth 2600 coins and 1300 rings.

Ageless Scroll: Found in a temple in Act 3. Worth 2700 coins and 1350 rings.

The coins have a dragon for the design on them.

-----

Dragon Road Zone Act 1: Espio and Sly tackle the first act here, in broad daylight. Hmm… Anyway, the player runs and sneaks across the Great Wall that Sonic used to run on before. This then diverts to large pagodas and dragon statues that span across the water, with plenty of guards keeping watch for the player. The act ends when Sly and Espio have to divert by jumping off a bridge to the water and little islands below.

*At the start.*

Sly: “Huh, this place looks quite similar to our China, but it’s not China…”

Espio: “We call this place Chun-nan. From what I saw in your world, it is safe to say this place is just our world’s version of your China.”

Sly: “Well, that makes things easy. Well… I never thought I’d be thieving in broad daylight.”

Espio: “There’s still plenty of shadows from the cliffs, and I know you can just make yourself a shadow.”

Sly: “Yeah. Well, time to get sightseeing, and thieving.”

*After a lot of running from dash panels and twisty roads.*

Sly clutches his head, which has the ‘Dizzy’ stars floating around: “WHOA!!! God… that was really fast…”

Espio chuckles: “It’s a nice workout for the legs.”

Sonic, over the binocucom: “Sounds like you guys are having fun over there.”

Sly: “Yeah… minus the sore legs and spun head.”

*Near the end of the act, on the bridge.*

Sly: “Hmmm… no enemies.”

Espio: “Is that a bad sign?”

Sly: “Since this is General Tsao we are after? Yeah. This is leading to a trap.”

General Tsao, over a speaker as enemies start appearing from the ends of the bridges: “Stupid Cooper and Gang! You are trespassing on my property! Prepare to die by my forces!”

Espio: “We’re surrounded.”

Sly: “Not quite. Looks like we’re going swimming.”

*The player jumps off and lands on an island below to end the act.*

---

Dragon Road Zone Act 2: Sonic and Dimitri hydroplane and swim across the Dragon Boat river channel in an attempt to find a sneaky way in and get the drop on General Tsao. Thankfully, Sonic can’t drown here and will just end up under the water, where there some rings for lucky lookers, but he’ll have to find a new landmass to hydroplane on again. The act ends when they find the fishing area for Chun-nan.

*At the start.*

Dimitri: “Finally! Some water I can take a dip in. Now so swift and agile like a fish!”

Sonic: “I hope you can keep up with me when I hydroplane across the water.”

Dimitri: “I can keep up. I got speed, bro. I aint no slowpoke.”

*When passing by some Dragon Boats.*

General Tsao, on loudspeakers: “Be on the lookout for the Cooper gang and any friends of theirs. Don’t think of being a hero.”

General Tsao: “In fact, I am offering to spare the life of whoever brings me the head of Cooper, dead!”

General Tsao: “Also, all women in Chun-nan are forced to attend to a wedding ceremony to be entered into marriage to me!! Anyone who disobeys or abets to hiding will be killed instantly!”

---

Dragon Road Zone Act 3: For Bentley and Vector, night has fallen as they trek their way to the main village itself. Unfortunately, General Tsao has brought his hopping, exploding Mantis Vampires to act as an extra guard to any trespassers. And even worse, his dark magic influence seems to have awoken the Gaia forces, and they’re prowling around too, though they seem to just be attacking anything that’s passing by (I mean, how would you like it if someone just brought their dead to your land?). Bentley and Vector will have to keep their wits and strength together to fight their way up the cliffs and into Chun-nan itself. The act ends when they reach a familiar night temple…

*At the start.*

Vector: *Sniffs* “Mmm, fishing village. Delicious. I believe we are at the lowest point in Chun-nan.”

Bentley: “So we’re going to have to follow the cliffs up to the village itself?”

Vector: “Yeah. It’s quite a beautiful night.”

Bentley: “There certainly is a beauty here… but something worries me, and I can’t put a finger on it.”

*When they enter an open space, Mantis Vampires appear first…*

Bentley: “Whoa!?! General Tsao brought his hopping vampire?! This is going to be way harder than we thought!”

*...Soon followed by Dark Gaia forces.*

Vector: “Oh, no! Not the Dark Gaia force too! Those monsters are even harder to kill than Eggman’s robots!”

*Thankfully, they both start fighting each other that culminates in defeated Mantis Vampires, then defeated Dark Gaia minions once the corpses explode.*

Bentley and Vector: “Huh?”

Tails, over the binocucom: “I think I can answer why, but first, is General Tsao’s vampires brought by dark magic?”

Sly, over the binocucom: “Yeah, they’re his past servants weaved with dark magic to be his loyal force.”

Tails, over the binocucom: “Hah, he’s a fool! Both his vampires and the Dark Gaia forces are trying to occupy the same magical space, but since the Dark Gaia were here first, they’re attacking the foreign entities from entering their home! This is the perfect distraction to get by!”

Bentley: “Nice. I see General Tsao didn’t think too far ahead in his plans. He’s brazen, but dumb, and dumb won out here.”

Vector: “Still, we better be careful when a victor emerges. We’ll have to fight what’s left to get by.”

*Once in Chun-nan proper.*

Vector: “We’re in Chun-nan village now. Where is General Tsao?”

Bentley: “I am calculating that he might be in that temple?”

Vector: “The Gaia Temple… yeah, that’s a good stronghold.”

---

Dragon Road Zone Act 4 (BOSS): Rouge, Amy, Blaze, Marine, and Carmelita arrive outside the Gaia Temple, where General Tsao has cockily made his stand…

General Tsao sees the ladies come his way. “What the? Where the hell are Cooper and his gang?”

Carmelita: “They decided to help on the villagers, and they thought it was a good idea to send the girls to fight you.”

General Tsao: “Hah! You girls dare to challenge me? You pathetic women are too wimpy to even be able to damage me! Go back home and call the men over, who are looking just as pathetic for letting the females fight.”

Rouge: “No! You’re going to fight us!”

Amy: “We’re not as weak as you think we are!”

Blaze: “Let’s see you call us weak when we burn you!”

Marine: “Argh, this fool is too crazy. Even ladies make good Cap’ts!”

Carmelita: “Besides, it was Sly’s idea to have you fight us, just to piss you off. And I specifically remember making fried chicken out of you when you ‘married’ me, thanks to Sly.”

General Tsao: “Grr… it still burns... Fair enough. Prepare to die, worthless women!”

Boss: General Tsao

General Tsao is just as dangerous as he was before, what with his kicks and his spike shield, and magical dragon heads, and his undead Mantises trying to pull you into the ground. He’s going to go all out on you, and there’s no bamboo to save your life. But, then again, when you have Rouge’s flight and kicks, Amy’s hammer, Blaze’s flame aura, Marine’s hydrokinesis and Carmelita’s shock pistol, General Tsao may just have met his match… or so you’d think���

*Once ‘defeated’*

Carmelita: “You better give up, Tsao, before we do more than just rustle your feathers.”

General Tsao: “Grr… you ladies are a bit more powerful than I expected… but let’s see how you are…” *He jumps down to the river below, but then comes back up on a Clockwerk bird that looks to be a mix of his dragon from Sly 3 and Clockwerk birds from before.* “... My Dragon Clockwerk!”

*He flies into the air, and just starts attacking the village with fire.*

--

*Meanwhile*

*Sonic and Cream have entered the inner sanctum of the Gaia Temple.*

Cream: “Why have you taken me in here, Sonic?”

Sonic: “So you talk to somebody to provide extra help to our friends outside. Hey, Chip!”

*A small green ball appears from the back wall, then approaches them. In a flash, it turns into a ghostly image of a friend named Chip.*

Chip: “Oh! Hey, Sonic! Long time no see! Well, since you defeated Eggman in that orange bandicoot’s world whose name escapes me at the moment.”

Sonic: “It was Crash, but that’s not important. We need some help to defeat someone outside the Temple.”

Chip: “Ah… that General Tsao that the locals have been mentioning in their prayers recently. But I can’t really do much though… least not directly.”

Sonic: “Well, you control the Phoenix here, right?”

Chip: “Again, indirectly, but yeah. Why?”

Sonic: “Perhaps Cream might be able to control it?”

Cream: “Oh? Me?”

Chip: “Hmmm… I do sense that happy, bubbly, pure of heartness in her. Maybe you’re right, Sonic!”

*Chip calls the Phoenix, which appears in a burst of flames.*

Sonic: “Go ahead, Cream. Say hi to it. I fully believe you’ll be okay.”

Cream: “Okay…”

*Cream walks up to the Phoenix, which takes notice of her by dropping its head down to examine her. After a couple seconds, the Phoenix drops the flames surrounding it, showing it respects Cream, and even drops its head further enough that Cream can pat and scratch its chin. The Phoenix chirps to the affection.*

Chip: “Whoa! How did you know, Sonic?!”

Sonic: “Well, if the Chao like her, it doesn’t seem like much of a stretch any beast would like and be tamed by her.”

Chip: “Ah… hmmm… so that means your going to let Cream take the Phoenix out to eliminate General Tsao?”

Sonic: “If that’s alright, Chip.”

Chip: “Well, it’s indirect help… and she’s definitely going to take good care of it… ah, go ahead, Cream. He’s yours whenever you visit Chun-nan.”

Cream: “Thank you, Mr. Chip!”

Chip: “Heh, don’t mention it. Well, I better get back. Just return him once your done. Back to the ether with Dark Gaia.” *In the same green flash, he returns to a green ball and goes back into the temple wall.*

Sonic: “Okay, Cream, go get General Tsao!”

Cream: “You got it!”

--

*Soon, Cream gets the Phoenix flying after the Dragon Clockwerk as Sonic rejoins the girls.*

Blaze: *Gasp* “The Phoenix… but how? Not many are allowed to see the gods.”

Sonic: “I had an in with Chip. And guess who’s controlling it?”

*The Phoenix flies by and a faint voice of Cream can be heard saying hi to them.*

Amy: “Wait, Cream is controlling that thing? That’s dangerous!”

Sonic: “The Phoenix likes her. Even wanted to be petted by Cream.”

Blaze stammers: “W-what?! L-likes her?! I-i-i…”

Amy: “Well, she is a pretty sweet girl. Guess even gods can tell a good caretaker from the bad and neutral.”

Blaze: “I-i-I suppose…” *In thought: “She’s very lucky.” *

Sonic: “Well, let’s watch the show, heh he.”

Boss: Dragon Clockwerk

With a little help from Chip, Cream’s good hearted nature has awoken both him and the Phoenix that resides here. With his blessing, Cream is allowed to jump on and control the bird as they fly into the sky and take out General Tsao’s Dragon Clockwerk. Since the bird is literally on fire, just contact will damage the Clockwerk already, though it may not be smart to stay too close as it can still use its claws to return damage back. Of course, you could use the Phoenix’s ranged quill missiles to do greater damage, but that can only be used so many times until it needs recharging. The dumb Dragon Clockwerk still spits fireballs, which can be used to both heal and restock the Phoenix’s quills, though the fireballs still have momentum enough to push you back a bit. Just keep on the attack and General Tsao will soon be stopped for good.

*Once defeated, the Dragon Clockwerk crashes and explodes and knocks General Tsao back to the ground, where he is immediately arrested. The Phoenix lands and Cream joins them again.*

Cream: “Yay! The Phoenix and I did it!”

General Tsao, before losing consciousness: “The mighty Tsao… defeated by a little girl… so much shame…”

Carmelita: “You’re a shame already. She’s just rubbing it in your face.”

-----

The Getaway:

Sonic, narrating: “We returned the Phoenix back to Chip, and sent Tsao back where he belonged when Penelope gave some good news.”

Penelope: “Good news, everyone! I’ve figured out where and who the signal is coming from!”

Bentley: “That’s awesome, Penelope! I knew you could do it. Greatest hacking mind right here.”

Penelope: “Aw, shucks… *Ahem.* Any way, I’ll start with the where. It seems to be coming from; drumroll please…”

*Murray does a drumroll on his belly.*

Penelope: “Space! Heh… specifically, from the exosphere!”

Bentley: “Huh? That should be impossible.”

Sonic: “Not quite. I think I know where he is. But, moving on, what about who?”

Penelope: “Using DNA provided by INTERPOL, along with Science, and a healthy dose of Supernatural, I have determined our dead guy to be… Arpeggio!”

Sly: “But he died and was quickly eaten by Clock-La. I saw that.”

Sonic: “Again, it’s possible, and it means a machine of his is better than ever. We better hurry and find Eggman.”

Next Time: It’s time to deal with the big Eggman himself. Quick, to the new and improved Eggman’s Incredible Interstellar Amusement Park!

[enchantingtigerbarbarian-blog]

Chapter 2 - TRUMP TOWER

TRUMP TOWER

On the Saturday after the election, Donald Trump received a small group of well-wishers in his triplex apartment in Trump Tower. Even his close friends were still shocked and bewildered, and there was a dazed quality to the gathering. But Trump himself was mostly looking at the clock.

Rupert Murdoch, heretofore doubtlessly certain Trump was a charlatan and a fool, said he and his new wife, Jerry Hall, would pay a call on the president-elect. But Murdoch was late—quite late. Trump kept assuring his guests that Rupert was on his way, coming soon. When some of the guests made a move to leave, Trump cajoled them to stay a little longer. You’ll want to stay to see Rupert. (Or, one of the guests interpreted, you’ll want to stay to see Trump with Rupert.)

Murdoch, who, with his then wife, Wendi, had often socialized with Jared and Ivanka, in the past made little effort to hide his lack of interest in Trump. Murdoch’s fondness for Kushner created a curious piece of the power dynamic between Trump and his son-in-law, one that Kushner, with reasonable subtly, played to his advantage, often dropping Murdoch’s name into conversations with his father-in-law. When, in 2015, Ivanka Trump told Murdoch that her father really, truly was going to run for president, Murdoch dismissed the possibility out of hand.

But now, the new president-elect—after the most astonishing upset in American history—was on tenterhooks waiting for Murdoch. “He’s one of the greats,” he told his guests, becoming more agitated as he waited. “Really, he’s one of the greats, the last of the greats. You have to stay to see him.”

It was a matched set of odd reversals—an ironic symmetry. Trump, perhaps not yet appreciating the difference between becoming president and elevating his social standing, was trying mightily to curry favor with the previously disdainful media mogul. And Murdoch, finally arriving at the party he was in more than one way sorely late to, was as subdued and thrown as everyone else, and struggling to adjust his view of a man who, for more than a generation, had been at best a clown prince among the rich and famous.

* * *

Murdoch was hardly the only billionaire who had been dismissive of Trump. In the years before the election, Carl Icahn, whose friendship Trump often cited, and who Trump had suggested he’d appoint to high office, openly ridiculed his fellow billionaire (whom he said was not remotely a billionaire).

Few people who knew Trump had illusions about him. That was almost his appeal: he was what he was. Twinkle in his eye, larceny in his soul.

But now he was the president-elect. And that, in a reality jujitsu, changed everything. So say whatever you want about him, he had done this. Pulled the sword from the stone. That meant something. Everything.

The billionaires had to rethink. So did everyone in the Trump orbit. The campaign staff, now suddenly in a position to snag West Wing jobs—career- and history-making jobs—had to see this odd, difficult, even ridiculous, and, on the face of it, ill-equipped person in a new light. He had been elected president. So he was, as Kellyanne Conway liked to point out, by definition, presidential.

Still, nobody had yet seen him be presidential—that is, make a public bow to political ritual and propriety. Or even to exercise some modest self-control.

Others were now recruited and, despite their obvious impressions of the man, agreed to sign on. Jim Mattis, a retired four-star general, one of the most respected commanders in the U.S. armed forces; Rex Tillerson, CEO of ExxonMobil; Scott Pruitt and Betsy DeVos, Jeb Bush loyalists—all of them were now focused on the singular fact that while he might be a peculiar figure, even an absurd-seeming one, he had been elected president.

We can make this work, is what everybody in the Trump orbit was suddenly saying. Or, at the very least, this could possibly work.

In fact, up close, Trump was not the bombastic and pugilistic man who had stirred rabid crowds on the campaign trail. He was neither angry nor combative. He may have been the most threatening and frightening and menacing presidential candidate in modern history, but in person he could seem almost soothing. His extreme self-satisfaction rubbed off. Life was sunny. Trump was an optimist—at least about himself. He was charming and full of flattery; he focused on you. He was funny—self-deprecating even. And incredibly energetic—Let’s do it whatever it is, let’s do it. He wasn’t a tough guy. He was “a big warm-hearted monkey,” said Bannon, with rather faint praise.

PayPal cofounder and Facebook board member Peter Thiel—really the only significant Silicon Valley voice to support Trump—was warned by another billionaire and longtime Trump friend that Trump would, in an explosion of flattery, offer Thiel his undying friendship. Everybody says you’re great, you and I are going to have an amazing working relationship, anything you want, call me and we’ll get it done! Thiel was advised not to take Trump’s offer too seriously. But Thiel, who gave a speech supporting Trump at the Republican Convention in Cleveland, reported back that, even having been forewarned, he absolutely was certain of Trump’s sincerity when he said they’d be friends for life—only never to basically hear from him again or have his calls returned. Still, power provides its own excuses for social lapses. Other aspects of the Trump character were more problematic.

Almost all the professionals who were now set to join him were coming face to face with the fact that it appeared he knew nothing. There was simply no subject, other than perhaps building construction, that he had substantially mastered. Everything with him was off the cuff. Whatever he knew he seemed to have learned an hour before—and that was mostly half-baked. But each member of the new Trump team was convincing him- or herself otherwise—because what did they know, the man had been elected president. He offered something, obviously. Indeed, while everybody in his rich-guy social circle knew about his wide-ranging ignorance—Trump, the businessman, could not even read a balance sheet, and Trump, who had campaigned on his deal-making skills, was, with his inattention to details, a terrible negotiator—they yet found him somehow instinctive. That was the word. He was a force of personality. He could make you believe.

“Is Trump a good person, an intelligent person, a capable person?” asked Sam Nunberg, Trump’s longtime political aide. “I don’t even know. But I know he’s a star.”

Trying to explain Trump’s virtues and his attraction, Piers Morgan—the British newspaper man and ill-fated CNN anchor who had appeared on Celebrity Apprentice and stayed a loyal Trump friend—said it was all in Trump’s book The Art of the Deal. Everything that made him Trump and that defined his savvy, energy, and charisma was there. If you wanted to know Trump, just read the book. But Trump had not written The Art of the Deal. His co-writer, Tony Schwartz, insisted that he had hardly contributed to it and might not even have read all of it. And that was perhaps the point. Trump was not a writer, he was a character—a protagonist and hero.

A pro wrestling fan who became a World Wrestling Entertainment supporter and personality (inducted into the WWE Hall of Fame), Trump lived, like Hulk Hogan, as a real-life fictional character. To the amusement of his friends, and unease of many of the people now preparing to work for him at the highest levels of the federal government, Trump often spoke of himself in the third person. Trump did this. The Trumpster did that. So powerful was this persona, or role, that he seemed reluctant, or unable, to give it up in favor of being president—or presidential.

However difficult he was, many of those now around him tried to justify his behavior—tried to find an explanation for his success in it, to understand it as an advantage, not a limitation. For Steve Bannon, Trump’s unique political virtue was as an alpha male, maybe the last of the alpha males. A 1950s man, a Rat Pack type, a character out of Mad Men.

Trump’s understanding of his own essential nature was even more precise. Once, coming back on his plane with a billionaire friend who had brought along a foreign model, Trump, trying to move in on his friend’s date, urged a stop in Atlantic City. He would provide a tour of his casino. His friend assured the model that there was nothing to recommend Atlantic City. It was a place overrun by white trash.

“What is this ‘white trash’?” asked the model.

“They’re people just like me,” said Trump, “only they’re poor.”

He looked for a license not to conform, not to be respectable. It was something of an outlaw prescription for winning—and winning, however you won, was what it was all about.

Or, as his friends would observe, mindful themselves not to be taken in, he simply had no scruples. He was a rebel, a disruptor, and, living outside the rules, contemptuous of them. A close Trump friend who was also a good Bill Clinton friend found them eerily similar—except that Clinton had a respectable front and Trump did not.

One manifestation of this outlaw personality, for both Trump and Clinton, was their brand of womanizing—and indeed, harassing. Even among world-class womanizers and harassers, they seemed exceptionally free of doubt or hesitation.

Trump liked to say that one of the things that made life worth living was getting your friends’ wives into bed. In pursuing a friend’s wife, he would try to persuade the wife that her husband was perhaps not what she thought. Then he’d have his secretary ask the friend into his office; once the friend arrived, Trump would engage in what was, for him, more or less constant sexual banter. Do you still like having sex with your wife? How often? You must have had a better fuck than your wife? Tell me about it. I have girls coming in from Los Angeles at three o’clock. We can go upstairs and have a great time. I promise . . . And all the while, Trump would have his friend’s wife on the speakerphone, listening in.

Previous presidents, and not just Clinton, have of course lacked scruples. What was, to many of the people who knew Trump well, much more confounding was that he had managed to win this election, and arrive at this ultimate accomplishment, wholly lacking what in some obvious sense must be the main requirement of the job, what neuroscientists would call executive function. He had somehow won the race for president, but his brain seemed incapable of performing what would be essential tasks in his new job. He had no ability to plan and organize and pay attention and switch focus; he had never been able to tailor his behavior to what the goals at hand reasonably required. On the most basic level, he simply could not link cause and effect.

The charge that Trump colluded with the Russians to win the election, which he scoffed at, was, in the estimation of some of his friends, a perfect example of his inability to connect the dots. Even if he hadn’t personally conspired with the Russians to fix the election, his efforts to curry favor with, of all people, Vladimir Putin had no doubt left a trail of alarming words and deeds likely to have enormous political costs.

Shortly after the election, his friend Ailes told him, with some urgency, “You’ve got to get right on Russia.” Even exiled from Fox News, Ailes still maintained a fabled intelligence network. He warned Trump of potentially damaging material coming his way. “You need to take this seriously, Donald.”

“Jared has this,” said a happy Trump. “It’s all worked out.”

* * *

Trump Tower, next door to Tiffany and now headquarters of a populist revolution, suddenly seemed like an alien spaceship—the Death Star—on Fifth Avenue. As the great and good and ambitious, as well as angry protesters and the curious hoi polloi, began beating a path to the next president’s door, mazelike barricades were hurriedly thrown up to shield him.

The Pre-Election Presidential Transition Act of 2010 established funding for presidential nominees to start the process of vetting thousands of candidates for jobs in a new administration, codifying policies that would determine the early actions of a new White House, and preparing for the handoff of bureaucratic responsibilities on January 20. During the campaign, New Jersey governor Chris Christie, the nominal head of the Trump transition office, had to forcefully tell the candidate that he couldn’t redirect these funds, that the law required him to spend the money and plan for a transition—even one he did not expect to need. A frustrated Trump said he didn’t want to hear any more about it.

The day after the election, Trump’s close advisers—suddenly eager to be part of a process that almost everybody had ignored—immediately began blaming Christie for a lack of transition preparations. Hurriedly, the bare-bones transition team moved from downtown Washington to Trump Tower.

This was certainly some of the most expensive real estate ever occupied by a transition team (and, for that matter, a presidential campaign). And that was part of the point. It sent a Trump-style message: we’re not only outsiders, but we’re more powerful than you insiders. Richer. More famous. With better real estate.

And, of course, it was personalized: his name, fabulously, was on the door. Upstairs was his triplex apartment, vastly larger than the White House living quarters. Here was his private office, which he’d occupied since the 1980s. And here were the campaign and now transition floors—firmly in his orbit and not that of Washington and the “swamp.”

Trump’s instinct in the face of his unlikely, if not preposterous, success was the opposite of humility. It was, in some sense, to rub everybody’s face in it. Washington insiders, or would-be insiders, would have to come to him. Trump Tower immediately upstaged the White House. Everybody who came to see the president-elect was acknowledging, or accepting, an outsider government. Trump forced them to endure what was gleefully called by insiders the “perp walk” in front of press and assorted gawkers. An act of obeisance, if not humiliation.

The otherworldly sense of Trump Tower helped obscure the fact that few in the thin ranks of Trump’s inner circle, with their overnight responsibility for assembling a government, had almost any relevant experience. Nobody had a political background. Nobody had a policy background. Nobody had a legislative background.

Politics is a network business, a who-you-know business. But unlike other presidents-elect—all of whom invariably suffered from their own management defects—Trump did not have a career’s worth of political and government contacts to call on. He hardly even had his own political organization. For most of the last eighteen months on the road, it had been, at its core, a three-person enterprise: his campaign manager, Corey Lewandowski (until he was forced out a month before the Republican National Convention); his spokesperson-bodyperson-intern, the campaign’s first hire, twenty-six-year-old Hope Hicks; and Trump himself. Lean and mean and gut instincts—the more people you had to deal with, Trump found, the harder it was to turn the plane around and get home to bed at night.

The professional team—although in truth there was hardly a political professional among them—that had joined the campaign in August was a last-ditch bid to avoid hopeless humiliation. But these were people he’d worked with for just a few months.

Reince Priebus, getting ready to shift over from the RNC to the White House, noted, with alarm, how often Trump offered people jobs on the spot, many of whom he had never met before, for positions whose importance Trump did not particularly understand.

Ailes, a veteran of the Nixon, Reagan, and Bush 41 White Houses, was growing worried by the president-elect’s lack of immediate focus on a White House structure that could serve and protect him. He tried to impress on Trump the ferocity of the opposition that would greet him.

“You need a son of a bitch as your chief of staff. And you need a son of a bitch who knows Washington,” Ailes told Trump not long after the election. “You’ll want to be your own son of a bitch, but you don’t know Washington.” Ailes had a suggestion: “Speaker Boehner.” (John Boehner had been the Speaker of the House until he was forced out in a Tea Party putsch in 2011.)

“Who’s that?” asked Trump.

Everybody in Trump’s billionaire circle, concerned about his contempt for other people’s expertise, tried to impress upon him the importance of the people, the many people, he would need with him in the White House, people who understood Washington. Your people are more important than your policies. Your people are your policies.

“Frank Sinatra was wrong,” said David Bossie, one of Trump’s longtime political advisers. “If you can make it in New York, you can’t necessarily make it in Washington.”

* * *

The nature of the role of the modern chief of staff is a focus of much White House scholarship. As much as the president himself, the chief of staff determines how the White House and executive branch—which employs 4 million people, including 1.3 million people in the armed services—will run.

The job has been construed as deputy president, or chief operating officer, or even prime minister. Larger-than-life chiefs have included Richard Nixon’s H. R. Haldeman and Alexander Haig; Gerald Ford’s Donald Rumsfeld and Dick Cheney; Jimmy Carter’s Hamilton Jordan; Ronald Reagan’s James Baker; George H. W. Bush’s return of James Baker; Bill Clinton’s Leon Panetta, Erskine Bowles, and John Podesta; George W. Bush’s Andrew Card; and Barack Obama’s Rahm Emanuel and Bill Daley. Anyone studying the position would conclude that a stronger chief of staff is better than a weaker one, and a chief of staff with a history in Washington and the federal government is better than an outsider.

Donald Trump had little, if any, awareness of the history of or the thinking about this role. Instead, he substituted his own management style and experience. For decades, he had relied on longtime retainers, cronies, and family. Even though Trump liked to portray his business as an empire, it was actually a discrete holding company and boutique enterprise, catering more to his peculiarities as proprietor and brand representative than to any bottom line or other performance measures.

His sons, Don Jr. and Eric—jokingly behind their backs known to Trump insiders as Uday and Qusay, after the sons of Saddam Hussein—wondered if there couldn’t somehow be two parallel White House structures, one dedicated to their father’s big-picture views, personal appearances, and salesmanship and the other concerned with day-to-day management issues. In this construct, they saw themselves tending to the day-to-day operations.

One of Trump’s early ideas was to recruit his friend Tom Barrack—part of his kitchen cabinet of real estate tycoons including Steven Roth and Richard Lefrak—and make him chief of staff.

Barrack, the grandson of Lebanese immigrants, is a starstruck real estate investor of legendary acumen who owns Michael Jackson’s former oddball paradise, Neverland Ranch. With Jeffrey Epstein—the New York financier who would become a tabloid regular after a guilty plea to one count of soliciting prostitution that sent him to jail in 2008 in Palm Beach for thirteen months—Trump and Barrack were a 1980s and ’90s set of nightlife Musketeers.

The founder and CEO of the private equity firm Colony Capital, Barrack became a billionaire making investments in distress debt investments in real estate around the world, including helping to bail out his friend Donald Trump. More recently, he had helped bail out his friend’s son-in-law, Jared Kushner.

He watched with amusement Trump’s eccentric presidential campaign and brokered the deal to have Paul Manafort replace Corey Lewandowski after Lewandowski fell out of favor with Kushner. Then, as confounded as everyone else by the campaign’s continuing successes, Barrack introduced the future president in warm and personal terms at the Republican National Convention in July (at odds with its otherwise dark and belligerent tone).

It was Trump’s perfect fantasy that his friend Tom—an organizational whiz fully aware of his friend’s lack of interest in day-to-day management—would sign on to run the White House. This was Trump’s instant and convenient solution to the unforeseen circumstance of suddenly being president: to do it with his business mentor, confidant, investor, and friend, someone whom acquaintances of the two men describe as “being one of the best Donald handlers.” In the Trump circle this was called the “two amigos” plan. (Epstein, who remained close to Barrack, had been whitewashed out of the Trump biography.)

Barrack, among the few people whose abilities Trump, a reflexive naysayer, didn’t question, could, in Trump’s hopeful view, really get things running smoothly and let Trump be Trump. It was, on Trump’s part, an uncharacteristic piece of self-awareness: Donald Trump might not know what he didn’t know, but he knew Tom Barrack knew. He would run the business and Trump would sell the product—making American great again. #MAGA.

For Barrack, as for everybody around Trump, the election result was a kind of beyond-belief lottery-winning circumstance—your implausible friend becoming president. But Barrack, even after countless pleading and cajoling phone calls from Trump, finally had to disappoint his friend, telling him “I’m just too rich.” He would never be able to untangle his holdings and interests—including big investments in the Middle East—in a way that would satisfy ethics watchdogs. Trump was unconcerned or in denial about his own business conflicts, but Barrack saw nothing but hassle and cost for himself. Also, Barrack, on his fourth marriage, had no appetite for having his colorful personal life—often, over the years, conducted with Trump—become a public focus.

* * *

Trump’s fallback was his son-in-law. On the campaign, after months of turmoil and outlandishness (if not to Trump, to most others, including his family), Kushner had stepped in and become his effective body man, hovering nearby, speaking only when spoken to, but then always offering a calming and flattering view. Corey Lewandowski called Jared the butler. Trump had come to believe that his son-in-law, in part because he seemed to understand how to stay out of his way, was uniquely sagacious.

In defiance of law and tone, and everybody’s disbelieving looks, the president seemed intent on surrounding himself in the White House with his family. The Trumps, all of them—except for his wife, who, mystifyingly, was staying in New York—were moving in, all of them set to assume responsibilities similar to their status in the Trump Organization, without anyone apparently counseling against it.

Finally, it was the right-wing diva and Trump supporter Ann Coulter who took the president-elect aside and said, “Nobody is apparently telling you this. But you can’t. You just can’t hire your children.”

Trump continued to insist that he had every right to his family’s help, while at the same time asking for understanding. This is family, he said—“It’s a leettle, leettle tricky.” His staffers understood not only the inherent conflicts and difficult legal issues in having Trump’s son-in-law run the White House, but that it would become, even more than it already was, family first for Trump. After a great deal of pressure, he at least agreed not to make his son-in-law the chief of staff—not officially, anyway.

* * *

If not Barrack or Kushner, then, Trump thought the job should probably go to New Jersey governor Chris Christie, who, with Rudy Giuliani, comprised the sum total of his circle of friends with actual political experience.

Christie, like most Trump allies, fell in and out of favor. In the final weeks of the campaign, Trump contemptuously measured Christie’s increasing distance from his losing enterprise, and then, with victory, his eagerness to get back in.

Trump and Christie went back to Trump’s days trying—and failing—to become an Atlantic City gaming mogul. The Atlantic City gaming mogul. (Trump had long been competitive with and in awe of the Las Vegas gaming mogul Steve Wynn, whom Trump would name finance chairman of the RNC.) Trump had backed Christie as he rose through New Jersey politics. He admired Christie’s straight-talk style, and for a while, as Christie anticipated his own presidential run in 2012 and 2013—and as Trump was looking for a next chapter for himself with the fading of The Apprentice, his reality TV franchise—Trump even wondered whether he might be a vice presidential possibility for Christie.

Early in the campaign, Trump said he wouldn’t have run against Christie but for the Bridgegate scandal (which erupted when Christie’s associates closed traffic lanes on the George Washington Bridge to undermine the mayor of a nearby town who was a Christie opponent, and which Trump privately justified as “just New Jersey hardball”). When Christie dropped out of the race in February 2016 and signed on with the Trump campaign, he endured a torrent of ridicule for supporting his friend, whom he believed had promised him a clear track to the VP slot.

It had personally pained Trump not to be able to give it to him. But if the Republican establishment had not wanted Trump, they had not wanted Christie almost as much. So Christie got the job of leading the transition and the implicit promise of a central job—attorney general or chief of staff.

But when he was the federal prosecutor in New Jersey, Christie had sent Jared’s father, Charles Kushner, to jail in 2005. Charlie Kushner, pursued by the feds for an income tax cheat, set up a scheme with a prostitute to blackmail his brother-in-law, who was planning to testify against him.

Various accounts, mostly offered by Christie himself, make Jared the vengeful hatchet man in Christie’s aborted Trump administration career. It was a kind of perfect sweet-revenge story: the son of the wronged man (or, in this case—there’s little dispute—the guilty-as-charged man) uses his power over the man who wronged his family. But other accounts offer a subtler and in a way darker picture. Jared Kushner, like sons-in-law everywhere, tiptoes around his father-in-law, carefully displacing as little air as possible: the massive and domineering older man, the reedy and pliant younger one. In the revised death-of-Chris-Christie story, it is not the deferential Jared who strikes back, but—in some sense even more satisfying for the revenge fantasy—Charlie Kushner himself who harshly demands his due. It was his daughter-in-law who held the real influence in the Trump circle, who delivered the blow. Ivanka told her father that Christie’s appointment as chief of staff or to any other high position would be extremely difficult for her and her family, and it would be best that Christie be removed from the Trump orbit altogether.

* * *

Bannon was the heavy of the organization. Trump, who seemed awestruck by Bannon’s conversation—a mix of insults, historical riffs, media insights, right-wing bons mots, and motivational truisms—now began suggesting Bannon to his circle of billionaires as chief of staff, only to have this notion soundly ridiculed and denounced. But Trump pronounced many people in favor of it anyway.

In the weeks leading up to the election, Trump had labeled Bannon a flatterer for his certainty that Trump would win. But now he had come to credit Bannon with something like mystical powers. And in fact Bannon, with no prior political experience, was the only Trump insider able to offer a coherent vision of Trump’s populism—aka Trumpism.

The anti-Bannon forces—which included almost every non-Tea Party Republican—were quick to react. Murdoch, a growing Bannon nemesis, told Trump that Bannon would be a dangerous choice. Joe Scarborough, the former congressman and cohost of MSNBC’s Morning Joe, a favorite Trump show, privately told Trump “Washington will go up in flames” if Bannon became chief of staff, and, beginning a running theme, publicly denigrated Bannon on the show.

In fact, Bannon presented even bigger problems than his politics: he was profoundly disorganized, seemingly on the spectrum given what captured his single-minded focus to the disregard of everything else. Might he be the worst manager who ever lived? He might. He seemed incapable of returning a phone call. He answered emails in one word—partly a paranoia about email, but even more a controlling crypticness. He kept assistants and minders at constant bay. You couldn’t really make an appointment with Bannon, you just had to show up. And somehow, his own key lieutenant, Alexandra Preate, a conservative fundraiser and PR woman, was as disorganized as he was. After three marriages, Bannon lived his bachelor’s life on Capitol Hill in a row house known as the Breitbart Embassy that doubled as the Breitbart office—the life of a messy party. No sane person would hire Steven Bannon for a job that included making the trains run on time.

* * *

Hence, Reince Priebus.

For the Hill, he was the only reasonable chief among the contenders, and he quickly became the subject of intense lobbying by House Speaker Paul Ryan and Senate Majority Leader Mitch McConnell. If they were going to have to deal with an alien like Donald Trump, then best they do it with the help of a member of their own kind.

Priebus, forty-five, was neither politician nor policy wonk nor strategist. He was political machine worker, one of the oldest professions. A fundraiser.

A working-class kid originally from New Jersey and then Wisconsin, at thirty-two he made his first and last run for elective office: a failed bid for Wisconsin state senate. He became the chairman of the state party and then the general counsel of the Republican National Committee. In 2011 he stepped up to chairmanship of the RNC. Priebus’s political cred came from appeasing the Tea Party in Wisconsin, and his association with Wisconsin governor Scott Walker, a rising Republican star (and, briefly—very briefly—the 2016 front-runner).

With significant parts of the Republican Party inalterably opposed to Trump, and with an almost universal belief within the party that Trump would go down to ignominious defeat, taking the party with him, Priebus was under great pressure after Trump captured the nomination to shift resources down the ticket and even to abandon the Trump campaign entirely.

Convinced himself that Trump was hopeless, Priebus nevertheless hedged his bets. The fact that he did not abandon Trump entirely became a possible margin of victory and made Priebus something of a hero (equally, in the Kellyanne Conway version, if they had lost, he would have been a reasonable target). He became the default choice for chief.

And yet his entry into the Trump inner circle caused Priebus his share of uncertainty and bewilderment. He came out of his first long meeting with Trump thinking it had been a disconcertingly weird experience. Trump talked nonstop and constantly repeated himself.

“Here’s the deal,” a close Trump associate told Priebus. “In an hour meeting with him you’re going to hear fifty-four minutes of stories and they’re going to be the same stories over and over again. So you have to have one point to make and you have to pepper it in whenever you can.”

The Priebus appointment as chief of staff, announced in mid-November, also put Bannon on a coequal level. Trump was falling back on his own natural inclinations to let nobody have real power. Priebus, even with the top job, would be a weaker sort of figure, in the traditional mold of most Trump lieutenants over the years. The choice also worked well for the other would-be chiefs. Tom Barrack could easily circumvent Priebus and continue to speak directly to Trump. Jared Kushner’s position as son-in-law and soon top aide would not be impeded. And Steve Bannon, reporting directly to Trump, remained the undisputed voice of Trumpism in the White House.

There would be, in other words, one chief of staff in name—the unimportant one—and various others, more important, in practice, ensuring both chaos and Trump’s own undisputed independence.

Jim Baker, chief of staff for both Ronald Reagan and George H. W. Bush and almost everybody’s model for managing the West Wing, advised Priebus not to take the job.

* * *

The transmogrification of Trump from joke candidate, to whisperer for a disaffected demographic, to risible nominee, to rent-in-the-fabric-of-time president-elect, did not inspire in him any larger sense of sober reflection. After the shock of it, he immediately seemed to rewrite himself as the inevitable president.

One instance of his revisionism, and of the new stature he now seemed to assume as president, involved the lowest point of the campaign—the Billy Bush tape.

His explanation, in an off-the-record conversation with a friendly cable anchor, was that it “really wasn’t me.”

The anchor acknowledged how unfair it was to be characterized by a single event.

“No,” said Trump, “it wasn’t me. I’ve been told by people who understand this stuff about how easy it is to alter these things and put in voices and completely different people.”

He was the winner and now expected to be the object of awe, fascination, and favor. He expected this to be binary: a hostile media would turn into a fannish one.

And yet here he was, the winner who was treated with horror and depredations by a media that in the past, as a matter of course and protocol, could be depended on to shower lavish deference on an incoming president no matter who he was. (Trump’s shortfall of three million votes continued to rankle and was a subject best avoided.) It was nearly incomprehensible to him that the same people—that is, the media—who had violently criticized him for saying he might dispute the election result were now calling him illegitimate.

Trump was not a politician who could parse factions of support and opprobrium; he was a salesman who needed to make a sale. “I won. I am the winner. I am not the loser,” he repeated, incredulously, like a mantra.

Bannon described Trump as a simple machine. The On switch was full of flattery, the Off switch full of calumny. The flattery was dripping, slavish, cast in ultimate superlatives, and entirely disconnected from reality: so-and-so was the best, the most incredible, the ne plus ultra, the eternal. The calumny was angry, bitter, resentful, ever a casting out and closing of the iron door.

This was the nature of Trump’s particular salesmanship. His strategic belief was that there was no reason not to heap excessive puffery on a prospect. But if the prospect was ruled out as a buyer, there was no reason not to heap scorn and lawsuits on him or her. After all, if they don’t respond to sucking up, they might respond to piling on. Bannon felt—perhaps with overconfidence—that Trump could be easily switched on and off.

Against the background of a mortal war of wills—with the media, the Democrats, and the swamp—that Bannon was encouraging him to wage, Trump could also be courted. In some sense, he wanted nothing so much as to be courted.

Amazon’s Jeff Bezos, the owner of the Washington Post, which had become one of the many Trump media bêtes noires in the media world, nevertheless took pains to reach out not only to the presidentelect but to his daughter Ivanka. During the campaign, Trump said Amazon was getting “away with murder taxwise” and that if he won, “Oh, do they have problems.” Now Trump was suddenly praising Bezos as “a top-level genius.” Elon Musk, in Trump Tower, pitched Trump on the new administration’s joining him in his race to Mars, which Trump jumped at. Stephen Schwarzman, the head of the Blackstone Group—and a Kushner friend—offered to organize a business council for Trump, which Trump embraced. Anna Wintour, the Vogue editor and fashion industry queen, had hoped to be named America’s ambassador to the UK under Obama and, when that didn’t happen, closely aligned herself with Hillary Clinton. Now Wintour arrived at Trump Tower (but refused to do the perp walk) and suggested that she become Trump’s ambassador to the Court of St. James’s. And Trump was inclined to entertain the idea. (“Fortunately,” said Bannon, “there was no chemistry.”)

On December 14, a high-level delegation from Silicon Valley came to Trump Tower to meet the president-elect, though Trump had repeatedly criticized the tech industry throughout the campaign. Later that afternoon, Trump called Rupert Murdoch, who asked him how the meeting had gone.

“Oh, great, just great,” said Trump. “Really, really good. These guys really need my help. Obama was not very favorable to them, too much regulation. This is really an opportunity for me to help them.”

“Donald,” said Murdoch, “for eight years these guys had Obama in their pocket. They practically ran the administration. They don’t need your help.”

“Take this H-1B visa issue. They really need these H-1B visas.”

Murdoch suggested that taking a liberal approach to H-1B visas might be hard to square with his immigration promises. But Trump seemed unconcerned, assuring Murdoch, “We’ll figure it out.”

“What a fucking idiot,” said Murdoch, shrugging, as he got off the phone.

* * *

Ten days before Donald Trump’s inauguration as the forty-fifth president, a group of young Trump staffers—the men in regulation Trump suits and ties, the women in the Trump-favored look of high boots, short skirts, and shoulder-length hair—were watching President Barack Obama give his farewell speech as it streamed on a laptop in the transition offices.

“Mr. Trump said he’s never once listened to a whole Obama speech,” said one of the young people authoritatively.

“They’re so boring,” said another.

While Obama bade his farewell, preparations for Trump’s first press conference since the election, to be held the next day, were under way down the hall. The plan was to make a substantial effort to show that the president-elect’s business conflicts would be addressed in a formal and considered way.

Up until now, Trump’s view was that he’d been elected because of those conflicts—his business savvy, connections, experience, and brand—not in spite of them, and that it was ludicrous for anyone to think he could untangle himself even if he wanted to. Indeed, to reporters and anyone else who would listen, Kellyanne Conway offered on Trump’s behalf a self-pitying defense about how great his sacrifice had already been.

After fanning the flames of his intention to disregard rules regarding conflicts of interest, now, in a bit of theater, he would take a generous new tack. Standing in the lobby of Trump Towner next to a table stacked high with document folders and legal papers, he would describe the vast efforts that had been made to do the impossible and how, henceforth, he would be exclusively focused on the nation’s business.

But suddenly this turned out to be quite beside the point.

Fusion GPS, an opposition research company (founded by former journalists, it provided information to private clients), had been retained by Democratic Party interests. Fusion had hired Christopher Steele, a former British spy, in June 2016, to help investigate Trump’s repeated brags about his relationship with Vladimir Putin and the nature of Trump’s relationship with the Kremlin. With reports from Russian sources, many connected to Russian intelligence, Steele assembled a damaging report—now dubbed the “dossier”—suggesting that Donald Trump was being blackmailed by the Putin government. In September, Steele briefed reporters from the New York Times, the Washington Post, Yahoo! News, the New Yorker, and CNN. All declined to use this unverified information, with its unclear provenance, especially given that it was about an unlikely election winner.

But the day before the scheduled press conference, CNN broke details of the Steele dossier. Almost immediately thereafter, Buzzfeed published the entire report—an itemized bacchanal of beyond-the-pale behavior.

On the verge of Trump’s ascendancy to the presidency, the media, with its singular voice on Trump matters, was propounding a conspiracy of vast proportions. The theory, suddenly presented as just this side of a likelihood, was that the Russians had suborned Donald Trump during a trip to Moscow with a crude blackmail scheme involving prostitutes and videotaped sexual acts pushing new boundaries of deviance (including “golden showers”) with prostitutes and videotaped sex acts. The implicit conclusion: a compromised Trump had conspired with the Russians to steal the election and to install him in the White House as Putin’s dupe.

If this was true, then the nation stood at one of the most extraordinary moments in the history of democracy, international relations, and journalism.

If it was not true—and it was hard to fathom a middle ground—then it would seem to support the Trump view (and the Bannon view) that the media, in also quite a dramatic development in the history of democracy, was so blinded by an abhorrence and revulsion, both ideological and personal, for the democratically elected leader that it would pursue any avenue to take him down. Mark Hemingway, in the conservative, but anti-Trump, Weekly Standard, argued the novel paradox of two unreliable narrators dominating American public life: the president-elect spoke with little information and frequently no factual basis, while “the frame the media has chosen to embrace is that everything the man does is, by default, unconstitutional or an abuse of power.”

On the afternoon of January 11, these two opposing perceptions faced off in the lobby of Trump Tower: the political antichrist, a figure of dark but buffoonish scandal, in the pocket of America’s epochal adversary, versus the would-be revolutionary-mob media, drunk on virtue, certainty, and conspiracy theories. Each represented, for the other side, a wholly discredited “fake” version of reality.

If these character notes seemed comic-book in style, that was exactly how the press conference unfolded.

First Trump’s encomiums to himself:

“I will be the greatest jobs producer that God ever created. . . .”

A smattering of the issues before him:

“Veterans with a little cancer can’t see a doctor until they are terminal. . . .”

Then the incredulity:

“I was in Russia years ago with the Ms. Universe contest—did very very well—I tell everyone be careful, because you don’t want to see yourself on television—cameras all over the place. And again, not just Russia, all over. So would anyone really believe that story? I’m also very much of a germaphobe, by the way. Believe me.”

Then the denial:

“I have no deals in Russia, I have no deal that could happen in Russia because we’ve stayed away, and I have no loans with Russia. I have to say one thing . . . Over the weekend I was offered two billion dollars to do a deal in Dubai and I turned it down. I didn’t have to turn it down, because as you know I have a no-conflict situation as president. I didn’t know about that until three months ago but it’s a nice thing to have. But I didn’t want to take advantage of something. I have a no-conflict-of-interest provision as president. I could actually run my business, run my business and run government at the same time. I don’t like the way that looks but I would be able to do that if I wanted to. I could run the Trump organization, a great, great company, and I could run the country, but I don’t want to do that.”

Then the direct attack on CNN, his nemesis:

“Your organization is terrible. Your organization is terrible. . . . Quiet . . . quiet . . . don’t be rude . . . Don’t be. . . . No, I’m not going to give you a question . . . I’m not going to give you a question. . . . You are fake news. . . .”

And in summation:

“That report first of all should never have been printed because it’s not worth the paper it’s printed on. I will tell you that should never ever happen. Twenty-two million accounts were hacked by China. That’s because we have no defense, because we’re run by people who don’t know what they’re doing. Russia will have far greater respect for our country when I’m leading it. And not just Russia, China, which has taken total advantage of us. Russia, China, Japan, Mexico, all countries will respect us far more, far more than they do under past administrations. . . .”

Not only did the president-elect wear his deep and bitter grievances on his sleeve, but it was now clear that the fact of having been elected president would not change his unfiltered, apparently uncontrollable, utterly shoot-from-the-hip display of wounds, resentments, and ire.

“I think he did a fantastic job,” said Kellyanne Conway after the news conference. “But the media won’t say that. They never will.”

[rockyoshaughness-blog]

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" Clementine orgasmed for the third time. Pavbi clung to her hips like a snake, plugging her cunt with throbbing cock to keep every gout of cum inside the teacher where it belonged. She kept shouting, "Not a black baby! Jet after jet shot into her womb and drenched any eggs waiting within. Dozens of eyes looked around, at each other, at the boy mated to the woman, at the cum and cunt juice dripping down into white cotton panties, at their teacher's glowing, shamed face. Cock and cunt merged into a powerful engine of ecstasy. " Miss Clementine Francher had never before felt so alive and humiliated and hurting and joyous and powerless and sick and released and full. The boys hardly dared to breath, lest they spoil the moment. Her quivering pussy calmed, and she felt her heartbeat slow from incessant pounding to frightful anticipation. The room had fallen silent. She pulled her chalk smeared face away from the blackboard and surveyed the room. Clementine felt the last spurt of Pavbi's cum boil into her. " What seemed like hours of ecstasy lasted a handful of minutes. Inside their head, the chant never stopped. She was surrounded by young, black boys. video one porn by one, they began removing their clothes.

[viralhottopics]

38 times Stephen King totally shut down Donald Trump on Twitter

Stephen King doesn’t pull any punches on Twitter.

Image: mediapunch/rex/shutterstock/twitter/@stephenking/reynolds/epa/mashable composite

You don’t have to spend long on Stephen King’s Twitter feed to gain an insight into his feelings about the current U.S. President.

The legendary horror-writer has been tweeting his thoughts about Trump (who he’s previously referred to as a both “He Who Must Not Be Named” and “the Asshat Elect”) ever since the billionaire’s campaign kicked off back in summer 2015. As time’s gone on, the tweets have only grown in volume.

SEE ALSO: J.K. Rowling just burned Donald Trump for the 2nd time in 24 hours

From evocative similes to outright anger, here’s a timeline of the author’s most memorable Trump shut-downs.

1. A few months into Trump’s election campaign, King drew this comparison.

Donald Trump: There hasn’t been a novelty act this annoying since Alvin and the Chipmunks.

Stephen King (@StephenKing) August 6, 2015

2. And this one.

Donald Trump is like the crazy, ranting uncle you hope your friends will never meet.

Stephen King (@StephenKing) December 6, 2015

3. This animal metaphor.

I can no longer tweet about Trump. That anyone in America would even CONSIDER voting for this rabid coyote leaves me speechless.

Stephen King (@StephenKing) December 9, 2015

4. And this even more descriptive animal metaphor.

Oh, look! A rabid coyote with bad hair won the South Carolina primary! Please clap!

Stephen King (@StephenKing) February 21, 2016

5. The time he compared Trump to one of his own evil characters.

Populist demagogues like He Who Must Not Be Named aren’t a new thing; see THE DEAD ZONE, published 37 years ago.

Stephen King (@StephenKing) March 15, 2016

6. The time he had an idea.

Say, here’s an idea! Let’s turn America’s nukes over to a bad-tempered asshole with no knowledge of foreign policy. What could go wrong?

Stephen King (@StephenKing) May 23, 2016

7. The time he shared this message with Republicans just before Trump’s nomination.

Congrats, Republicans! You’re about to nominate a thin-skinned racist with the temperament of a 3-year-old.

Stephen King (@StephenKing) June 5, 2016

8. The time he compared Trump to 37th U.S. President Richard Nixon.

One difference between Nixon and Trump: when the Republicans nominated Nixon, they didn’t actually KNOW he was a crook.

Stephen King (@StephenKing) July 21, 2016

9. The time he shared an extra from “the Book of Republicans”.

From the Book of Republicans: “Lo, we have many assholes running for President. Let us consider, and pick the biggest. And so it was done.”

Stephen King (@StephenKing) August 11, 2016

10. The time he got his dog, Molly (a.k.a. “The Thing of Evil”) involved.

Molly, aka the Thing of Evil, demonstrates what the world will look like after 4 years of Trump foreign policy. http://pic.twitter.com/He5Sl4RDfq

Stephen King (@StephenKing) September 14, 2016

11. This straight-to-the-point statement.

The more I read about and listen to Donald Trump, the more appalled I am. Not as a Democrat; as a human being. A genuinely nasty man.

Stephen King (@StephenKing) October 2, 2016

12. This evocative simile.

Electing Donald Trump to fix America would be like fixing eczema with a blowtorch.

Stephen King (@StephenKing) October 7, 2016

13. And this one.

Trump looks like a big ole sulky baby. Do we need a big ole sulky baby as President?

Stephen King (@StephenKing) October 10, 2016

14. This simple shut-down during one of the debates.

Trump is up past his bedtime.

Stephen King (@StephenKing) October 10, 2016

15. His pitch for a new story.

My newest horror story: Once upon a time there was a man named Donald Trump, and he ran for president. Some people wanted him to win.

Stephen King (@StephenKing) October 21, 2016

16. This appeal to Trump voters.

Trump voters, please think again. Sure, you’re mad. I get that. But you don’t burn down the house because you don’t like the decor.

Stephen King (@StephenKing) October 27, 2016

17. This blunt summary.

Trump: Sexist oinker, tax dodger, draft dodger, pal of Putin, racist, serial liar, ANNNND…Republican candidate for president!

Stephen King (@StephenKing) November 1, 2016

18. The time he revealed who his dog was voting for.

Molly, aka the Thing of Evil, after believing Donald Trump was the CANDIDATE of evil, switches her allegiance to someone even worse. http://pic.twitter.com/ZkvrfPffE5

Stephen King (@StephenKing) November 2, 2016

19. His vision of Trump’s Christmas cards.

The President-elect prepares his Christmas cards to foreign leaders. http://pic.twitter.com/eRsM1lnccb

Stephen King (@StephenKing) November 22, 2016

20. The time he questioned Trump’s mental state.

Trump’s tweets display hysteria, aggression, paranoia, insecurity. Politics aside, his mental state bears close watching.

Stephen King (@StephenKing) December 2, 2016

21. Then followed it up with this.

Trump’s mental condition is open to debate, I suppose; that he’s an incompetent asshat seems undeniable.

Stephen King (@StephenKing) December 7, 2016

22. The time he shared his opinion on Trump’s cabinet.

Trump’s proposed cabinet is the worst in American history: a motley crew of plunder-monkeys.

Stephen King (@StephenKing) December 10, 2016

23. His depiction of Trump’s relationship with Putin.

Good elf Putin told Mr. Trump, I will help you win the election, but you will owe me. Mr. TRump said, Owe me or own me? Either okay with me!

Stephen King (@StephenKing) December 16, 2016

24. This comment on the whole US voting system.

Clinton won the election by 3 million votesthat’s MILLIONand that idiot Trump is going to be president. What’s wrong with this country?

Stephen King (@StephenKing) December 22, 2016

25. The time he came up with an inventive new nickname.

According to the Asshat Elect, we need more nukes. The guy’s probably right. We only have enough to destroy the world 120 times over.

Stephen King (@StephenKing) December 23, 2016

26. This Christmas eve message.

Americans have been very bad this year, but instead of coal in our stockings, we’re getting a big fat lump o’ Trump.

Stephen King (@StephenKing) December 24, 2016

27. The time he compared Trump and Obama.

One remarkable difference between Obama and Trump: the latter seems to have absolutely no sense of humor. The clearest sign of a dull mind.

Stephen King (@StephenKing) December 28, 2016

28. His comments on those explosive allegations.

The current Trump allegations may not be true, but seeing him fed a dose of his own nasty medicine has a certain rough justice.

Stephen King (@StephenKing) January 11, 2017

29. His pre-inauguration take.

I wish anyone other than Donald Trumpleft, right, or centerwere taking the Oath of Office tomorrow. My preference would be Barack Obama.

Stephen King (@StephenKing) January 19, 2017

30. And his thoughts during the ceremony.

Welcome to the age of plunder, bluster, and empty rhetoric. In other words, to the Age of Dumb. If you voted for him, you’re responsible.

Stephen King (@StephenKing) January 20, 2017

31. Not to mention his feedback after Trump’s first week.

The ugliest first week of a presidency in the history of the American republic.

Stephen King (@StephenKing) January 26, 2017

32. This appeal, which came in the wake of Trump’s travel ban.

if you call yourself a Christian, how can you support this latest Trump cruelty?

Stephen King (@StephenKing) January 28, 2017

33. This memorable metaphor.

Imagine a hooligan pouring sugar into the gas tank of an expensive and well-maintained car. Trump is that hooligan. America is that car.

Stephen King (@StephenKing) January 29, 2017

34. This very frank description of Trump’s presidency.

If only Donald Trump was 5% as good at governing as he is at firing people of conscience. His presidency is a joke. Sadly, we’re the butt.

Stephen King (@StephenKing) January 31, 2017

35. This important explanation.

Trump’s view of fake news explained: “If it runs counter to what I believe or say, it’s fake. The facts are irrelevant.”

Stephen King (@StephenKing) February 1, 2017

36. This “extreme vetting” suggestion.

How about some extreme vetting of Donald Trump’s tax returns?

Stephen King (@StephenKing) February 1, 2017

37. This foreign policy update.

Today’s bummer: Trump screws up our relationship with Australia, a long-time ally. Our president is an impulsive, bad-tempered idiot.

Stephen King (@StephenKing) February 2, 2017

38. And finally, this no-nonsense shutdown.

Trump’s tweets are both malevolent and excruciatingly dumb. He comes off sounding lie a pro wrestling bad guy from 1965.

Stephen King (@StephenKing) February 4, 2017

For more Trump-themed burns (as well as book recommendations and occasional dog pics), you can follow @StephenKing on Twitter.

BONUS: How Stephen King’s ‘The Dark Tower’ survived development hell

Read more: http://on.mash.to/2ln1unV

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