#Arrest That Pot smoker

[chenziee]

Cigars, smoke, you, and I

This story was brought to you by @/ritsukotheloner on twitter! Thank you so much for the trust with this commission 🤍

If you'd like to have your own story written by me, check out my commission info right here! 😊

[ Read on AO3 | Ko-Fi ]

—————

Punk Hazard was a mess. It wasn’t like Smoker had expected any less; when he had followed the emergency call to the supposedly deserted island, he knew he would find something akin to a burning shipwreck of a situation, but this really was something else. 

Truly the kind of mess that only happened when Straw Hat was involved.

Smoker knew he should have locked that kid up all the way back in Logue Town.

“You look like you’re about to blow up like a pressure pot, White Chase-ya,” an amused voice said. “You really need to relax once in a while.”

Closing his eyes, Smoker took a deep breath as he prayed for patience. This asshole…

Smoker sighed as he turned around to glare at the young pirate. He was lounging on the couch that took up most of the small room—one of the last few intact ones in the remains of Caesar’s laboratory. The room that Smoker had claimed for his own just to get a damn break.

A break which he was apparently not going to ever get.

“What are you still doing here, Law?” Smoker asked in annoyance. “Get the hell off the island already.”

“Then tell your girl to take the kids and leave. Straw Hat-ya’s refusing to set sail before then.” Law shrugged, leaning further back into the couch as if he belonged there.

Smoker rubbed at the bridge of his nose. Why did he suffer this guy? As if Straw Hat wasn’t bad enough…

“I’m going to kick you out,” Smoker growled.

Law snorted, his lips curling into that insufferable smirk of his. “You’re welcome to try.”

Clicking his tongue, Smoker looked away. There was no point to this; Law made it perfectly clear he wasn’t about to leave and if Smoker were to be honest… he didn’t really want him to leave either. He would sooner tell Straw Hat he believed he would become the Pirate King than admit it but something in Law’s demeanour, his eyes, the way he talked—not to mention the whole thing with Vergo… it worried Smoker.

Something was going on, something deeper than Law was letting on, and Smoker wasn’t sure what to do about it.

How ridiculous; it wasn’t like they were dating or anything. Sure, they may have fucked a few times since Law became a Warlord, maybe got drunk together a few times more, and maybe Tashigi got a bit confused about it all, but Law was a pirate. Warlord or not, he was still an outlaw, and he certainly didn’t need Smoker to worry about him.

He was likely to lose his Warlord status within the week anyway; then Smoker was finally free to arrest him like he deserved.

“Are you done doing mental gymnastics over there?” Law asked, not even bothering to hide his amusement.

“Fuck off,” Smoker groaned, before taking his jacket off and tossing it on the coffee table next to the couch.

Smoker heaved a sigh, walking over to loom over Law; the pirate simply looked up at him with an eyebrow raised, the goddamned cocky smirk still on his face. It was making Smoker’s blood boil, stirring something up inside him—and he was sure that was exactly what Law was trying to do. To piss him off, to rile him up, to manipulate him into finally snapping. Smoker hated it… and yet, he couldn’t bring himself to walk away.

Instead, he was drawn to the man, to the pirate, the scum of the world. Like a damn fool.

He hated Law for it. He hated himself for it.

But even so…

“You’re going to drive me insane,” Smoker muttered as he leaned over the couch, placing one of his knees in between Law’s legs, forcing them apart.

Law didn’t say anything; only his smirk widened as tattooed fingers danced over the naked skin of Smoker’s chest, making goosebumps rise wherever they touched, a shiver running up Smoker’s spine.

Clicking his tongue once more, Smoker grabbed Law’s chin, forcing him to look at him. There was a cheeky, victorious spark in Law’s gaze, one that pissed Smoker off to no end. He narrowed his eyes at him, his expression twisting into a scowl.

That only seemed to amuse Law even more. “You seem a bit frustrated, White Chase-ya. Something wrong?”

How Smoker wanted to just snap his neck…

A growl escaping him, Smoker finally moved in—their lips crashing together.

The kiss was far from sweet; it was rough, full of energy and conflicting emotions. Lips moving with practised ease but not gentle, with teeth nipping painfully, hair being pulled. It was a kiss of passion, of lust—a physical thing. Feelings meant nothing—they were something Smoker refused to let enter this strange relationship of theirs.

After all, there was nothing here. He was a marine, Law was a pirate.

What use were feelings for?

Law would laugh in his face if he said that out loud. He would tease him mercilessly with an irritating smirk on his face, even while his eyes would have this stupidly soft look in them. Then he would tell Smoker to stop lying to himself.

Maybe he would be right. But Smoker knew better than to entertain those thoughts. He was already in too deep. Letting himself fall any deeper…

That would be plain insanity.

—————

Taking a long drag of his cigars, Smoker sighed. Once again, he found himself in this situation. How many times had it been until now? How many times had he ended up lying in a bed—or a couch in this case—, smoking his cigars with a warm body curled up against him?

He wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

It didn’t really matter at this point anymore either. He could only give up and resign himself to his fate of having a giant goddamned cat sprawled in between his legs and using his chest like a fucking pillow.

“What are you thinking about?” said cat asked quietly.

Smoker blew out the smoke from his lungs, taking a moment to reply. What was he thinking about? “Wondering how the fuck I got here, I guess.”

“Chasing after Straw Hat-ya, I imagine,” Law noted with amusement and Smoker just knew that fucking smirk was back on his face.

“You know damn well that’s not what I meant,” Smoker sighed. He didn’t even have the energy to get angry anymore.

He had expected Law would jump on the opportunity to tease him but when he only hummed noncommittally, Smoker couldn’t help but frown, looking at him questioningly. But of course, he couldn’t see his face; only the mess of dark blue hair resting against Smoker’s chest was visible. Smoker wondered what kind of expression Law was wearing right then. And what he was thinking about in that moment.

“Oi, Law—” Smoker started, but then stopped himself. He wasn’t even sure what he was about to ask, or what he was going to say.

Law didn’t acknowledge Smoker’s words, didn’t ask what they were supposed to mean. He didn’t say anything, nor did he move at all—not until he craned his head back, gazing up at Smoker with an unreadable look in his eyes before he reached out with his hand…

And then, Smoker could only watch, completely stunned, as Law grabbed one of his cigars, taking it straight out of Smokers mouth and bringing it to his own lips, taking a drag. As he exhaled, the smoke slowly rolled past his lips, swirling in the air gently, almost beautifully.

It felt like with the smoke, Law was letting something else out.

“Since when do you smoke?” Smoker asked, raising an eyebrow.

“I don’t,” Law replied simply, only to take yet another drag.

Smoker was silent for a moment, considering Law who suddenly seemed so small against him. There were a million things Smoker wanted to ask, like ‘Are you okay?’ or something equally stupid. But he couldn’t say that. Didn’t know how.

And so, he said the next best thing. “Shouldn’t you be choking then?”

Law snorted, his hand that wasn’t holding the cigar rising to casually give Smoker the finger. Truly an asshole in every situation…

“‘I don’t! doesn’t mean ‘I never tried’. Nor does it mean I don’t know how to,” Law said.

His voice was full of sarcastic amusement, teasing Smoker… but it felt empty, heavy. Like Law was somewhere else and not here and now, in this room with Smoker. He was somewhere far away, out of Smoker’s reach, even though he was making himself perfectly comfortable in his arms. Somehow… he was slipping away from Smoker’s grasp despite his warmth being everything Smoker could feel.

Without even realising it, Smoker wrapped his arms around Law’s stomach, pulling him close. He could feel his chest rising; when he placed his hand over his heart, he could feel it beating. And yet, it still didn’t feel like Law was there.

“Just what are you planning?” Smoker asked, barely audible.

Law huffed, shooting a quick look at Smoker. “Wouldn’t you like to know, Vice-Admiral?”

Smoker rolled his eyes. Now the asshole remembered Smoker’s position—even if it were simply to deflect the issue. “You know damn well I can’t arrest you, Warlord.”

Law laughed at that, the small movement shaking Smoker to the core. “Touche. But how long will I still have that status, hm?” Law asked, even though it didn’t sound like he was waiting for an answer.

“Seems like that bit doesn’t matter to you,” Smoker muttered.

“I got what I wanted.” Law shrugged as he brought Smoker’s cigar back to his lips. “I broke the cogs.”

“Don’t lie.” Smoker knew there was no point to this conversation. He knew Law wouldn’t explain, wouldn’t give him any more to go on than he already did. But that didn’t stop Smoker from continuing even so. “It might be a cog for Straw Hat’s purpose but not for you. You just wanted to piss Doflamingo off. What is it you want from the guy?”

Law didn’t answer him. Nor did Smoker expect him to.

They sat together in silence, Smoker’s arms tightening around Law, as if he was scared he would slip away for real—and Law let him. He took a deep breath, holding it in for a second… then exhaled slowly, his whole body relaxing into Smoker.

For a moment… nothing else mattered.

They sat in silence until their cigars burned out.

—————

“Where are they?!”

Smoker barely moved a muscle at the enraged shout. Somehow, it was really damn satisfying seeing Doflamingo of all people losing his composure, letting his emotions show. Smoker was used to seeing the Warlord with that unreadable, everpreset grin—as if nothing mattered to him, as if he was above it all; as if he was controlling everything like the world itself was tied to his stupid strings.

But now, nothing was going as he wanted it to and Smoker had to silently commend Law for driving this man into a corner like this.

“Where the hell did those damned kids go? Smoker!”

Meeting Doflamingo’s gaze, Smoker’s mind flashed to his conversation with Law earlier. SAD. Green Bit. Dressrosa. Joker. Cigars. Smoke.

None of it made any sense but Smoker did know one thing.

“I have no idea… Joker. They slipped away. I’ll have to answer to Vice Admiral Vergo for that one.”

Law told him where he was going for a reason. Even if he were simply using Smoker for his own purpose that way, he trusted that Smoker would do something with that information.

The least Smoker could do right now was to not disappoint that trust.

[kevinsreviewcatalogue]

Review: Half Baked (1998)

CW: Dave Chappelle, dated stoner humor

----

Half Baked (1998)

Rated R for pervasive drug content, language, nudity and sexual material

Originally posted at https://kevinsreviewcatalogue.blogspot.com/2023/04/review-half-baked-1998.html>

Score: 2 out of 5

The biggest problem I had with Half Baked, a problem that I imagine I'd have with a lot of other old stoner comedies from my childhood and earlier, has nothing to do with the film itself. It has a great cast comprised of comic actors from that period at the top of their game, most notably a young Dave Chappelle, who co-wrote the film with his future Chappelle's Show collaborator Neal Brennan. It has quite a few moments that got some good chuckles out of me, and overall, it should've worked.

No, the problem became clear as I was walking back to my car from a 25th anniversary 4/20 screening by the Laughing Gas Film Festival at the Classic Gateway Theater in Fort Lauderdale. Between the theater doors and the parking lot behind the building was a street where I walked by a medical marijuana dispensary and, further down, spotted a sticker on the wall with a QR code for a "420 Company". This may sound counterintuitive, the kind of idea that one would think you'd have to be high to come up with, but I believe that the process of destigmatizing and, in many parts of the country, outright legalizing cannabis use has ironically made it harder to enjoy stoner humor. A lot of these movies were counterculture flicks made during the War on Drugs, a time when weed was taboo and flatly illegal and could get you thrown in prison for years if you were caught with it. People who smoked it thus had an aura of rebellious cool, and stoner imagery, be it from hippies or hip-hop, was an easy way to mark yourself as a free thinker who didn't live by the silly rules that mainstream society wanted to impose. A film like Scary Movie could just throw in a stoner character where the whole joke is that he smokes a ton of weed, and score plenty of cheap laughs from the mere mention of illegal substances.

Unfortunately, that whole attitude doesn't work in an era where the taboos surrounding cannabis have largely broken down and the War on Drugs, particularly the prohibition of marijuana, faces growing mainstream pushback. Even here in a fairly conservative state like Florida that's legalized its medicinal use but has kept its recreational use criminalized, it's not hard to get a prescription for it. People who still define themselves as pot smokers are no longer considered cool, but fairly cringy in a society where "stoner culture" is just normal grown-up pop culture and suburban parents (at least in more liberal states) casually smoke weed the way they drink wine, with Neighbors nine years ago probably being, in my opinion, the canonical snapshot of how that attitude was changing in real time. The victory of the pro-legalization side of the argument meant that time was not kind to movies like Half Baked in which most of the joke revolves around how wacky and edgy marijuana and the people who smoke it are. It's oddly appropriate that this film stars Chappelle and Jim Breuer, two '90s/'00s Gen-X comedians who, to put it as nicely as possible, have not aged gracefully in the last several years, because this movie suffers from a lot of the same problems that they do. If I were born maybe ten years earlier and saw this film when I was in college, I imagine it would still be a nostalgic classic for me, as it is for a lot of people who were college kids and twentysomethings in the Y2K era. But watching it for the first time now, in 2023, I often found myself bored and waiting for the film to get to the point.

The plot is mostly an excuse to get to the pot. Chappelle plays Thurgood, a janitor at a pharmaceutical laboratory whose favorite pastime is getting high with his friends Kenny, Brian, and Scarface. When Kenny gets arrested while out on a munchie run that ends with him accidentally killing a police horse, he's held in prison on $1 million bail, forcing Thurgood, Brian, and Scarface to find a way to get him out. Their solution arrives when Thurgood discovers that the lab he works at is doing research into medicinal marijuana and has a huge stash of extremely high-quality pot, which inspires him to steal some of it from the lab so that he and his friends can sell it on the street and raise money for Kenny's bail. There are subplots involving Thurgood falling in love with a staunchly anti-drug woman ironically named Mary Jane, a drug kingpin named Samson who wants a cut of the protagonists' action when he finds out what they're doing, and an old inmate known only as the Squirrel Master (played by Tommy Chong) protecting Kenny from prison rape, but most of the film is a parade of drug humor and celebrity cameos from the likes of Willie Nelson, Snoop Dogg, and a pre-Daily Show Jon Stewart as some of the people who buy weed from Thurgood and his friends. Again, I outlined my problem with a lot of this humor earlier: a lot of it is dependent on the assumption that smoking cannabis is a daring, dangerous, and inherently funny thing to do, an idea that was pretty much dead and buried five years ago when Elon Musk, one of the wealthiest men alive and nobody's idea of a radical (no matter how much he likes to pretend otherwise), smoked a blunt with Joe Rogan live on the latter's top-rated podcast. It's like a 2000s Seltzer and Friedberg "reference movie" that, instead of using the protagonists' intoxication as the setup for greater escapades, mistakes weed references for weed humor.

If the humor doesn't click, then the film needs to have a real story to fall back on, which it unfortunately doesn't. Samson's villainy is only introduced in the third act to up the stakes with little foreshadowing, the film lost interest in Mary Jane around that same point and only wrapped up the story of her relationship with Thurgood at the very end, Kenny's only role in the film is to serve up jokes about prison rape, and overall, it just felt aimless and easily sidetracked, the kind of movie where wondering if Chappelle and Brennan were high when they wrote it isn't a compliment. Even at just 82 minutes, its runtime felt padded with extra scenes that didn't move the story along, flesh out the characters, or make me laugh all that much beyond just a few chuckles. It felt like a "sketch movie", the kind of movie that a lot of sketch comedy stars and writers in the '90s made in which they took popular characters from their shows and gave them a feature film to bumble around in, whether or not the material was suited to more than a short sketch. This movie may not have been adapted from anything out of Saturday Night Live, MADtv, or anywhere else, but Chappelle and Brennan's past and future in stand-up and late night comedy was clearly visible here, and in this case, those talents didn't translate to the big screen.

The Bottom Line

The title really says it all: Half Baked feels, well, half-baked, like it needed way more time spent on the plot instead of packing in as many "edgy" weed references as they could. It's a film that I'd argue is kept alive chiefly by Gen-X/millennial nostalgia and Chappelle's later success causing his fans to rediscover it, as it has lost its edge over the years.

[mrbopst]

My Sound Advice column for Brick this week 5/4/2010

I wasn’t always an avowed hippie hater.

In my single digit and early teenage years, I listened to many of the principle players from the late 60’s youth phenomenon (thanks to my father’s record collection) from Dylan to the Byrds, Santana to Jefferson Airplane as well as the one group that not only survived, but prospered long after the Summer of love, The Grateful Dead. Not that I ever owned any of their records myself, but whenever my brother or one of my friends put on, “Box of Rain”, “Uncle John’s Band” or, “Friend of the Devil”, I didn’t complain. Though I would have preferred hearing The Who, Ted Nugent or KISS, it was innocuously pleasant music with the added bonus of being somewhat subversive. For the life of me, I couldn’t understand how they could even remotely be considered rebellious when stacked against my favorite record at the time, “Powerage” by AC/DC, but the older kids, the kids that were smoking pot, seemed to think that they were real scary.

Not being a pot smoker, I assumed they were scary because they had, “dead” in their name.

It wasn’t until years later when I witnessed the Grateful Dead for myself did my hatred blossom for them and the post relevant hippie culture they came to represent. Beyond the meandering, acidic bubbling of Jerry Garcia’s guitar floating over the group’s never ending journey to nowhere, what struck me the most during the 6 times I saw them was the defining lack of thought that epitomized their audience. They were drunken, drug addled idiots. While this stupefaction is evident at any large concert, the vapid hedonism of Grateful Dead crowds was heroic. And that was the allure of Grateful Dead shows: Not to listen to the music, but to get as fucked up as humanly possible. For a band that carried the mantle of the idealism and the hard fought battles of the counter culture movement of the late 60’s, by the time the early 80’s rolled around, the Grateful Dead had withered into forays of laid-back decadence evidenced not only by the drug overdoses of the band members themselves, but the legions of zombies they left in their wake that worshipped them as gods. People think yuppies were bad, but as despicable as those Ronald Reagan, trickle down opportunists were, they were at least making an effort (albeit a questionable one) to better themselves. Latter day hippies on the other hand stood for nothing more than the deadening of one’s head.

And what a long stupid trip it’s been ever since.

Since Papa Jerry’s heroin overdose in 1995, a plethora of jam bands has sought to wear the Grateful Dead’s crown as the number one draw in the financially lucrative and increasingly competitive hippie market. One of the genre’s top concert draws, the Athens, Georgia based Widespread Panic, played two sold out performances at the National recently and agents from the Virginia Alcoholic Beverage Control had a field day making a total 69 arrests, many for underage drinking and drinking in public, in the area around the music hall. It must have been like shooting fish in barrel. "We heard from other law enforcement agencies where the band has played, that some followers of the band may be participating in illegal activities, so we proactively provided a presence," said ABC spokesman, Philip Bogenberger, in an article in the Times Dispatch echoing similar stings authorities have conducted during the group’s recent tour (dubbed, “Operation Don’t Panic”) that resulted in 200 arrests (and an ecstasy overdose) during their performance in Pelham, Alabama and over 60 in Louisville, Kentucky. "What they did to me was totally uncool," said Jason Bartlett, 30, a spreadhead (the Widespread Panic equivalent of being a deadhead) and self-described ski bum from Colorado, who was arrested during the group’s concert in Alabama and spent 20 hours in jail before a friend posted bail for his misdemeanor marijuana arrest. "We don't want to lose our scene. We are trying not to lose our vibe, but we are definitely scared."

Well, dumbass, you should be scared. You better toughen up if you plan on being so stupid.

Beyond the plasma draining effects of jam band music, it’s because of sentiments like this is why I hate hippies. They are docile, easy targets for legal retribution rendered inert by their all-encompassing desire for obliteration. While I do think the drug war is a sham of biblical proportions, hippie’s quest for anesthetized states beguiles feeble minds unable to comprehend that huffing inhalants, binge drinking and illegal drug use in public might get you arrested. They are the poster children for the drug war.

I have no sympathy for you idiots. You got what you deserved.

Chris Bopst May 3rd, 2010

[im-not-using-a-main-for-this]

Tw: arrests, drug usage mentions, me cyber stalking people, guns, verbal abuse

I’m having some issues again with not tracking down my uncle

I can now reliably find him on most things

Not that I can actually get access to the information, most that shit is behind pay walls

Probably for the best

Honestly I thought I was over this, but then I saw some post from someone talking about how they wish they didn’t look like their dad and that somehow got me thinking about what my uncle looks like

I can’t remember

I tried finding his Facebook or something but no luck

I can find my grandmas but I don’t have a Facebook account so I can’t see if she follows him

So fucking stupid, I’m never going to contact him but I wish the damn information was easier to get

Y’know I never got to know the true extent of what he got charged with

Probably the basic drug charges, not sure if he got reported for anything else

He got arrested so many times

I could probably find out if I actually paid

Or just asked my parents, I could probably secure a photo of him if I asked too

But then I’d have to explain

I’d get like a private investigator once I turned 18 if I thought it wouldn’t put them in harms way but uh

I don’t exactly know how my uncles doing

Last I knew of his position was he stole some guns from my grandpa and was still on drugs

Last I knew of his actual location?

Scarily close to my prior residence

Honestly one of the perks of moving across the country

I don’t have to worry about walking into the grocery store and seeing my horribly unstable possibly still addicted uncle who screamed at a scared 5 year old because of something I can’t remember

I’m being kinda harsh honestly

I understand he’s not his addiction, I’ve talked at lengths about how drugs should be legalized and about how harm reduction is one of the best methods

Thanks mom

But I can’t think of him without remembering cowering behind a bed while he screamed at me

Or the room he turned into a greenhouse for his pot, no problem with pot my dad’s a smoker too, but that room was fucking scary

Or when he trashed my grandparents house and stole their car and dad has to go and get it back

Or when we learned he’d stolen guns

I lived in fear of seeing him one day

He most likely wouldn’t recognize me anyways but still

I mean he wouldn’t unless my grandma had shown him photos

[ohsoyolaaa]

That Time I Got Caught Smoking Weed #Subscribe

[criminalwisdom]

THE GREAT MARIJUANA HOAX »

Allan Ginsberg’s “manifesto to end the bringdown”  surrounding pot prohibition in America.  First published in the Atlantic Monthly, 1966.  

What was this criminal vision of marijuana presented by the Narcotics Department for years in cheap sex magazines and government reports? Who invented the myths of base paranoia close to murder, frothing at the mouth of Egyptian dogs, sex orgies in cheap dives, debilitation and terror and physiological or mysterious psychic addiction? An essentially grotesque Image, a thought-hallucination magnified myriad thru mass media, a byproduct of Fear -- something quite fiendish -- "Dope Fiend," the old language, a language abandoned in the early sixties when enough of the general public had sufficient personal experience to reject such palpable poppycock & the bureaucratic line shifted to defense of its own existence with the following reason: necessary to control marijuana because smoking leads to search for thrill kicks; this leads to next step, the monster Heroin. And a terrible fate.

[...]

Not only do I propose end of prohibition of marijuana but I propose a total dismantling of the whole cancerous bureaucracy that has perpetrated this historic screw-up on the United States. And not only is it necessary that the Bureau of Narcotics be dismantled & consigned to the wax museum of history, where it belongs, but it is also about time that a full-scale congressional investigation with all the resources of the embattled medical, legal & sociological authorities, who for years have been complaining in vain, should be undertaken to fix the precise responsibility for this vast swindle on the administrative & mass-media shoulders where it belongs. What was the motive & method in perpetrating this insane hoax on public consciousness? Have any laws of malfeasance in public office been violated? Not only an investigation of how it all happened but some positive remuneration is required for those poor citizens who have been defenseless against beatings, arrest, and anxiety for years -- a minority directly & physically persecuted by the police of cities and states and by agents of the nation; a minority often railroaded to jail by uncomprehending judges for months, for years, for decades; a minority battling idiotic laws, and even then without adequate legal representation for the slim trickery available to the rich to evade such laws. For the inoffensive charming smokers of marijuana who have undergone disgraceful jailings, money is due as compensation. This goes back decades for thousands of people, who, I claim, are among the most sensitive citizens of the nation; and their social place and special honor of character should be rewarded by a society which urgently needs this kind of sensibility where it can be seen in public. I have long felt that there were political implications to the suppression of marijuana, beyond the obvious revelation (which Burroughs pointed out in Naked Lunch) of the cancerous nature of the marijuana-suppression bureaucracy. When the citizens of this country see that such an old-time, taken-for-granted, flag-waving, reactionary truism of police, press, and law as the "reefer menace" is in fact a creepy hoax, a scarecrow, what will they begin to think of the whole of taken-for-granted public REALITY? What of other issues filled with the same threatening hysteria? The specter of Communism? Respect for the police and courts? Respect for the Treasury Department? If marijuana is a hoax, what is Money? What is the War in Vietnam? What are the Mass Media?

[Image: American poet Allen Ginsberg at a marijuana rally with a sign that reads “Pot Is Fun”. Photo by Benedict J. Fernandez. 1963, 1964 or 1965.]

[twelvedaysinaugust]

#I’m just annoyed that he lied about it

I'm curious about him saying he's never done drugs. I know he said that when he got put in the band he was really worried about what would happen contract-wise if he was arrested, and he made a comment then, didn't he, about not wanting to do drugs, but I always assumed he was talking about that moment in time when he was 16/17. Did he talk about it at other times?

.Anon 2: Harry never said he didn't do drugs, he said he didn't do them when he had a 1d performance. He was hanging with Nick Grimshaw in his time out from touring, never before or after shows.

I will make one more post about this publicly, but any further questions will have to be answered via DM. I could talk about Harry and cocaine all day, but this blog is focused on Louis.

In the interview with Zane Lowe (around 42:03), Harry says: "When I was in the band, it was like, to me, it felt like it was so much bigger than any of us that I kind of felt like, ‘I’m not going to be the one who fucks it up.' So I was like, ‘Now is the time in my life when you probably go out and experiment and do this and you take this and you do that and that’s what you do with your friends.’ So, I was like, ‘I’m not going to do any of that stuff.’”

Afterward, it was widely reported in various news outlets that "Harry Never Did Drugs While in One Direction." So yes, Harry did say that he never did drugs in the band - not even experimentally. This statement pissed me off for two reasons: 1.) It was a lie. 2.) It was a cheap shot at Louis and Zayn.

1.) It was a lie.

During 2012 and 2013, Harry was spending a lot of time with Nick Grimshaw and his clique. In addition to Nick, this crew included Cara and Poppy Delevigne, Pixie and Peaches Geldorf, Daisy Lowe, and Alexa Chung - among others - and was colloquially referred to as the Primrose Hill Set 2.0 or the London Coke Crew. Here is a summary. In short, they were known for heavy partying and snorting a lot of coke. The drug use of this group - Harry included - is a frequent topic on gossip threads. I cannot stress this enough: Harry spent a lot of time with these people, especially Nick. It's naive to say that Harry didn't partake, as well.

2.) It was a cheap shot at Louis and Zayn.

Louis and Zayn smoked a lot of weed and we all know about the fallout from the "weedgate" video. I'm not defending Louis and Zayn's actions, but Harry's comment that he didn't want "to be the one who fucks it up" was a reference to this scandal. In my opinion, this was an unnecessary and mean-spirited dig. In addition, the Zane Lowe interview was heavily scripted, so Harry's comment was premeditated - not an impromptu or off-the-cuff remark. As we established, Harry has done harder drugs than weed. To be fair, Louis and Zayn have, as well (i.e. "Chicken in Chile”). However, even at the time the weed video leaked, Harry was portrayed as above it all. Though I believe Harry isn't a regular pot smoker, he was just as high as everybody else in the bread van video.

Here is another anon’s take:

In the same Zane Lowe interview, Harry also said, “I never do anything when I’m working.” To be honest, I don’t believe him. But I don’t exactly have solid proof one way or the other.

Massive pinch of salt, but here’s a recent blind about Harry doing coke during a show “to keep the energy going.” There’s frequent chatter about him being high on stage or leaving stage mid-performance to do drugs (like in Boston). That’s not necessarily what I believe, I’m just saying that it’s a recurring topic.

Just to be clear: The drug use is not what I’m criticizing. Weed, shrooms, even coke - I don’t care. I just wish he wouldn’t lie about it and then shade his former bandmates. Even if Harry feels like he’s more careful or restrained than others when it comes to substances, it was still a lie to say he never experimented during 1D. 

Again, I’m happy to talk more about this privately, but we have to keep the anons (and the blog, in general) Louis-centric.

[writers-worst-nightmare]

No brains (Dabi x reader)

Ask: Daddy Dabi s/o is a crackhead with zero brain cells

Pairing(s): Dabi x reader

Warning(s): large amounts of cussing (there are lyrics of WAP for most of it what did you expect?), crackhead energy, Dabi just giving up, 18+ themes (minors dni please), deaf Bakugou

A/N: absolutely anon! I would love to do this! (I have so many ideas running through my head rn lol) AND ignore if it says “Aishi” instead of you I got this from my oc x canon fanfiction

Request are always open!

“Hahaha look at your face!!!” You exclaimed, pointing towards Dabi as he tried to open a champion bottle and helplessly failing.

“You wanna try?” Dabi challenged, still struggling to open the bottle.

“No.” You admitted, just when the League couldn’t possibly get any more chaotic the whole bakusquad came.

“SUP BITCHES!” Mina yelled on the top of her lounges, popping open some wine with Denki, Sero, Jiro, and Kirishima following closely behind.

“How the hell did you do that?!” Dabi asked as he finally popped the lid off, the corkscrew went flying in the air and hit Bakugou. Bakugou smacked Dabi across the face and sulked in the corner.

“I don’t need to know sign language to know what that means.” Jiro stated, her index finger flicking in the air like something was going to fall out of the roof on her command. Dabi flipped the purple haired girl off, Jiro rolled her eyes and focused on getting the food out of the way. She gently laid down some pork and smiled at the villains.

“Why the fuck did you bring pork?” Shigeraki asked, finally un-glueing himself from Deku and going right in front of Jirou.

“Pork means good luck and wealth if you eat it on New Years.” Jirou answered carefully.

“We’re going to need that considering that you guys keep attacking us!” Kirishima added, not wanting to be left out on the conversation.

”we attack you guys so much because it’s fun!” Toga cheered, her yellow eyes scanning the bar. “Is Izuku here?” She inquired, Bakugou just the door open and scoffed at Toga’s attitude.

”No, he just jumped out the window.” The ash-blond teased. Toga growled before leaping forward and trying to stab Bakugou, Bakugou skillfully dodged and tripped Toga with his feet. Toga scowled before leaping on top of him, but she was stopped by Dabi holding her torso.

“LET ME AT HIM DABI!!! I’LL TEAR HIM APART!!!” Toga screeched as she tried to get away form his grasp. Dabi rolled his eyes as he held Toga back, bored out of his mind.

“Later.” He responded, chucking Toga on the couch. Toga landed on Spinner and the two then argument amongst themselves.

*later with Y/N*

”Come oooooon!!!” You whined, dragging Dabi out and getting him in the car.

“Champion, you know I love you right?” Dabi asked, you nodded her head as she started the car and buckled yourself in.

“Yep!” You exclaimed, putting a lot of power on the ‘p’ sound.

“But we talked about this…not driving.” Dabi stated more sternly. You rolled your y/e/c eyes and started driving anyway.

***

”Y/N/N YOU ARE GOING TO MAKE ME THROW UP!!!!” Dabi yelled, you shrugged her shoulders as you broke every speed limit there was imaginable.

“Oh look the cops are chasing me.” You commented as you pointed to the back window of the car where several police cars were chasing after Dabi and you.

“OH GOD!!!!” Dabi exclaimed, rolling brown the window and throwing rocks at them.

“Since when do we have rocks in the car?” You inquired, your calm and squeaky voice not even comparing to Dabi’s frantic and deep voice.

“SINCE YOU STARTED DRIVING!!!” Dabi countered, you hummed and started playing “WAP” on full volume as she started singing along.

I said, certified freak Seven days a week Wet-ass pussy Make that pull-out game weak, woo

”y/n you bitch stop singing to tiktok songs and help me!” Dabi begged, you ignored your boyfriends cry for help and kept driving. Pushing the speed limits a little further each time.

Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah Yeah, you fucking with some wet-ass pussy Bring a bucket and a mop for this wet-ass pussy Give me everything you got for this wet-ass pussy

You ignored as the cops yelled some gibberish and kept singing. The citizens turned and saw the police-chase, some laughing at you and some joining in on your singing.

Beat it up, nigga, catch a charge Extra large and extra hard Put this pussy right in your face Swipe your nose like a credit card Hop on top, I wanna ride I do a kegel while it's inside Spit in my mouth, look in my eyes This pussy is wet, come take a dive Tie me up like I'm surprised Let's role play, I'll wear a disguise I want you to park that big Mack truck Right in this little garage Make it cream, make me scream

Everyone in the sidewalks soon joined in your singing as the younger teens pulled out their phones and recorded her to put it on their tiktok’s. Dabi was still having a mental break down as he screamed on the top of his lounges that the cops where still after him.

Out in public, make a scene I don't cook, I don't clean But let me tell you how I got this ring (ayy, ayy)

”You where fine at first until you forced me to date you then you showed your true colors.” Dabi answered, everyone in the crowd berth into laughter along with you. Soon, Dabi reluctantly joined in on the singing.

Gobble me, swallow me, drip down the side of me Quick, jump out 'fore you let it get inside of me I tell him where to put it, never tell him where I'm 'bout to be I'll run down on him 'fore I have a nigga running me Talk your shit, bite your lip Ask for a car while you ride that dick (while you ride that dick)

the cops started slowing down and the cool cops joined in in on the singing while the grumpy cops yelled at the citizens and threatened to arrest them.

You really ain't never gotta fuck him for a thang He already made his mind up 'fore he came Now get your boots and your coat For this wet-ass pussy He bought a phone just for pictures Of this wet-ass pussy Pay my tuition just to kiss me On this wet-ass pussy Now make it rain if you wanna See some wet-ass pussy

as the chorus came around again everyone sang even louder. Laughter filling the area as they saw the funniest nonsense that belonged to the villains.

Look, I need a hard hitter, I need a deep stroker I need a Henny drinker, I need a weed smoker Not a garden snake, I need a king cobra With a hook in it, hope it lean over He got some money, then that's where I'm headed Pussy A1, just like his credit He got a beard, well, I'm tryna wet it I let him taste it, now he diabetic I don't wanna spit, I wanna gulp I wanna gag, I wanna choke I want you to touch that lil' dangly thing That swing in the back of my throat My head game is fire, punani Dasani It's going in dry and it's coming out soggy I ride on that thang like the cops is behind me I spit on his mic and now he tryna sign me, woo

Everyone practically screamed the ‘dangly thing that swing in the back of my throat’ part, the music from the radio now drowned out by the people who have memorized it word-by-word either eagerly or reluctantly.

Your honor, I'm a freak bitch, handcuffs, leashes Switch my wig, make him feel like he cheating Put him on his knees, give him something to believe in Never lost a fight, but I'm looking for a beating In the food chain, I'm the one that eat ya If he ate my ass, he's a bottom feeder Big D stand for big demeanor I could make you bust before I ever meet ya If it don't hang, then he can't bang You can't hurt my feelings, but I like pain If he fuck me and ask, "Whose is it?" When I ride the dick, I'ma spell my name Ah (whores in this house)

Dabi started recording on his phone while people sang the bridge and sent it to the ‘League Of Villains’ group-chat.

Yeah, yeah, yeah Yeah, you fucking with some wet-ass pussy Bring a bucket and a mop for this wet-ass pussy Give me everything you got for this wet-ass pussy Now from the top, make it drop That's some wet-ass pussy Now get a bucket and a mop That's some wet-ass pussy I'm talking WAP, WAP, WAP That's some wet-ass pussy Macaroni in a pot That's some wet-ass pussy, huh

As the song came to and ended some people stopped recording but to there kept recording. Dabi got a text from ‘Ash Child’

Ash Child: What the fuck?!

Dabi: y/n started running from the cops and out on this song

Chapstick🧴🧴🧴: I already heard this song enough!

Blood rat 🐀🩸: I said certified freak!

Spinner: That’s it I am removing Toga from the group chat

Blood rat 🐀🩸: but whyyyy

-blood rat🐀🩸 was removed from the group chat-

People starting listening to the blasting radio as the song came to an end.

(There's some whores in this house) (There's some whores in this house)

[quinn-tessence]

California Dreamin’

Part 2

Feeling like getting myself galvanized again by the experience of travelling to see a concert after these past years under “house arrest". Luckily, one character is at the right place and right time to take me just where I want to be, a concert that happened way before my time.

Heavy inspiration from Creedence and Tina, with Joaquin Phoenix as lead character in perpetuity. Starting to think I need rehab 🤦‍♀️😂

Pairing: Doc Sportello x Reader (as Penny Kimball, Deputy DA)

Summary: you are still contemplating Doc's crackpot invitation to move in with him, but he'd prepared an unexpected night that would solidify his closing argument.

Length: 3k words

Warnings: smoking pot, reckless driving, careless adolescent-like behavior by consenting adults 😂 totally shameless much needed comfort piece.

---

Bringing a pizza had been an excuse to drop by, but his fridge was emptier than the beach in mid winter. Sometimes you wondered if his only nourishment was that grass. How he wasn't constantly munching on something was beyond you, or perhaps it was merely the effect of years of daily exposure. Light smoker, hear that!

Munching on each other really wasn't a healthy substitute, so it wasn't long before the pizza became a thing of the past as he scrolled through channels while you laid over his chest. Somehow, you'd nuzzled closer and closer to him as the months went by, and it wasn't the joints speaking on your behalf. Now that he could feel how effortlessly it came to you, he'd learned you craved his kisses on your forehead and his fingertips stroking your scalp as if you were a kitten demanding all his attention. He didn't need a PHD to figure that out, yet his inexplicable success as a P.I. must have come from a natural talent of piecing together what others couldn't.

For months you'd tried to keep whatever this was in check, refusing to be distracted from your career. You'd built that with blood, sweat and tears, it defined you, made you walk with pride in your step and brought a fierceness to your expression that commanded respect. You weren't gonna let this hippie private detective living in a dump with seemingly no care in the world threaten that. How he'd snoop around in that worn out hat and sun glasses, his hair reflecting the state of his house, and yet here you were.

Secretly, you envied that live-and-let-live ease about him, wanting all of that for yourself with him in the center, but educated caution warned against the flimsiness of your inner dreamer. You were well aware he had that side chick he was chasing, but you'd never discussed exclusivity until now. You hoped she'd broken him so badly he'd just not want her back, but then again, perhaps you'd been the side chick all this time. Him asking you to consider moving in was more unexpected than his phone call earlier, yet his unpredictability was the chink in your armor. Somehow, he'd seeped right through it.

"I have a groovy thing I wanna go to tomorrow. I think you'd like it", he hummed as his toes wiggled to a tune in his head you couldn't possibly figure out.

"Cause we have so many common interests", you retorted in a haughty tone, promising to yourself to try and loosen that up around him. Cuddling closer to his chest, he chuckled at your sharpening claws.

"You might be surprised", he stubbed the bud in the ashtray and sat back down for your comfort. "Come with me. Take the day off tomorrow. We stay in bed, get some of that takeout you like, windows open, tube on full blast, we'll keep the neighbors entertained, mm?", despite your previous tone, his fingers kept stroking your hair.

"You're nuts, I have to be in court all day tomorrow!"

"Fine, Ms. Deputy DA", he must have rolled his eyes judging by his concession from quite an appealing plan. "I'll pick you up at 7. It's starting at 8 pm and we need to drive there pronto."

"For you and I to show face anywhere together, you need to wash that hair and trim those mutton chops, you hear me? Come tomorrow and you're looking like this, I'm back in the courthouse."

"What?" He seemed genuinely surprised as he run his fingers through his facial hair. "My mutton chops are neat."

"Not when you look like a fuzzy middle aged bear, they don't", you kissed the nook of his neck tenderly. "Where are you planning on taking me?"

"Nah-nah-nah. But your suit won't do for this. You can wear these shades and something less uptight", he slipped his sunglasses on your eyes and peppered your nose with kisses.

"I don't own hippie clothes, Doc."

"Of course you don't", he rolled his eyes once more at being reminded you belonged to a different class. "I'll figure something out. But tonight, you won't need any. Of. Those", the yen in his eyes driving his fingers to lift up your shirt enough to uncover your skin inch by inch.

There had been no time to drop back by your apartment in the morning and change clothes, thank god for the shirts in your trunk. Even so, your sudden disappearance the night before had been remarked on plenty. You played along and fought off the distraction of last night's multiple orgasms and tonight's surprise, the case would always take priority. Yet you checked your watch like a nervous tic, one more aspect your pals tauntingly quipped about.

7:10 on a Friday and you were still in the courtroom, the prosecutor sure loved to prolong his closing statements to put on a show. Pompous prick! 7:20 found you grabbing your bag and almost smashing through the front door, once again ditching your group and scanning the parking lot for his grey 64 Dodge Dart. Thankfully, he'd listened to you and parked all the way across the block. You bit your lip to stifle a giggle, hoping you'd not be seen fleeing with him. You could easily foretell your colleague's remarks even to your face - "this fucking guy, Penny, really?", but they didn't know him like you did.

Approaching the car in your high heels and suit, he threw the cigarette bud out the window as he started the engine to meet you half way, opening the car door for you to jump in mid drive. Foolish, downright preposterous, but your heartbeat accelerating had nothing to do with your sprint to the car. The instant you'd laid eyes on his fine kempt hair and scar on his stubbled lip, you knew just how smitten you really were. Of course he hadn't trimmed his signature mutton chops, but you relished the palette of color on his face, from the darkest eyebrows crowning the biggest green eyes to the tiniest white hair in his beard.

"Howdy, stranger", he furtively smirked at you as he drove onto 6th Street.

"I asked you to park there so we can keep this out of sight, Doc, what the hell?"

"Take a chill pill, baby girl," he chuckled with characteristic nonchalance. "Your friends were too preoccupied kissing each others' asses to care whose car you're jumping into. Here, puff this up for me."

His frankness and lack of censorship regarding his admiration towards your profession was infuriating, yet so refreshing you craved it. He'd just handed you a joint, how surprising.

"You shouldn't be smoking this in the car, Larry...", you almost choked on the puff you'd just taken.

Stopping at the red light, he took off his shades and eyed your suit in disapproval. The electric feel of his meadow green eyes up and down your body without even a single touch had only amplified after all these months.

"Alright, ma'! Can you just chill and let me take care of you for one evening in my own way? Who knows, maybe you'll get off that high horse and even enjoy it."

"You know what? Fuck you, ok?"

"Hey, right on", he chuckled at having scratched your itch. "Later, if you insist. But you need to get outta those threads. Check the bag on the backseat, put on what's in there. And yes, before you state the obvious, you will be changing clothes in the car."

Pesky bastard and his damned charisma, he was right to call you on your bullshit. How could you be mad when the wind flew freely through his fresh locks weathered by the sun as he snuck a few peeks at you, awaiting an acid comeback. You had none, so you kissed his fuzzy cheek and reached for the bag.

"What am I gonna do with your linen green shirt and a garland, Doc?"

"What do you think? Here," spliff between his lips, he took both hands off the wheel to untie his belt and hand it to you. "Tie this around and you're all set."

Regardless of your bickering, you undressed on the passenger seat while chastising him to keep his eyes on the road. Ripping the price tag on the cowboy boots and slipping into them, you felt uncomfortably comfortable.

"That wasn't so hard now, was it? Look at you, outtasight, girl! We're almost there. Do me a favor - let down your hair, and put this on", he handed you a summer scarf the color of his eyes and the sea at midday.

"That's two favors", you quibbled as you unbraided your hair to let it wild over your shoulders. "Where are you taking me, anyway?"

"Somewhere hip, you'll find out soon enough."

"Are we going to some hippie retreat? You know that's just how I want to spend my evenings", the sarcasm in your tone was pointless as you heard it out loud.

"Well... judging by last night, and last week, and the week before and so on, I'd say you dig that. Put the scarf on already, we're almost there."

The taste of his lips at the red light was enough to convince you to follow his lead, the effect of the spliff loosening your tension and traversing your muscles to a much needed state of Friday evening chill. You couldn't see, but you clearly heard the rumble outside as he looked for a parking space, casually pointing out how all spots were taken cause you couldn't meet him on time. Engine off, he opened your door and helped you out in a hurry towards a noisy entrance.

Holding your hand wasn't enough to get you through the crowd safely, so he wrapped his arm around you, clarifying to someone how you were blindfolded as a surprise. No further questions asked after you confirmed you had no idea where he'd brought you, so he rushed you through what smelled and sounded like a stadium. Within short minutes of making room through a sea of people, he stopped and your heart galloped at the excitement.

As he took the blindfold off, the place was bustling but your eyes had frozen stiff on his own even in the late August heat and stuffy atmosphere at The Forum in Inglewood. His goddamn eyes were the luster in your darkness. He'd kept your back turned to the stage, his fingers running through your hair delicately despite the crowd already cheering and whistling. Bringing you closer so you'd hear him, he whispered "Why don't we make this our anniversary, baby doll?" and stole a peck off your lips as the crowd lost their minds in unison to the first riffs of Run Through The Jungle.

Turning to the stage faster than one two three, your heart poured out of your chest, your face contorted and your mouth fell agape at the sight and swamp blues sound of your favorite band. You hadn't yet seen them live cause of your shit schedule, which meant you'd had to put in the extra time whenever they had played close to home. Creedence Clearwater Revival on stage before you, their sound soothing your soul with every disc you'd bought religiously, now sinking through your bones from head to toe like ravenous thunder. You could easily cry yet you let out the loudest of groupie shrieks as you jumped to Doc's arms.

"Oh my god, Doc!!! How did you know?!", you practically screamed your lungs out at him, the radiant smile on his face at your euphoria had dispersed any desires to ever return to your life without him. Looking mighty fine himself with fresh wavy hair locks over his forehead, his linen shirt and the sandals, but his naturally contoured emerald eyes stole your breath away withour fault.

"That night at your place", he shouted back, "I found your collection of discs. I wouldn't have taken you for a Creedence fan, Ms. Executive DA, but look at you, so beautiful tonight, you're glowing!"

His lips kissed you one last time before he turned you towards the stage, urging you to go with the flow as your exaltation reached new heights hearing the riffs to I Heard It Through The Grapevine.

There you were, wearing his shabby hippie long shirt smelling of cologne, tobacco and him, his soft arms around you, mutton chops brushing your flushed cheeks, your limbs mellowed and fervent at the same time. Whomever she was, you wanted her to stay. You laughed and danced in his arms remembering how your heart had fell on a Creedence line when you'd first seen him, hello Doc, goodbye heart, and how wild horses couldn't make you stay away. For once in a dreadfully long time, you finally felt free and wild, finally allowing yourself to enter his devil-may-care world and exult in every step you took closer to him.

He'd been there for months, and even if you'd thrown him to the feds just yesterday, the glimmer in his eyes spoke of how little that had mattered. Surprising was an understatement, underneath that adorable fuzziness lay that attentiveness your previous partners would have found threatening of their masculinity, and you were done ignoring and hiding it away from prying eyes. This had somehow become serious somewhere along the way, and even if you couldn't put your finger on when it happened, him tapping his foot to Keep On Chooglin' and humming John Fogerty's lyrics into your ear had leveled all your walls.

The best hour of your life had wrapped up, yet you were far from coming down from the cloud, each step you took guided by his hand felt like floating on air. In a sea of satisfied faces heading towards the exit, you radiated with an feverish ardor for more, and you'd just realized you couldn't give two shits if anyone saw you together. There was nowhere you'd rather be tonight than here, holding his hand and running towards the car in a warm summer night shower.

"Doc!!! Oh my god!!! You rascal, I can't believe you did this!", you bristled with euphoria in a smile he'd not been privy to before tonight.

"Rascal, huh?", the smirk in the corner of his lips gave away how he'd noticed it and already bottled it up.

"Yesss", you blurted giddily.

"But that's why you like me, baby doll", he lit another spliff and handed it to you as he headed out of the parking lot and into the first drive-through.

"That's what keeps you coming back, isn't it? If we're being honest now, I didn't need to put in the effort for tonight, but I wanna see you radiating like this more often." Waiting in queue for the order he'd just given, you ran your hand through his damp hair and nuzzled to his chest realizing how badly you got a kick out of his wit, and just how right he was.

"If you mean that, then you'd better stop by a pharmacy so I buy a new toothbrush for tonight", your fingers running through his chest hairs down his shirt's v-line sensing a faster heartbeat.

"Are you serious?" his voice faltered as his hand removed your locks of hair off your forehead to catch a glimpse of your face.

"If you are." You looked at him and hoped you'd not be following white rabbits in your quest for his heart that might have belonged to another. "I wasn't expecting tonight. I'm just... really happy..."

"2 menus, $4.20", the cashier repeated rather obfuscated at Doc's absentmindedness.

You handed a 10 and asked her to keep the change as he tried to put some words together through a smile from ear to ear.

"I'll bring some stuff over, but you'll drop your side chick. You know, the one you don't have." His forehead furrowed, but he laughed as if caught red-handed. He, of course, denied all charges nonchalantly, attributing them to your paranoia.

"Why would I ask that if I had plans of keeping a side chick, you little daffy?"

Assuring him you'd cash in on that check tonight, you asked to find a spot to eat and turned up Rock Vault Radio. Driving far up the hill on an adjacent quiet road, you'd fed him almost the whole bag of fries as you both sang to the music, but he turned the car around facing the night city lights and pulled the hand brake.

Those burgers weren't the most delicious treat in his car. The same concurrent thought through your minds as he hummed at the nightlights and starry sky, but turned his attention to you languidly yet with clear intent. His fingertips gently to your chin, his eyes devoured your lip as he unconsciously bit his own, and you were already smoldering the moment he beckoned you closer.

Tugging at his shirt with greedy fingers, the fire in his eyes enhanced their color to glisten with the same gluttony as yours, an educated guess confirmed by the taste of his lips on yours in a heart beat. As you gasped for air, his fingers had already undone your belt and his palms had found their way underneath the shirt-dress. Mouth gobbling at your neck, all senses on overload as the windows steamed up from the heat of your bodies, his gravelly voice demanding that you get your bodacious ass on the backseat. You followed without hesitation, yet you were surprised when he went round the car to the same backdoor.

"Come here", he snuggled next to you, yet his fingers effortlessly slid your undies to the floor, his hands groping your feet and dragging you almost halfway out the door.

An empty dark road, a car with dripping foggy windows and his knees in the damp grass, he lodged your feet on the headrests and sunk his face between your thighs as he watched you let him unplug you from your world. You may have shrieked yourself to exhaustion at the concert, but you'd saved your acoustic symphonies for him albeit unaware his tongue would demand them on the backseat of his car on a quiet road overlooking the city lights. The thrill of the night had already penetrated your bones, but the things he'd do to you had no equivalent outside his bed. Or his car, for that matter, so you let him have his crafty ways; the better he'd do, the more you'd encourage until you had no breath left to scream out his name no more.

Dazed and confused at the rejuvenating effects his mouth had on you, your fingers grabbed his shirt and pulled him on the backseat next to you. Straddling him between your thighs and quickly undoing his pants, sinking him inside of you ripped the grunt from his throat you relished in as your personal savory. The crescendo of your wails were his exclusively, quickly throwing you both into that state you hungered off each other but no amount of kissing would satiate.

You'd forgotten who you really were, hiding behind a mound of paperwork, late hours and expensive courtroom suits, yet the thrill of feeling like an 18 year old you'd secretly chased ever since. Who would have thought you'd find it in his arms at a concert and on the backseat of his car as he brought you closer and closer to shivers and tremors once more. As greedy as he was, tonight the glint in his eyes spoke that he'd be taking you home for the weekend, and you wouldn't want to leave by the end of it. He could be right, yet you'd let him keep on giving his best nonetheless, and his palms on your waist as he disheveled into you had just induced one more session of intense muscle spasms traversing your whole body to confirm the veracity of his educated guess.

Zero visibility, but there hadn't been any headlights passing by since he'd parked here. Your fingers entangled deep in his hair, you pinned him on the headrest when all the poor man wanted was to breathe, but he cuddled you so close to his chest, you could easily swoon in his arms. It had been a damn decade since you last felt this way, a naive thrill inside screaming the words at the top of your lungs. You just giggled instead, your thumbs tracing circles over his mutton chops as he blinked sluggishly, revealing galaxies more stunning than you'd ever seen on the night sky.

"Let's motor the fuck outta here", he tucked himself back into his briefs as you tried to get yourself back to a decent state of dress.

"Aren't we gonna eat?!"

"We did what we came here for, doll, we can eat on the drive back home". He winked at you with a satisfied grin plastered all over his face, and as he stole one last kiss, it had just dawned on you that home could very well be with him.

---

Thank you for reading, hope you enjoyed it! ❤

Tagging a few of the lovely people around here:

@sweet-nothings04 @ajokeformur-ray @wuika @iartsometimes​ @fleckcmscott​ @jokerownsmysoul  @bananabreaddough @arthurflecksgirl @cruuelty @hhandley80 @shaw-2000 @fruitjuicebasket @imaginarytowel @flowerglitterwoman @nothingclown @j05eph @justafleck @the-one-who-is-chaoz @darknessisafriend @fly-like-a-phoenix @beatlebabe1996 @harleyq80 @chalkicharli @deathlthallow @delicatecroissantprofessorthing @readingafterdarkness @nendouism @gutted-goth @ihoneywaffle

[fetishesandstuff]

I'm a smoker (insert your boos and hisses here) and a landlord (you already did it so shut up!) one day my renter (dumb Crack whore whose son ended up murdering someone and running to her house to be arrested while she blamed my roommate for it even though he was working at the time of the murder) told me that she had been seeing the homeless digging through my ash try. I told her to leave them alone. She apparently didn't listen to me so the homeless started grabbing my ash tray and running into the street with it to dig in it for snipes (unfinished cigarettes) and then throw my ash tray, which is a pot my dad made in college, against my door.

So in order to stop this bad behavior I started dousing my ash tray in water and the bums now litter my lawn all because I gave a Crack whore a chance. I have other stories but the moral of this one is an ex Crack whore will always act like a current one even when you take her on as a renter because nobody else will.

[the-delta-42]

Fallen

Based on This Post by @nerdasaurus1200

Fallen

Marinette scowled at the sky. Ever since Lila came back, everyone’s IQ had fallen to single digits, Max included. Alya had brushed Marinette’s concerns off a jealousy, but Marinette didn’t have any proof, aside from her own word and Adrien, who wanted to go with the high road approach.

Marinette inwardly snorted, Adrien had a heart of gold, but he seriously needed lessons on social skills. Marinette glanced down at the stub in her hand, if her parents found she had started smoking, they would flip. Marinette didn’t actually intend for smoking to become a habit, but another one of the class presidents had noticed she was stressed and given her a cigarette, it happened a few more time and it eventually stuck, Tikki always tutted and gave Marinette a disapproving look. Thankfully, no one came on to the roof to look for smokers, they always looked on the ground. Marinette stubbed the cigarette out and put it in a disused flower pot.

“Well, well, well,” Crooned a sickeningly sweet voice, making Marinette spin around, “what do I have here? Why, if it isn’t Marinette, breaking a school rule.”

Lila smirked smugly at Marinette, Marinette looked behind Lila and spotted Alix, Kim, Chloe and Sabrina.

“Can I help you?” asked Marinette, tiredly.

“You weren’t at lunch.” Said Lila, faux sweet voice lacing her words.

“Well, here I am,” Waved Marinette, “you can go now.”

“Oh, but, Marinette,” Said Lila, sweetly, “I don’t want to go.”

Marinette sighed, hauling herself to her feet, “Okay, but I don’t want to know what you’re doing up here.”

“But, Marinette,” Lila’s smirk went cold, “I want to talk to you.”

“How unfortunate, because I don’t want to talk to you.” Said Marinette, plainly.

Lila took a few steps closer, “I told Alya that I could help you start your fashion career, I told her I could introduce you to so many people.”

“I’m not interested in your lies, Lila,” Said Marinette, folding her arms, “your stories don’t work on me, it’ll only be a matter of time before everyone else cottons on.”

Alix went to advance toward Marinette, but Kim held his arm out.

“Let’s see how this ends.” Kim whispered his voice quiet.

“And what’s that supposed to mean?” Lila grit out, fuming.

“It means, stop lying, once everything comes to light, the class, hell the school, will turn on you like a pack of dogs,” Said Marinette, “And believe me, they will tear you apart.”

Marinette stopped at the edge and looked across the City, for some reason, she felt oddly calm.

Lila let out a yell and charged at Marinette, her hands pushing Marinette’s back away from her, causing Marinette to topple over. Marinette let out a scream as she fell, abruptly cutting off as she hit the ground with a sickening crack-thud.

“Marinette!” Screamed Alix, as she ran past Lila and gawked over the edge of the roof.

Alix stood still for a moment, before she rushed back down the stairs, the others following after her, leaving Lila alone on the roof.

*/*

Adrien laughed as Nino imitated an elephant.

His father allowed him to have lunch at school, which gave him the opportunity to introduce Kagami to his other friends. Kagami had brought some of her classmates with her, Adrien presumed for moral support.

“Didn’t you say Marinette was going to be here?” Asked Kagami, looking around for the blue-eyed girl.

“Yeah, I think she’s caught up in something.” Said Adrien, making Alya snort.

“The girl is turning into a workaholic, one day she’s going to run herself into the ground.” Commented Alya, “She said someone wanted to speak with her and she’d join us as soon as she was done.”

Kagami hummed in response.

Alix suddenly burst into the courtyard.

“Lila just pushed Marinette off the roof.”

*/*

She was dead.

Lila could only stare at the body of the class representative that she had pushed off the roof. In hindsight, the push had been a bit much, she hadn’t meant to push her off the roof.

Lila could see her classmate slowly gather around the body, someone screamed and there were more than a few wails. Adrien looked up and made eye contact with Lila. She had never seen such hatred before and now she was witnessing it, all because Lila Rossi had murdered Marinette Dupain-Cheng.

She didn’t think she could lie herself out of this one. She knew she couldn’t lie her way out of it when the class began hunting her down.

Lila started frantically looking for a way to get down without having to use the stairs she used to get up here. She spotted a fire escape, and ran for it, hastily rushing down the steps and into the alley that it let out into. Lila wasted no time in running home and hiding away in her room, she needed a way out of this mess without getting arrested.

*/*

They’d moved Marinette into an empty classroom. It had been an hour and the whole school had heard, and everyone was quiet when they were informed. Everyone was told that it was probably planned by Lila, as Kim, Alix and Sabrina had told the staff. The Art teacher had donated a sheet so her body could be covered. The Police and Ambulance were arriving, paramedics being taken to Marinette’s body.

An officer was questioning Marinette’s classmates when one of the Paramedics rushed in.

“We have to move her.” Said the Paramedic, gasping for air.

“Why?” Asked the Officer, “The Coroner’s van will be here in a minute.”

“She’s still alive, she’s being loaded into the Ambulance now.” The Paramedic then rushed out of the room, the Officer looking back at the class, before following her.

The classroom was silent, before Alya made a shuddery gasp.

“She’s alive.” Gasped Alya, her arms wrapped around Nino, “She’s still alive.”

“But for how much longer?” Came Adrien’s response, his tone dark.

No one wanted to give a thought to that possibility.

*/*

Tom and Sabine were in the middle of the lunch rush, when Police cars and an Ambulance arrived at the school across the road, one of their usual patrons entered, babbling about how someone had been pushed off the school roof.

The poor person left without collecting their change. Shortly afterwards, a Police Officer walked in, quietly asking to speak with them.

“I think you should sit down.” Said the Officer, as soon as they were somewhere private.

“Is something wrong?” Asked Tom, as he closed the door.

“I am afraid something has happened, concerning your daughter.” Answered the Officer.

“What’s wrong? Has she been arrested? Is she hurt?” Sabine threw a fast flurry of questions.

“No, she hasn’t been arrested,” Said the Officer, “at 13:47 today, one of her classmates had lured her up to the roof of her School and pushed her off. I’m sorry, but I’m afraid the chances of your daughter dying is more likely than her survival.”

Neither spoke, before Sabine let out a shuddering gasp.

“Where is she?” Demanded Tom, his tone a mix of grief and rage.

*/*

The doctors were rushing around when the trolly came in, a doctor rushing over to them.

“Okay, what’ve we got?” Asked the Doctor, matching the pace of the paramedics and trolly.

“15-year-old female, Caucasian-Asian, was pushed off her schools’ roof.” A paramedic listed off, “The Police will want to question her if she wakes up.”

“When she wakes up.” Said the Doctor, looking down at the girl, “Anything else?”

“Severe trauma to the head and spine, possible punctured lung, her right arm is broken.” Came the response, “There’s also suspected internal bleeding, so there is a chance of there being other punctures.”

“Right,” Said the Doctor, before calling out, “Can someone prep her for surgery?”

*/*

By the time class had been released Marinette had been released from surgery, with Tom and Sabine sitting by her bedside.

“How is she?” Asked Alya, as she entered the room, Nino and Adrien trailing along behind her.

“They say she’s stable, but they don’t know if she’ll wake up or not.” Came Tom’s reply.

“Who did this?” Came Sabine’s quiet demand.

“Mrs. Cheng, I don’t think we’re allowed-” Sabine cut Adrien off mid-sentence.

“Who did this to my daughter?”

Everyone was quiet, before Alix piped up behind them.

“Lila pushed Marinette off the roof.” Said Alix, quietly pushing her way to the front.

“The girl with the lying disease?” Questioned Tom, as Adrien shifted slightly.

“Mr. Dupain, I don’t think that was a disease,” Said Adrien, “the only thing that would remotely match that is a compulsive lying disorder, which isn’t a disease.”

The room was silent, before Tom got up and muttered about how he needed to get outside. No one stopped him from walking out of the ward, while Sabine was gently stroking Marinette’s head.

*/*

Lila cowered under her desk in her room, she had heard someone knocking on the door to her home, Lila was desperately trying to think up something to get her out of this mess. She couldn’t fall back onto the lying disease, because there had been witnesses to Marinette’s murder and they all saw her push Marinette. She couldn’t claim self-defence, because Marinette was facing away from her. Lila was stuck in a corner, both figuratively and literally.

Lila stopped. She could say Marinette jumped and her push was actually her trying to save Marinette. Yes, that should work, it would take a few well-placed lies to get the class to believe her, but she might be able to get it to work.

Lila nodded to herself, she could work with this, and maybe, she could ruin Marinette as well.

There was a splintering sound as the front door was kicked in.

“Lila?” Came the voice of one of Paris’s heroes, “Come out, come out, wherever you are.”

Lila clamped her hands over her mouth to prevent ant sound from escaping.

“Come on, Lila,” Whined Chat Noir, his claws scraping against a wall, “I only want to talk.”

Lila was breathing as quietly as possible, unwilling to remove her hands, lest she makes a noise, tears were streaming down her face. Lila’s door was kicked open and Chat Noir walked in.

“There you are.” Grinned Chat, as Cataclysm glowed in his hand.

Chat then rushed towards her, his cataclysm hand outstretched.

Lila woke with a gasp, sweat rolling down her body. She was in her bed; how did she get here? Then it all came crashing back to her. She pushed Marinette off the roof of the school and she planned on twisting it to make it seem Marinette was the aggressor.

Lila was drawn from her thoughts by the front door slamming shut.

“Lila!” Yelled her mother, making the girls heart sink.

“Y-yes, Mum?” called Lila, hoping her mother hadn’t already heard.

The sound of her mother stomping towards her room put a dull feeling of apprehension in her. Her door slammed open and her mother looked livid.

“What’s this I hear about you pushing someone off a roof?!” Demanded Lila’s mother.

*/*

“She’s lucky, I’ll say that much.” Said a Doctor, looking over Marinette’s file, “She’s going to need to rest to get the bones in her arm and leg to heal properly. Although, we’re going to want to keep an eye on her lungs for a while.”

“Why, was one of them punctured?” Asked Sabine, making the Doctor frown.

“Yes, but they’re just showing signs of smoking damage.” Said the Doctor, “It might be an idea to see if she has been smoking, just to be safe, since it could be smoke inhalation.”

The doctor finished up and left the room.

“Well, now we know why she was on the roof.” Said Sabine, looking over at her daughter, “Do you think we’ve been pushing her too hard?”

“I think it’s been a gradual thing, she started to struggle with things, and someone gave her a stress release.” Replied Tom, watching Marinette as she breathed in and out.

“We’ll have to talk to her about it when she wakes up.” Said Sabine, as Marinette shifted a little.

Both adults went silent as they watched Marinette wiggle around, before rolling over onto her side, her broken limbs resting on top of her non broken limbs. Marinette gave a little sigh and soft snores started coming from the bed.

“Well,” Said Sabine, her eyebrows raised, “at least we know she’s not in a coma.”

There was a flash and shutter sound at Tom took a picture.

*/*

A couple of weeks passed since Marinette woke up and was forced to come clean about her new habits, now she was sitting awkwardly, trying to take down notes from Ms. Bustier’s class. Her classmates tried to do it for her but stopped after Marinette made it clear she could manage. Marinette was avoiding Adrien’s gaze, she didn’t want to look at his smug face.

“Are you sure you’re okay, Marinette?” Asked Adrien, leaning towards Marinette, “It’s not to late to ask for help.”

“Bite me, Dracula.” Retorted Marinette, before swearing as she dropped her pen.

Ms. Bustier stopped and sighed.

“Adrien, please take Marinette’s notes for her, that’s the twenty-sixth time she dropped her pen.” Said Ms. Bustier, before continuing with the lesson.

Adrien looked beside himself, while Marinette pouted.

[sapphicconservative]

I'm not opposed to drugs being decriminalized (so people who have problems can get help without fear of being locked up) but I PERSONALLY have issues with drugs ESPECIALLY POT because my abusive mother uses A LOT, my pedophile ex-stepfather smoked, and the man who ACTUALLY sexually abused me (surprisingly the former didn't) would get high and molest me. I don't like pot and don't want pot smokers around me, but I don't want people who are sick going to jail instead of getting help.

“I don't want people who are sick going to jail instead of getting help.”

I personally wouldn’t mind if drug users arrested or charged had to go through some form of rehab no matter what. It’s an illness and the people abusing this stuff need serious help. 

I firmly believe that no good person ever willingly does drugs, so I hold little sympathy for drug users getting arrested. Far too many people who have hurt me in the past have been drug users. I’m extremely sorry you endured that, though. Absolutely no one deserves to go through what you did.

[bluepenguinstories]

Intention Headaches Chapter Nine

To Our Crumbling City:

How many dusks, overtaking dawn, have the drones

littered the skies just as the bodies litter the streets

devoid of human spirit, or the spirit in the machine

wishing to devour everything, but falling short

for its gingivitis and inflamed throat; lacking bite

it only leaks information, devoid of context, its

liberating enslavement, braying Cranes (weathered by time) –

Our crusades of laughter, our vicious joviality

slaughtering each other with mugs. Our curse of skin

sagging into itself as we drink ourselves away. Yet these halls

where we age like wine, slow and souring, the grapes

of wrath now forgotten, our hostility tempered

to a refined weapon which has grown rusted;

– (as all things become) Arrested by its final days...

So we, men loving, loving men, all lay in our residences

with our hands tied, to our legs, to our necks, to our lips

just as we find another place to take the whiskey

as if it were a thicker liquid, as if our essences were honey.

I reminisce on our togetherness, although never separated

we would feel ourselves becoming less of each other

and more automatons in Hephaestus’ pornography collections.

Weeping tears of liquid titanium, our craniums feel the bolts

losing their grips on each other. One by one, we slow ourselves

down to the moments where we forget the tides shifting

and not in our favor, but theirs.

We cannot pretend “All is well” when the negotiations

flat on the table, we lean ourselves against, came from the ones

with the wrench, loosening the screws so the table would fall on us.

We fought and we fought our own memories bitten into the dust.

They taste like blood, they are film reels playing the same things:

Cinemas of grotesques parading as “Just another day”.

Of course, we chose the life of one such gang.

So as to relive the memories, but omitting one key detail

that used to bind us all together:

No fault of ours, but a fault of the years. We once fought our everyday.

We once marched against the ones with their names on the tables.

It is both a great amusement and a bitter taste, then, that we act.

Such bravado for such cowardice. Surprised by our surmise, counteract

our love for men, for the love of death. For us, the muscles, the hair,

the beards and the bears, the shaved and the scarred, the bitten.

The sophist, the self-destructive, the slurred and the articulate.

The tortured and the torturer, the smokers and the freshest of breaths.

Those with supple breasts, milk which tastes like ale, hair like cotton

and when I drink from him he tells me to call him Captain.

We gather together, strangers, lovers, cousins, brothers.

Clergymen of our own blunders. Kissing the winds, each other.

Mistakes are acquaintances, even for the antiquated.

I see us all as the spit we lick from each other, our sweat

against the ceiling fans. Hardened buttocks betray

Sideways glances. All our contributions we owe to open secrets –

– If you listen real close, I’ll tell you:

Cranes are who we are, the ones who rest on the water.

Our necks twisted, faith distorted by the Orphic.

Between corners of each district, I see lights that operate.

“Whatever you wish to see at any given time shall be yours.”

Or so they say, the bastards, so holographic.

So courteous as to lie, as we in wait, because out of all the boasts

of technologies, all that were made were means to enslave.

Weaponry cannot baptise us any more than a plague.

For all the so-called advances, we have yet to find a way

to help each other live.

Cranes gather in an unassuming shack, by an unassuming docks.

Our base of operations. Above ground, by mere inches.

It’s a testament to my flair that I do not protest. For all the talk

of atrocities, what better way to live, than to tear through our insides?

We can change our parts for anyone. Our arms, our hearts

Our genitalia. All belong to us at any time, for the price of many lives.

It’s a testament to my amusement that I have played along so long.

So this tribute is for you, broken city, with your watchful eyes.

No, not you. Your uninhabited towers and your houses of horrors.

Those I care not for. This is a tribute to tributaries.

For the seas and the rivers, the ponds and the lakes, the oceans

which divide us all. We are united in the ways in which the currents

drag us under like a siren hungry for its next lover.

Oh, how I wonder who or what this is all for. For the rapids rest

just outside of the city itself. If we could conquer them, no.

If we could fornicate with them, then we may see passage.

For these many bridges will one day collapse.

Thank you, you foul creature. Just as you have thanked us.

Just as we have thanked each other by shaking hands.

Time and time again, I wish to suck your lips.

Beside your bridge.

Part I: Aloe Vera:

Vive la Karen:

Our old friend Karen came a callin’.

During our raucous rancor, our celebratory crowned affair.

No lordships, bishops, lieges, or bison, could stamp away

at our achievements in blissful ignorance.

But one could, our old friend Karen.

Every night, our home served as a tavern. Us, our own servers.

The disc is somewhere, corrupted and overwritten.

Blame it on our laughter, the lack of slumber, the swayed movements.

We couldn’t hear her until the lights were darkened.

We looked around, there was Karen.

“Your next and only mission is to disband.”

The machine’s grand announcement. No uncertainty present.

The panel on the wall with the eyeball, its ocular malice;

Glazed with its sterile gaze. Never more than what was needed.

Lack of subtlety and an unnecessary cruel mercy.

Karen couldn’t make the intent any more crystalline.

But, she decided to lay frosting on our cakes:

“There will be no funds. No rewards for your troubles.

But if your mission proves to be a success, you will not be shot

to death within a twenty-four hour window.”

We all exchanged expressions meant for lovers or distant relatives.

Straits were dire, and not to mention the famine of straights.

Only one was; he was a pale widow, sunken within a ship in a bottle.

I creaked, my bones atrophied, my cane gifting with splinters.

“You heard it, men. Time to pack it up. Our time has come to an end.”

My cyclical smile unwound back below my nostrils.

Everyone cheered, for the truth was an open secret.

Men between men, that was how it was kept.

We were not leaving each other.

We were leaving the city which made us.

I knew that thoughts and words could be heard

But few doubt the resolute.

Forward March:

Outside, still night. Still as it was eternal.

Our collective thoughts: holding hands.

Beef and chicken alike, in a hot pot

Made to be slurped down. That was us.

At least a hundred of us. Foot out in front.

Leg out in back. Each one making their

forward motions in unison to display our union.

We sang a little ditty, a barrage of showtunes.

Our weapons on our backs. Some of us as

Our own weapons, we guided ourselves.

I was eager, yet wary. Weary for the true outside.

So out of reach, the stars were unfocused.

Students left to their own devices.

Rats with shock collars and curds stuck in fur.

I was an all-out war and I am more.

Streets as empty as the night, Patron Saints of paint.

Nary a drive-by in sight. Pardon the mourning

of bloodshed; city wasn’t alive without someone to die.

On cue, a device to electrocute took a man

I loved so dearly that I only ever kissed his hand.

Nary a tear was shed, for the beast was fed at last.

Hunger was a strange thing, wishing for nothing

to fill up the stomach, but we could speak

of all the things we would eat when we escaped.

If only the fates would stop slurping our eyeballs.

I needed them to see, however myopic of me.

Part II: Bridge Out Ahead:

Approach:

As the steel greeted us with its sturdiness

we shook our heads in disgust, our tastebuds distorted.

Stealth was not an option; grasping at straws, we took aim

and attached our mucus membrane gelatin onto the beams.

Smiles and jeers, no time for cheers. Karens, no, turrets.

Torrent of them took aim without firing.

So we stood, forever lost in the absence of Father Time.

“City limits. Turn back now or be prepared to be shot on sight.”

Karen could be a ferocious one, always wanting to empty

the contents of the device inside of several men at once.

Oh, but such a fulfilling release would lead only to an end.

We would not be deterred, so long as my bones ached.

“Mikey, can you go on?”

“– Babe. I’m Logan.”

Only in the early 30s, already losing to the ravages of age.

Our weapons drawn, we took fire at the turrets named Karen.

They took struck at us. Some fell, some put up electric glass

As a means to protect. What we couldn’t protect was the bridge.

We knew our passage would not be a solid one. Not a stone skipped

but a record without any scratches.

Turrets could be intelligent, even within their torrents.

Aimed at the matter which held firm to the bridge’s limbs

we watched the load get blown. Several pieces, several

men hit in the name of revolution. Their concussion wouldn’t

Be in vain. But our means of escape, we were afraid.

Bridge dissipated, too damaged to be a salamander.

Many remain, yet we had to turn back. We saw

the rustic passage as a golden opportunity.

We walked across our fellow’s remains and back

to the home which we abandoned.

Whatever crustacean in the sky would bless us

I would bless in return; hermits, no more.

“Betty, would you do the honors?”

“What about you, Barry?”

Betty and Barry were the same man. Or the two men

were joined together. Their algae arms pawed at the crate

which kept hidden until the very day. I came up

With the idea, myself. I wanted to kiss Betty and Barry.

Betty and Barry were both men, men I could sail with.

Under the crate was our lever, our lover. Such a promise

In the form of a warm and hardened stick.

It had to be kept warm at all times, someone crawling

toward it in secrecy. The lever was powered by our

Equilibrium, no, our affectionate friction.

Part III: Ship of Relations:

Theseus:

Every day since our inception, we supplied ourselves.

Our end was always approaching, and Karen knew it.

Each month after shipment, we took boards.

Our hands were full, planks drawn, quartered. Flanked.

So on that night, or day, we finally deployed.

To test if it would float or sink. Fine testing, it was.

Fine men, we are. Fine enough to squeeze. Like mustard.

No, mayonnaise on a desert day.

Ship did float, and so we installed light

on our boots, so we could walk above water.

Perform miracles, if only for a few seconds.

Then, we watched the docks get shot down.

Karen was a diligent one. If only Karen was a man.

If I could hold a machine like men held me.

Like I’m a baby, and mother brought meat.

Baby Harold, waddling. But this baby was a button:

If I had twenty more years to get my youth back

Then I wouldn’t be so elderly. But in the 30s, you know.

Third decade brought booze and misery.

Booze could serve as a playground, or a death sentence.

One of my men had to help me aboard.

Soon, I and them, all on deck. Out with the city, in

With the forewarning breeze. Passionless in its stirring.

The wind would have to guide us.

My compass was too fogged by malicious software.

Incontinent:

Did we have food?

Yes, we had/have food.

It has expired, it has grown molded.

It tastes of our favourite bourbon.

It smells like a familiar flatulence.

It is food.

Did we have a map?

Yes, it told us where to love and how often.

There were sticks and stones.

In due time, we would break each other’s bones.

Then seal the deal and murder with words.

Later into the night, we would bring a kiss.

Did we have cabins? Yes, just as we had means to sleep.

In each room weren’t beds, but we would keep

Each other warm in each other’s arms.

The body heat would be our thermostat.

The mast had a glow to it.

Did the ship move?

Just as it sails, a ship moves.

There is a wheel, it goes unused.

We move it to get the experience.

It reminds us to spin.

The ship itself, sails itself.

Automation is our lifeblood.

We designed our ship to forego hesitation.

Part IV: To Cutlery Sharks:

Cutlery Shark:

Waters blackened by the murky chemical invasion.

So long past, we almost think to drink it.

Instead, fresh men take purifying solutions within

the laboratories of the chemistry quarters.

I took a look and took a drink.

I became drunk off of it.

Some of us made the mistake of drinking

from the waters we sailed on; sickness set in.

Stumbled overboard, devoured by the sharks

with teeth made of cutlery.

It bit into our planks and turned some of us to rust.

We shot at the shark, but the creature split

into a husk of tapeworms with acidic spit.

I prayed for our continued passage and what answered:

Explosion! One man, a burly burlesque dancer

threw a brigade of explosives into the water.

The tides themselves roared and the tapeworms no more.

In our stead, a whirlpool and the seas quivering.

Skies above rained down cutlery. Messengers from the gods.

From the whirlpool, we washed our clothing.

I went first, taking a drink, then pouring the soap.

Our clothes fished, a mildew scent perforated

And left an imprint. Damp and musty, we lost nakedness.

I drank to that, as did all the rest.

Ol’ Phil Howards:

Phillip Howards was a man, or a shrew.

Hated men, or hated himself as an extension.

Hated me, but valued our friendship.

I loved the way he loved the fetal position.

Always did think of it as poetic.

Smooth sailing so far, I descended.

Down the hatch of madness.

Where in his private cabin, he was crouched.

In the far corners was his whispers.

He always said things not pale didn’t bode well.

I laugh because he was paler than the ghost of my mother.

Bless that woman’s heart, she raised a loving man.

Me, I was wrinkled more than my grandmother;

When I last saw her was on her deathbed. But I digress.

He always talked like he had one foot in the grave

while hoping others would go in instead.

I ask why he cower. His teeth chatters. He speaks in whispers:

“I’ve seen colours, more than black, more than deep purple.

There is smoke on the water and it signifies danger.

We shouldn’t undergo such a folly.

For I’ve seen colours, more than neon, but something brighter.”

“They haunt my dreams, the seas, they speak.

Though I do not understand their language, I know malice.

There is a healing intent, that I do see. The seas sing to me.

But they are not Siren’s Songs, but signs of foreboding.

What we sail will not cleanse our bodies.”

I laugh because he didn’t understand. He doesn’t wish to.

“If there can be any freedom for my men, any indication

that we can live within each other, and outside, that is enough.”

Although we both were former clergy, we resigned;

His distaste for others, yet belief that no one deserves healing.

Me, I loved men a little too freely.

He spoke again, eyes sunken, his face a full 180:

“There is a beast in the sea. The church spoke of one.

Which would heal any who dared enter.

But I am not ready to be healed by it.

I would rather stay inside, plead ignorance to the outside.

Know this: we know nothing. We will soon.”

I took a drink. Truer words never spoken.

The sea was a harsh mistress who seldom display her phallus.

Before I may part, he said one last thing:

“Friend, I am concerned about your drinking.

You appear in poor health.”

Part V: To Virginia:

First Sights:

As the cutlery sharks pacified, back into the depths

Whence, I too, descended. Only for one more sip.

Sips turn into a chug, which turn into grey hairs.

Hairs upon dogs I wish I had brought along, if only to keep warm.

Up above, breeze of the sea poured salt into me.

That was how I came to see the sights of the city:

We passed by endless roads of nothingness, always paved.

By the wayside were the routine machines paving their ways.

Little cars which drove themselves, express purpose of open flame.

And beside them, the skyscrapers, all plain and never-ending.

So too I, my whole face agape, will we ever find sanctuary?

Past the gangs, past each base, I wanted to know

what was past it all.

All our gazes, mine especially, shifted to the forests.

Those haunting woods with their shrill howls abound.

Those hounds which surely lurk, stalk, prey for me.

As I should pray for them, if my hands weren’t for drinking.

Those thickets and bushes, rustling of leaves from them trees.

I believe I could see shadows from the plants, the rabbits.

Deer and bears, then, something glistening:

Behooved horned creature.

They say Hemingway drank from its blood.

An open wound to ease the troubles.

As I partake in a drink of my own. Common cure for the bereavement.

It stood to reason, I stand with my legs bent.

Cane not quite working, leg machine broken.

Forests, woods, pines, all stretched for miles and kilometers.

Other units of measurements. I don’t know them.

Centipentagrams? Terasects? Parallax?

One of those words are  not like the others.

All that matters is the endlessness...the vast.

Undergrowth overtaking, but a crease, it does cease:

Trees line up. Stop.

Stop! Stop it!

Groan. I knew it.

I know, I knew it then.

The alcohol will not, would not, can never keep it at bay.

Oceans, tempest, they all expand. But the forest doesn’t.

Ain’t hear a root a shootin’.

City limits, where you think it ends, it doesn’t.

There is a mountain, next.

Hills, a rocky point. The forest itself a circle.

No, a circle cannot be a square.

Even if the circle be a peg, cannot be a leg.

Let me explain: like a barrier, a veil, a shield.

Preventing or protecting, cannot say.

But at the hills, past the rocky trail, lie a cliff-side.

Where I see their home: the final base.

We sure were sailing away.

To Virginia:

Dear friend, how did you let the years fill you up so fast?

Like the drink in my belly, in my liver, in my gut.

I ask for you gracefully, without a poem or a song to be sung.

No pretense about it, I remember your top aide:

Was it Vera? Or Santa Maria? Flo-Rida? Maybe I don’t remember. Let me partake once more.

Aha!

As you are Ginny, she was Victory.

You and her and Virgil. The three of you in matrimony.

No doubt, you lost her in the hospital. As well as yourself.

Every day I stop being me, becoming an adjacent memory.

One day Heart. Hearth. Earth. Arthur. Hurt.

What do any of those ‘words’ mean?

Anyway, if I make it out, I won’t tell the outside:

That you were mad, wicked, numb, or naive.

I’ll read not only my poetry, but your unspoken words.

Just like the way you must wish for it to be.

Just you and her and him.

Those words you wish you could tell him that he already knows.

Those words you still wish you could tell him, anyway.

Before the hospital made you forget.

Or you chose to go.

I wouldn’t blame you, either way.

Oh! Look! Out on the cliff-side face! It’s your base!

Operations were much smoother when you didn’t have to think.

Wouldn’t you agree? Or is it just through my eyes that see?

See far too many things...right now I see…

Just past your base. To my ship’s side. It is!

I look and see To the Lighthouse, its burning beams.

Searchlights take us all someday. So I hope.

What am I doing? Writing this letter to you?

Who am I kidding? It will never get sent.

Just like you will never say the words to him.

The ones he already knows, but you wish you could say.

That’s OK. Just like Oklahoma, the place.

I read about it when I was a kid.

Millennia and a half, maybe more, ago.

It was said to have existed. Like Agartha.

Like Atlantis.

But those places were fairy tales we told each other as children.

I never met you as a kid. I never much believed in the English.

Your house and its hinges, where you reside, your age untapped.

By madness, it still lies still.

No fear for you, only admiration.

I would have let you criticise me any day, if I could continue.

You may live to see more days, but will you ever escape?

Look! I see your garden! Down by the beaches!

Your little Daisies and Petunias, Pansies and Begonias.

How you would walk with your watering can.

Sing, “I must tend to my Sapphics.”

Hark! On cue, one of those devoted.

Adeline with bear claws, passes by pansies.

Hangs on a laundry line a pair of panties.

I wave, so does she. She asks the crew what we’re doing.

“We’re sailing for freedom!” I make my declaration.

“Yeah! Come get y’all freedom!” She echoes the statement.

Even if I cannot send you this letter when my men escape.

I would like to pretend that you have read it.

If there were any proof of an outside world. Or a “world” at all.

I would like to send this your way, as a form of evidence.

I have to go now, Ginny, for gin is calling me

and the end is approaching, my dear friend.

Whom I’ve never interacted with.

Part VI: The End:

Earth is Both Round and Flat:

We did it.

Thoughts and prayers were answered with cheers.

Clangs of mugs! Hoo-rah!

I take my tiptoes to Phil Howards, he mumbles

about his fiendish friend, from the clergy, St. Eliot:

“The sea is a wasteland...the sea is a wasteland…”

I shake my head. The Wasteland was what I counteract.

For water is not soil. Or so it was, I would have soiled my pants.

Rather than the piss that smelled of bourbon.

Taking to him, I say:

“We made it! Soon we shall live!”

His eyes, first things to turn, I see not.

Instead, clam shells or oyster heads.

Spiral homes for hermit crabs.

His mouth was a starfish.

Words were no longer important.

But so I heard, just as I will hear:

“We have not left, only departed. The true end is the end.”

I leave him. There is an above to this.

There cannot be a Hell with a head above water.

One man in the crowd eyes eyes with I, I eye him.

We kiss. First on the lips, then on the fists.

Fists kiss with fists, knuckles bloody.

How men make love aboard a ship of relations.

One other man sees and comes up to me:

“Something new!”

I look. But I disagree.

“Familiar should not be new.”

Image of our former base of operations, in flames.

How we left it. How we left everything.

I shake, so does my face. My head, for good measure.

“Must be a mistake. Sail faster.”

So we went at it. Pushed around, left to right.

Sway with the night; harder, faster, stronger, better.

Currents in our favor. We didn’t yet notice the ship was lower.

Until we reached the end again and found ourselves

back at the beginning.

Water fills the top decks; our ankles get licked by it.

Its liquid, thicker than my blood long since poisoned.

If there is anything I can do, all our years of plans, and

We remain in the same place for I cannot locate action.

“Captain! We keep going around, and each time we do

We sink further below? What is the meaning behind this?”

“Words too obvious! This is a poem!”

“Ah! You’re right! ‘T’is my testicles caressed by Satan!’”

“Much better.”

So I stew in my saltwater sweat. Tastes like men.

So do I, but I don’t let it become my doppelganger.

I will not have my sweat swallow me.

Not when I can swallow it. Sweat is my pride.

Seagulls ahead, murderous cries.

Part VII: Leviathan:

Rumbling in the water:

Riptides in the muddled pond.

It was bad enough to find that the ocean was a moat.

City is a donut hole. No nutrition, only fat.

Our knees were tickled by seaweed. Or mine, leg hair algae.

Riptides grew louder; ripple effect of defective parapets.

My precept for perception failing me.

At this point we started noticing things:

Crocodiles jumping gangrene and tails wagging.

My men grabbed the nearest pointed weapon.

Fire open! Battle cries like the wild ride we chose for ourselves.

But fire proved to be nothing against the Crocodile’s hardened skin.

Us all, cowering, but I, I saw myself as a Doge, crowning.

Wow! It becomes time to step up! Wow!

With the press of a button, my phallus expands.

With it, I can swordfight Crocodiles.

Even past my prime, I am told I hold it well.

We’ll see, when it’s skin against teeth.

Reptiles have bite, but my blade does slice.

For all those teeth, I was the one who made the creatures bleed.

Bleed and retreat, just as the burden of being on the sea.

Sailors and Maritime sea-shanties sing

of a magnificent phallic fascination.

The battle itself, legendary. Decisive victory.

As the last of the creatures fled, my blade sheathed.

My blood was in my body, but I felt as if I was losing it all.

Forfeiting, for I already knew the truth:

the bridge that collapsed was our only way out.

Through it, we could have reached the tunnel.

But no more.

The tunnel is a sheet.

Over a black hole.

Sucking us in to the idea of freedom.

Suckering us, just as it does, and we fell into it.

My head sinks, no drinks left.

Far too sober, head sick. Head split.

“For those who want to live, leave now.”

Were the words I wished to say to my men.

But just as I addressed my evacuating sea men, ripple effect.

Ears ringing. Before, the creatures with teeth

may have made my fellows depart from me.

With my phallus back in my pants, sea men wouldn’t evacuate.

And, as my past erections, in an instant, from the waters

a great creature did rise!

Some unknown poison flower, a mouth dripping.

Plant with scales like a dragon fruit blooming.

Fins and tails, a face thought to be extinct.

Eyes of pure malice, flame emitting.

If there was a time to evacuate, the sea men should have.

Too magnificent, too arousing. Fear heightened.

Taller than the highest man-made structures.

Taller than structures made by AI.

So tall in stature that its body was nary a body at all

But a sizable shadow. Us, breadcrumbs.

If it weren’t for the hatred which summoned it

we may have gone unnoticed.

Too frozen in fear to jump overboard.

Us, a collective, hundreds, morsels to the beast.

Try as I might, there were no apt descriptors.

Despite the prior attempt. It was too great.

My heart understood true hopelessness.

The way the creature leaned until face against our ship:

Eyeing its meal.

“Everyone. Let’s all kiss one another

before our time is up.”

All of our systems, dry.

If not for its distaste for our attempted dissent

we wouldn’t have been its candidate for digestion.

Bestial and anomalous.

One of (Phillip Howards) Craftlover’s anonymity.

I understood his words now; the powerlessness.

Us all must have felt.

Yet powerful, in our final moments, like the Spartans.

No, Athenians. We had to be them: naked and unafraid.

My Grandmother’s Grandmother’s Grandmother:

If you were here with us, would you remember anyone at all?

I looked up to you, thighs greater than the legend of the Grand Canyon.

Child, Baby Boy, I was. You, the Great Grandmother. Mafia Don.

Gang leader with a Sailor’s tongue.

Someone so kindly, baking all the burly men cookies.

I remember, as a child, you told me:

“When I was your age, I sat upon the lap of my Grandmother.

Just as she sat upon the lap of hers. Then, there was your mother.

She had no lap for anyone to sit upon. Aside, the role was for

Us Grandmothers.”

I asked you what to do if a man loves a man and

a men love a men as a whole and everyone had a Sailor’s tongue.

You laughed and said how you were no man, yet

every Sailor needed somebody to bake cookies. It was a maritime rule.

You said how next there will be no grandmothers

because I was the next one chosen.

I objected, your crystalline eye, your sibylline prophecy.

If it would come true, who could I be?

My feelings lie not in war, but the act of action itself.

In turn, you told me:

“When you have feelings, you write poetry.

Poetry lets you hang your naked body in full display

without you being filled with shame.

Poetry is why some men live, laugh, and love.

Others eat, drink, and be merry.

For you, to have a gay old time, just find a rhyme.

Don’t worry about whether it makes sense.

That’s not what metaphors are there for.

Therefore, go off and lay your feelings bare.

Face down, buttocks up.

No need to worry about lazing on your bum.

That’s what men love!”

That was how I would become

the one who crocheted tea stands

with white-knuckled hands and a fluoride thread.

Though I could not bake cookies, I could write poetry.

When you left in the war, I grew to be an old man

before even leaving my twenties.

If you were with us, would you stare the beast into the eye

and serve it cookies?

All we have is our fists. Our spears which pierced with love.

Impaled with the most tender of grafts.

What rendered is a great sense of despair.

Our mission was being fulfilled.

In our failures, we were a success story.

What does it all mean? Would you have said:

“I am your grandmother and I have a lap”?

If I so loved a woman, she would have been you.

I miss your guidance, your arms like monkey bars.

If I know not the right answer, call it nostalgia

that illuminates my soul.

Vore:

“Men! If we shall go, we shall go with in the midst of action!”

That wasn’t what I shouted, but I seconded the motion.

No more. No more. No more. No more. No more.

There weren’t any more words.

For all the times others have swallowed me whole.

This was too much. Too great to bear.

I cannot. I cannot. I cannot. I cannot. I cannot.

What I wish for is to be a poet. Lover. Man.

Not dead. Not mad. Not dead. Not mad.

I watched them; spears made of lightning; code.

Binary and hexadecimal creating enough energy

to electrocute the seas, but focus on the beast.

Everyone, everyone but me. They fought, ‘til the end.

Bitter was the end. For the violence only made the beast grew.

Larger and larger, a boastful source of nourishment.

All our attacks made it hungrier. Rather, it wasn’t an invincibility:

not that we couldn’t scratch; each scratch gave more life to it.

Whatever I had called such a mass of distortion in the seas

it wasn’t correct. This beast, its shape could not be contained.

Not one shape. Not one shape. Square hole in round pegs.

Would any survive the fight? Would any love me?

See me as the lover I am, or once was, before I couldn’t stop?

Or would they see me as a coward, for refusing to be devoured?

Yes.

I watched all of them.

And I jumped, so I could meet my end elsewhere.

Bottom of this body of water, my body shall lie.

To think, I may only become a footnote in the overall history.

The Pantheon’s memory itself is a beast.

Goodbye, my men.

(Before I lost consciousness, my eyes remained open. Before all systems shut down, I noticed: my mind had been awake for too long a time. Over one hour had elapsed. By then, the beast must have returned from whence it came. I fear it may not be the only one. One if by land, one if by sea. So it must be. What of my body? No. Bad question. What of the end? When would I reach the bottom? Every downward spiral, my star loses its twinkle. Each descent, further fading, and every second it grows darker, I think it has reached the blackest point but IT BLACKENS FURTHER. There is no lowest point, it only grows lower, and I may never see a true end…)

Part VIII: Lost at Sea:

Deserted Virgin Islands:

...Cannot have a maiden voyage with crowded cabins

where everyone, so close, almost congealed

tied to each other, mingling and bleeding

to paint the halls and the boards on the floor.

No captain in the captain’s quarters, the wheel

has steered itself.

Down the stream is a continual loop, further

degrading its health.

Further sinking down, no smooth landing.

Only sandpaper on the ocean floor.

Course correction won’t save the inhabitants

when there is nowhere beyond the boundaries.

Outside, empty. Land, empty. Earth experiencing

a flirtation with entropy, a perfect reciprocity.

Forego the salutations. Wave and be forgotten

for what is best is to stare it into the mouth

and drown, than to let yourself be eaten.

[osjosvaldo964]

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[emmagoldman42]

"U.S. Nazi domestic terrorist vowing a race war on the loose

Kaleb Cole, Washington state cell leader and chief propagandist of the Atomwaffen Division terrorist group, advocates killing all Jews, non-whites, gay people, and he hates women. He remains on the loose despite outstanding Washington state warrants for his arrest for violating gun laws.

By Nate Thayer

January 5, 2019

When Garza County, Texas Sheriff deputies pulled over a blue 2000 Ford Focus with Washington state license plates in east Texas for driving 42 mph in a 35 mph zone on November 4, the two occupants were wearing “combat/tactical gear” and had numerous war weapons and 2000 rounds of ammunition, among other things, in their vehicle.

A routine check came back with an FBI “Caution Hit” for “a possible terrorist organization” and instructed the Texas lawmen “to contact the Federal Bureau of Investigations,” according to a November 5, 2019 Garza County, Texas arrest report.

The deputies were quickly not interested in traffic enforcement, and they were not really that interested in the small amount of “two grams” of marijuana found under the passenger seat or the two THC ‘vape’ smoking pipes found in the vehicle’s trunk.

However, the Sig Sauer 9mm pistol “under the passenger seat” with “two fully loaded magazines,” “a machete or Bowie knife sticking out the middle console,” an AR-15 semi-automatic rifle, two AK-47 semi-automatic rifles in the trunk, “between 1500 and 2000 rounds of ammunition,” and “high-capacity magazines and ammunition that did not match any firearms in their possession,” did catch their attention, according to a FBI criminal affidavit.

But according to both Texas and Federaal law, the weapons were all legal. But the marijuana wasn’t. But the top leader of the domestic terror group, Kaleb Cole, was let free, after his passenger, Aiden Bruce-Umbaugh, took ownership of the contents of the vehicle.

But it was not the weapons that were illegal under either Texas or federal law: It was the small amount of “2 grams” of pot found under the passenger seat and two THC vape pipes that got Bruce-Umbaugh thrown in jail.

When FBI Special Agent Allen Pack, in a November 5 jailhouse interview, asked Bruce-Umbaugh how often he smoked “weed,” Bruce Umbaugh responded “I mean, I’d say every day, but not a lot. Not a large quantity. I don’t consider myself a stoner by any means. It’s just kinda one of those things. I fucking hate stoners to be honest,” according to the federal criminal complaint.

Bruce-Umbaugh can add “stoners” to his long list of other people he hates–including Jews, blacks, immigrants, his father and his two siblings.

It was violating U.S. federal marijuana laws—not being a known domestic terrorist with an arsenal of war weapons and ammunition and calling for terror attacks against schools and houses of worship to spark a race war and the armed overthrow of the U.S. government—that landed Bruce-Umbaugh behind bars.

“As a drug user, this defendant should never have been allowed to possess firearms,” said U.S. Attorney for the Northern District of Texas Erin Nealy on November 14, referring to Bruce-Umbaugh.

Being a daily pot smoker, and not the possession by a self-avowed domestic terrorist of an arsenal of semi-automatic weapons and large amounts of ammunition—which is legal in both Texas and under federal law—was enough to charge him with the federal crime of “possession of a firearm by an unlawful user of or addicted to any controlled substance” which carries a ten-year federal prison sentence.

25 million Americans have unlawfully used controlled substances in the last month, and around 42 million in the last year, although the true numbers are probably larger. The vast majority of these people are pot smokers, who are criminals under federal law even if they live in one of the 23 states that have legalized marijuana use.

Being an avowed white supremacist, Nazi who declares their allegiance to Charlie Manson and Adolph Hitler, advocates for school and church shootings and the armed overthrow of the United States government, and owns an arsenal of weapons, is, however, legal under federal law.

In the case of the Texas traffic stop, the vehicles driver and owner was Kaleb James Cole, 24—a national leader in charge of propaganda and head of Washington state for the Atomwaffen Division.

Kaleb James Cole, 24, the head of Atomwaffen Division Washington cell, a ntional leader of the organization, and it’s chief propagandist, is not exactly under the radar for federal law enforcement. Everybody knows he is a domestic terrorist, but U.S laws do not require him to be arrested. He had nine weapons confiscated by Washington state in October 2019, he was banned for life from ever entering Canada in July 2019, He was pulled over driving his 2000 blue Ford Focus in Texas in November 2019 with 5 weapons, 2000 rounds of ammunition, and numerous other weapons components and released. On December 16, 2019, Cole had a Washington state arrest warrant issued for violating the earlier Washington state gun confiscation order. But Cole is, according to U.S. federal laws, still allowed to own all the weapons he wants–weapons he has repeatedly stated he will use to commit mass murder against black and brown people, gays, Jews, women, and other people he doesn’t like.

Bruce-Umbaugh’s arrest was at least the 4th member of the Atomwaffen Division who has been arrested and convicted of possessing war weapons after evidence showed they liked to smoke pot in recent months, an out-of-the-box tactic now used by federal law enforcement whose hands are tied by lax federal gun laws and the concommitent protection of free speach constitutional rights which prohibit launching federal criminal investigations targeting anyone because of their political beliefs.

Top Atomwaffen Division Nazi domestic terrorist leader Kaleb Cole and Washington state cell member Aiden Bruce-Uigher have long been on the radar of law enforcement, and are key members of the Atomwaffen Division domestic terror group whose ideological leaders are Adolph Hitler and Charlie Manson.

A few weeks before the November Texas traffic stop, on September 26, 2019, Kaleb Cole had nine weapons confiscasted from him after Washington state law enforcement–using newly enacted state ‘Red Flag” laws–issued an “Emergency Risk Protection Order”, at the request of the FBI, because Cole was determined to be “an immediate threat to public safety.”

“It is believed that Cole has participated in recent firearms training and recruitment efforts at organized ‘Hate Camps.’ These ‘Hate Camps’ have taken place in Washington State. Cole is believed to be an organizer in the ‘Hate Camps’ and his participation is concerning to law enforcement as it appears that he has gone from espousing hate to now taking active steps or preparation for an impending ‘race war,’” reads the September Emergency Risk Protection Order by Seattle Washington police. “These ‘Hate Camps’ also show various Atomwaffen Division members in skull masks making threats of mass violence (threats to kill or gas the Kikes).”

“Kaleb Cole poses a serious threat to public safety by having access to and possession of firearms and a concealed pistol license. Cole has a valid concealed pistol license issued by Whatcom County (Washington) Sheriff’s Office, #WH0010434,” reads the “Extreme Risk Protection Order” submitted to the King County Washington Superior Court by the Seattle Police Department.

Within weeks, Cole had violated that order when he was pulled over in Post, Texas wheren the vehicle he owned and was driving was found to contain numerous weapons."

[37-2-le-matin]

From The Guardian: 

It’s been known as dope, grass, herb, gage, tea, reefer, chronic. But the most familiar name for the dried buds of the cannabis plant, and one of the few older terms still in use today, is “marijuana”.

For the prohibitionists of nearly a century ago, the exotic-sounding word emphasized the drug’s foreignness to white Americans and appealed to the xenophobia of the time. As with other racist memes, a common refrain was that marijuana would lead to miscegenation.

Harry Anslinger, the bureaucrat who led the prohibition effort, is credited as saying back then: “There are 100,000 total marijuana smokers in the US, and most are Negroes, Hispanics, Filipinos and entertainers. Their Satanic music, jazz and swing result from marijuana use. This marijuana causes white women to seek sexual relations with Negroes, entertainers and any others.”

Today “cannabis” and “marijuana” are terms used more or less interchangeably in the industry, but a vocal contingent prefers the less historically fraught “cannabis”. At a time of intense interest in past injustices, some say “marijuana” is a racist word that should fall out of use.

Harborside, which is among the oldest and largest dispensaries in California, says on its website: “‘Marijuana’ has come to be associated with the idea that cannabis is a dangerous and addictive intoxicant, not a holistic, herbal medicine ... This stigma has played a big part in stymying cannabis legalization efforts throughout the US.”

It’s clear why a business like Harborside would prefer the more scientific word for branding purposes, but does that mean everyone should follow along?

The word “marijuana” comes from Mexico, but its exact origins remain unknown. According to the book Cannabis: A History by Martin Booth, it may derive from an Aztec language or soldiers’ slang for “brothel” – Maria y Juana.

The practice of smoking it arrived in the US from the south during the late 19th and early 20th centuries. Mexican laborers and soldiers carried it into the American south-west. Sailors brought it from Brazil and the Caribbean when they docked in New Orleans, where black jazz musicians adopted it.

In the last few years, the US state marijuana legalization experiments have grown into a multi-billion dollar industry. But while companies build out multi-million dollar grow houses and edibles factories, huge numbers of people continue to face serious consequences for possessing negligible quantities. After legalization in Colorado, arrests of black and Latino juveniles for illegal possession increased.

In 2016, there were almost 600,000 US marijuana arrests, more than for all violent crimes combined. The vast majority of those pot arrests were for low-level possession – and disproportionately affected minorities.

Statistics show different races use marijuana at roughly the same rate, but racial minorities are far more likely to face punishment. According to the American Civil Liberties Union, between 2001 and 2010, African Americans were arrested for marijuana possession at almost four times the rate of whites.

Relatively few of the 600,000 will serve extended prison sentences for marijuana-related offenses, but having a past conviction can still block access to housing, student loans and employment.

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With legalization, some states and communities want to help those carrying minor cannabis convictions to be able to clear their record. Similarly, several cities and states are trying to create so-called equity programs to enable entrepreneurs from communities hit hardest by the war on drugs to join the industry.

But when the industry had the chance to take a stand against the racism of the past, it backed down.

After the 2016 election, Donald Trump nominated the then Alabama senator Jeff Sessions to be attorney general, the country’s top law enforcement official. While some Republicans, including Trump, have expressed a willingness to co-exist with marijuana, especially for medical purposes, Sessions remains an unreformed drug warrior. In 2016, he said: “Good people don’t smoke marijuana.” Instead of protesting his all-but-assured confirmation, the industry’s primary trade group, the National Cannabis Industry Association [NCIA], decided not to risk angering him.

The now attorney general has since reversed the more lenient Obama-era policies and ordered federal prosecutors to pursue the most serious charges they can, likely resulting in more drug offenders spending longer in prison.

For Sessions, it’s easier to come down hard on ordinary lawbreakers, who are disproportionately black and brown, than state-licensed cannabis business owners, who are overwhelmingly white.

The industry’s response has been to let him – while encouraging people to call the plant cannabis.

As with other symbols of past oppression, from the pink triangle to the n-word, there’s a powerful tradition of marginalized communities redeploying symbols of their oppression. It’s these communities – not businesses – who have the moral authority to decide if marijuana is a racist word which should be avoided or an important reminder of a more racist past.