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[workerscomp5]

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[kidcataldo]

Strange Magic sequel idea/concept that will never happen (bc the original movie didn’t do so hot and also i do not work in hollywood)

small warning, this is like the entire summary written out

The Bog King and Marianne marry and combine their two kingdoms. Goblins and Fairies now live together, but there’s still a lot of tension between them. The only thing preventing them from clashing is their loyalty to their respected ruler.

This conflict mostly gets resolved with the birth of Bog and Marianne’s first child. Lets call the kid, Onyx (bc he needs a name). Onyx is beloved by both goblins and fairies alike, who see him as their true uniter and a bridge between their two very different worlds. He helps them to see themselves as equals and learn to coexist as one kingdom.

Meanwhile, Roland looks into a mirror and is freed from the love potion spell (his one true love is himself). After coming out of the daze and learning what’s become of the fairy kingdom, he quickly devises a plan to break up the now combined kingdoms.

This, of course, involves kidnapping the beloved prince who unites them. He plans it at the little prince’s first birthday party. Chaos ensues. Something goes awry and the “failed” kidnap results in the kingdom all thinking the prince is now dead. This assumption is amplified with the small wings of the prince being found at the scene of the crime (a protagonist with some type of disability is interesting imo, plus it’s important to the plot). The thought is that some larger creature ate him (and maybe that is how both he and Roland get their injuries).

Roland doesn’t get caught and isn’t the presumed kidnapper. In fact, he’s hurt badly in the confrontation, leading him to flee now heavily scarred, turned “ugly,” not knowing and not caring about what happened to the prince.

The kingdom turns on each other: the goblins think the fairies did it, claiming they can’t stand having a half-goblin heir; the fairies say the goblins did it, thinking they might have gone back to their “savage” ways.

Soon after, it is shown that their son is not in fact dead but rather “lost.”

His disappearance is easily explained with him falling through the cracks between the two kingdoms, literally. Somewhere along the border there is a deep crack that is off limits/folklore to goblins and fairies. This is where the gnome creatures live.

Neither of the kingdoms know this, because the creatures remain hidden, anonymous. Like with the goblins and fairies, everything beyond the darkness is off limits/folklore to them. But they provide “offerings” to goblins and fairies, which is something like coal for fuel and diamond for currency (things that affect their livelihood/economy, but the gnomes do it as a way to appease the “gods” who are really just goblins and fairies). They view Onyx’s abrupt arrival as a task from the gods to raise him as one of their own and learn the ways of the gnome people.

Flash forward to present day:

The kingdoms are more divided than ever. Marianne closes off on everyone and everything, leaving an equally grief-stricken Bog to rule basically both kingdoms alone (with the fairy kingdom not really liking him/disobeying his orders because, in their eyes, he’s not their leader).

Roland remains hidden in the shadows, too fearful of the way he looks to enjoy the kingdoms being divided again. His self-hatred turns to hatred toward others and he vows revenge, but doesn’t know where to start.

Meanwhile,

Onyx is a rambunctious kid with a skill for climbing steep things, such as the walls leading up to the outside world. He works with the gnomes to help mine coal and things, but is often bored of the work mentality. The constant “go! go! go!” is too much and goblins and fairies unintentionally pressure them to keep moving (again, without them knowing the gnomes are down there).

But he’s seen as the gnomes’ protector. And when one gnome nearly falls to his death after lurking too close to the edge, it’s Onyx who takes the lead and rallies all of the other gnomes to work together and save him.

He’s not allowed to climb too far up the wall (both because of the risk of falling and because the outside people are presumed dangerous), but his curiosity gets the better of him one day and he climbs to the very top, only to witness creatures who look just like him. He sees creatures flying and understands the scars on his back were once wings.

Curiosity gets the better of him and he wanders into a nearby village where he sees the things the gnomes work hard to mine being used for their pleasure. A rage fuels him at the very sight. It is in every way an injustice.

Roland spots the lost prince during his trip to the village and plans out his revenge on him, coming to the conclusion everything bad that’s happened to him started with his unsuccessful plot to kidnap him. He follows him. (He’s a drastically different, more evil guy than he was in the original movie here: the point of no return kind of different.)

Onyx returns to the gnome creatures quickly to express his anger: how it’s all a lie and how the creatures above live leisurely while they��re stuck down under working for them in the mines.

The gnomes begin an uprise with the encouragement from the lost prince. They take control of the elf village he visited simply by luck (catching everyone off guard at a party), but understand anything beyond that they will be easily defeated. Onyx, a warrior at heart but with little battle experience, is still encouraging them to try.

The Bog King hears word of this mysterious uprising and quickly flies out there to handle it. A fight ensues with Bog (and his army) easily outnumbering the gnomes. But he freezes at the sight of the one gnome out of place—his son, instantly recognizing the face. Onyx, recognizing Bog only as the leader of the tyrants enslaving the gnomes, throws a sharp object at his wings while he’s halted. And Bog comes tumbling down, his wings severely damaged. The gnomes capture him and drag him down into the crack to hold him hostage.

While down there, Bog is shown the hardships that the gnome people face and agrees something must be done about it.

Later, he and Onyx have a moment where he reveals that he is his father (after he’s absolutely certain this boy is in fact his lost, presumed dead son). His son is resistant to accept the news, and even more resistant of the fact that Bog wants to now take him away from the gnomes and live with the creatures above. He pulls away from his father’s touch, claiming he belongs down here with the gnomes.

Marianne, after learning of her husband’s capture, awakens from her fog and flies up with a fury to rescue him.

By then, Bog is no longer a prisoner and climbing (due to his wings being damaged) with some gnomes up the wall to return to the outside and settle this dispute once and for all. Onyx, despite Bog’s encouragement, does not go up with him.

Later, Onyx has a change of heart (probably after a gnome elder talks with him about it) and he begins his climb to catch up with them. But Roland gets to him first and kidnaps him (again).

Bog hears his panicked call and quickly moves into action to rescue him. Marianne, who hears it too in the middle of kicking gnome butt in the village, moves toward the chaos. They all find themselves near the edge of the crack with Roland threatening to drop the wingless prince. Finally, it’s revealed he is the one who did it all those years ago.

And Roland gives some long speech about never meaning any true harm, that it just all got out of hand, and that he just wanted true love but can’t now because of the way he looks. He holds Onyx’s arm as he speaks, his grip slowly loosening with the threat of dropping him in. Bog, in a panic, is trying to convince him to move away from the edge, that Onyx is innocent in all this. But Roland refuses to listen.

Marianne, witnessing all of this somewhere nearby, moves into action. She hits Roland, who loses his grip on Onyx. Bog flies with damaged wings to catch him before he falls into the darkness.

A fight ensues between Roland and the king and queen. Fairies and goblins alike witness this, their leaders’ first fight together in years. Somehow Roland’s wings get damaged, leading him to hang off the edge with no way of getting himself up. His hands are slipping and he’s pleading for the king and queen to show him mercy. Both Bog and Marianne are unwilling to help, wanting him to fall to his death; he was the cause of all their pain, after all.

Onyx quickly moves into action, rallying the gnomes to work together and save him (just like at the start), much to everyone’s surprise. They’re able to lift him to safety. Roland is crying out his gratitude as Stuff and Thang apprehend him with some fairytale version of handcuffs. Everyone looks to Bog for his sentencing, thinking execution is what he’ll go for. He approaches the fairy with gritted teeth. He wants to attack him, but holds back: “My son deems ya worthy of livin’, so you’ll rot in my dungeon fer the rest of yer days.” Or something like that, idk.

The story concludes at yet another birthday party where the gnomes coexist now with the fairies and goblins, learning how to stop worshipping them as these otherworldly beings. Maybe Griselda takes advantage of their innocence and puts them to work, making them be her chair and hold her drink for her while she sips it. And Dawn has to interfere by scolding her, releasing the gnomes from duty. Bog and Marianne have a heartfelt moment alone and then with their son. And also maybe it’s shown that in the dungeon Roland finds love/friendship somehow with the imp (who, of course, is in prison too), again idk.

The kingdom is once again at peace. The story ends.

—

Anyway, that’s my idea. It’s very different from the enemies to lovers plot in the first movie, but i still think it’s a cool/interesting idea to explore. Too busy with real life to write this fanfic out fully, so you get this instead.

[thewhitewitch-bitch]

In Astris Supra (Chapter 6: Profectus Semper Deinceps Sub Ligneo Adyto)

Agatha Harkness x F!OC

Read it on AO3

As written in Familiaritas et Maleficis, the familiar of a witch can take any form, but commonly take the form of birds and small woodland creatures, or most common of all, the form of a feline, in an effort to conspicuously serve their mistresses without fear of capture or persecution. Not every witch may have a familiar; it is not within the rights of a witch to claim one, rather, they must be chosen by a familiar who deems them worthy of their service.

To be chosen is an incredible honor. It means that you exhibit not only talent as a witch, but also the potential to do and be more than what you have been limited to in your current station. More often than not, the arrival of a familiar comes in the form of some great tragedy or victory, a sign so clear from the Divine Mother that it cannot be ignored.

Mine was the former. 

He was young. Couldn't have been older than seventeen when he was carted onto the deck of the HMS Collie, but if he survived would forever carry the scars of a man who had seen enough tragedy to haunt him for a lifetime. Rupert and I were running triage, sending the operable cases to the surgeons below deck, taking the dead to the stern to be wrapped, treating the wounded who could be saved with a quick fix. When the boy came in on a stretcher, his head wrapped in the bloodied scarlet wool of a redcoat, a gaping wound against his right side which he clutched at in agonizing pain. When he was lowered onto the table, he let out a low groan. 

"Private Theodore Hatchet, sir," one of the soldiers who had carried him explained, "Caught the edge of a cannon ball as we tried to make a forward push." 

It had been like this for nearly a week now, everyone was hit as the British tried to make the forward advance, whether it was bullets or cannon balls, there was no escaping it if you weren't a commissioned officer sitting on the back of a horse. But this boy, this Theodore Hatchet... he didn't deserve this.

"Just... doing my duty, sir..." Hatchet said with a wince as Rupert began to inspect the wound in his side. I moved to unwrap the makeshift bandage on his head to assess the damage beneath it. Bits of singed flesh and clumps of coal black hair peeled away with the congealed blood as I pulled gently back on the fabric. He hissed in pain, his bloodstained teeth grinding against each other as it finally came loose. 

"Not much we can do about the pain, right now, lad." Rupert said apologetically as he took hold of a pair of forceps, "Miss Stuart, what can you make of it?" 

I leaned in to get a good look at the gash across Hatchet's forehead. It was messy, no doubt a result of hitting his head on a stone or against the butt of his rifle as he fell. But most blows to the head were shallow, easy to clean and care for. If he survived the injury to his side, the cut on his head would be of minimal concern. 

"It's minor, I can clean it and stitch it up."  

"Excellent." Kingsley replied, not bothering to check it himself, "It'll give you the opportunity to practice your surgeon's knot while I clean this up. You're awfully lucky, Private Hatchet, not many men could take a cannon ball to the ribs and have a chance at survival."

Hatchet tried to laugh, cracking open his pale green eyes a sliver as he tried to look down at Kingsley, but the pain became too overwhelming, making him groan again. Once the wave of discomfort passed, he opened his eyes again and glanced up at me as I prepared the needle and catsgut before taking a cloth to the wound to wipe the dried blood away. 

"A woman as a doctor," Theodore muttered, his voice barely audible above the distant gunfire and shouting soldiers, "I must truly be in heaven then." 

I smiled at him, pressing the rag gently against his forehead, "Not yet, Mr. Hatchet." 

"Please, call me Hatch." 

"Hatch." I corrected myself as I continued to clean his wound, "And I'm not a doctor. Not yet, anyway. Just a student of Dr. Kingsley's." 

Hatch’s smile broke through the pain, his bloodied teeth still forming a handsome half-grin as he watched me dab oil of vitriol and ethanol on his wound to numb it. “Well, even so, I’m grateful for your gentle hand, Miss uh?”

"Stuart. Aislin Stuart."

"Pretty name. You Irish?" 

I began to start stitching up his wound as Rupert continued to pull shrapnel and dead flesh from the gaping wound on his side. I shrugged as I worked, "I wouldn't know. My mother never spoke of her heritage, though if I had to guess, she might have actually been Welsh." 

"And your father? What about him?" he asked. My smile dropped, replaced by an apathetic expression at mention of fathers.

"I don't have one."

"Everyone has a father, Miss Stuart."

"I don't." 

My eyes became emblazoned with warning as I met his innocent look. He dropped the subject, instead glancing down at Kingsley who was starting to bandage the wound. 

"What about you, Doctor? Where all are you from?" 

"London." replied Kingsley blandly, "But my father was born in York."

Hatch's smile returned, "I was born in Kingston upon Hull. Father is a Commodore in the Navy, I suppose I was meant to serve. It's in my blood." 

I turned away for a moment, just a moment to grab a clean rag to dab away the blood that had formed at the base of the stitches. But glancing up for just a split second, I saw her again. Death stood across the deck with that entertained smirk, watching Hatch with a hungry gleam in her eye. Everything around me seemed to freeze in place, no cannons fired, no screams of pain rang out. I looked over at Hatch, whose smile was still plastered on his face as Kingsley was caught in place tying off the bandage around his abdomen. This boy... this kind, hopeful boy, deserved better than this. 

"No." I said firmly. I knew only she could hear me. Her malicious laugh echoed in my ears again. 

"You think you can tell me no?" 

Earthy brown met hazel, I didn't flinch or shy away. Theodore Hatchet had more to give this world, he was good, he didn't deserve to have such a kind light snuffed out when so much life was left to be lived. 

Death's grin fell away, her expression became disturbingly reserved, "He won't survive the night. Theodore Hatchet is meant to die, nothing can stop that." 

"One thing can. I can convince him to pledge his service to me."

She tilted her head curiously, almost... impressed, "He'll never walk the earth as a man again. He won't be able to say goodbye to his family." 

"He wouldn't have been able to do that if you claimed him either." I quipped, "All I ask is that you give me 'til dawn to try." 

The air hung heavy between us. Things slowly started to move again. Soldiers started to run as if they were moving through molasses, the faint echo of crackling gunfire finally reached my ears. I felt as though my heart would stop beating in that frozen moment, the hardened look of Death making me wonder if she might exchange Hatchet's life for mine. But then she nodded, and her gaze softened ever so slightly.

"Fine." she said, her nose scrunching up a bit in the disgust of having to cave, "You have until first light. But don't expect this to be a regular occurrence. I'm only doing this as a favor to her." 

My brow furrowed, my eyes narrowed, "Her? Who are you talking about?" 

Death's smirk returned, "Who indeed?"

She vanished, and everything started to move all at once, making me flinch as the noises and smells of war flooded my senses. 

"Are you alright, Miss Stuart?" Rupert's gentle baritone interrupted the noise, drawing my attention back to where he and Hatch were sat. My wide eyes and stock-still position must have been off-putting as they both looked at me like I had suddenly sprouted a second head. 

"Yes," I replied, returning to Hatch's side with a rag in my hand, "Just tired, I suppose. It's been a long week for all of us." 

The boy's smile faded a bit, becoming more wistful, "Last I knew, we were breaching the wall. Our cannons can't be more than a hundred meters from the fort. I wager by the end of the day, the Union Jack will be flying over us." 

"Well, I certainly hope so." Rupert said with a stiff, practiced grin, "We've done all we can do for you, Private. Miss Stuart will check on you in a few hours. For now, we'll get you below deck so you can rest." 

Hatch nodded slowly, painfully. A pair of soldiers stationed on board moved toward us when Kingsley waved them over, carrying a stretcher. They gingerly rolled the boy onto the canvas and lifted him with ease, ignoring the pained moans and grunts they elicited. I watched them take step after step until they vanished below deck and my timer officially started.

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

The boy certainly had a knack for predicting the future, but I wouldn't call him a divination witch just yet. By sundown on the twelfth of October, the French had surrendered, and terms had been agreed upon. It was over. 

As the faintest sliver of a waxing moon offered no light on board the Collie, I sat beside Theodore Hatchet, the only one awake below deck. A chorus of heavy snores echoed through bowels of the ship as we talked in hushed tones. It was tricky, trying to find the right way to propose what I wanted to propose. Most people would curse my name or try to kill me if I blatantly announced that I was, in fact, a witch. To offer to save a young man's life by less than normal means would certainly take some careful wording. 

"In the end, it took my mother three hours to get Louis out of the tree and to this day, he won't take any sweets from her." Hatch said, concluding a rather entertaining story from his primary school days. I smiled softly as he chuckled a bit, though the pain in his side quickly put a stop to it. My smile faltered as I glanced down toward his bandages. Blood was starting to soak through them, he was going to bleed out by morning. 

"I'm not going to make it, am I, Miss Stuart?" he croaked. Looking back into his eyes, they were sad, heartbroken even. I didn't say anything, but I knew he was able to read the expression on my face. He knew. 

"I'm sorry, Hatch." I finally whispered when I couldn't fight the apology forming in my throat, "I'm so sorry." 

He swallowed harshly, blinked hard to fight back the tears that were pooling in the corners of his eyes, "Is there nothing you can do?" 

There was no avoiding it now. No beating around the bush or distracting with alternative topics. 

"There is... something." I started, my voice quiet and shaky as I leaned in nervously, "But you would have to trust me entirely. And... you would not be the same person as you are now." 

Confusion replaced his sadness, his sharply defined brow furrowed, "What do you mean?" 

I leaned in, huddling over him to form a shell around my hand as I conjured up a few silvery wisps of my magic in my open palm, "I can offer you an alternative, but-"

"You're a witch?" he whisper-yelled, looking quickly around the deck to make sure no one was listening in. The only sign of life around us was the continuing cacophony of snores. He looked back at me, "Why couldn't you just heal me then?" 

I rolled my eyes; of course that would be the first thing he would ask. I shifted back on the stool by his bed and threaded my fingers together, shaking my head. 

"That's not how it works, Hatch." I said lowly, "Magic isn't a cure to every ailment. And I... I haven't been studying magic long enough to heal wounds as serious as yours. What I'm proposing to you is not healing, it's transformation." 

An inkling of fear crossed his face, "So, w-what you want to turn me into a- a toad? A newt? A cat?" 

I clapped a hand over his mouth to shut him up as his tone started to become loud. I held my hand there for a moment until he calmed down before withdrawing it, but the look on his face was still one of fear and partial disgust. 

"I am offering you the chance to become my associate." I explained, "Every so often, a candidate appears to a witch, usually in times of tragedy or triumph. This candidate can either pledge their service and take on a new form or deny it and..."

"Die?" 

"Or go about their lives as they used to."

"But not me."

"No... not you, Hatch." I said with a heavy sigh, "You're going to die."

Tears sprang forward. He sobbed, despite the pain it was undoubtedly causing him. I sat beside him quietly, my eyes glued to the seeping bloody bandage that was right in my face. He continued to cry for a while, but when his sobs finally ceased, and his chest rhythm fell back to normal, I took a gentle hold of his hand and directed his gaze toward me. 

"Theodore, you need to decide, and you need to do it now." I told him, "You said it yourself; you were always meant to serve. Serve me and I promise you that your life will be long and fulfilling. Refuse and you leave this world without ever having truly lived. What do you want to do?" 

He froze, took a minute or two to think on it. 

Then he nodded. 

"I, Theodore Edmund Hatchet, pledge my service to you, Miss Aislin Stuart, 'til death divides us."

I rose from my seat and set a hand on his chest. His eyes widened as he watched me prepare myself. I knew what he was silently asking me. A small, reassuring smile decorated my face. 

"It won't hurt, I promise." 

Looking back at my hand I muttered the famous incantation under my breath, "Derivare et formare, mutare et ministrare. Derivare et formare, mutare et ministrare."

As I continued to repeat the spell over and over, silvery tendrils wrapped around Hatch's body like long, ghost-like fingers. Slowly, they began to constrict him, encasing him in a shroud of pure moonlight. The pale glow grew brighter and brighter until I could no longer see Hatch beneath it. Glancing around the room, I was shocked that no one had awoken yet, that no one was even disturbed. But then I thought back to my brief interaction with Death earlier in the day. This was a favor, not to me... but to someone else. My mother perhaps? If anyone would be so daring as to court Death, it would be her. 

The light became dimmer, the form it encased became smaller. I continued my recitation without pause until the light was finally gone and the comforting sensation of magic at my fingertips faded away. Where Theodore Hatchet's body had once been, a raven stood, with gleaming obsidian feathers and the faintest smattering of green in its dark, beady eyes. It looked up at me curiously, then stretched out its wings as if it still expected them to be arms. 

"Hello, Hatch." I said with a wide grin, "How do you feel?"

What would have sounded like the call of a raven to any mortal sounded like Hatch's voice to me, clear and strong, as it had been before he was wounded. 

"Strange," he replied, "as if my body isn't really my own. But... it feels... right somehow. Miss Stuart-"

"Please, call me Ash." 

"Ash... was I always meant to become... this?"

I shrugged, "I don't know, Hatch. No one really knows if familiars are born or made. But when the opportunity presents itself to find one... we know it. A part of us can feel it. That sense of duty and service that you carry within you is what makes you special, Hatch. It's what brought you to me. And because of it, you will get to live a very long, very interesting life." 

If a raven could laugh, he would have. Instead, it came out as a cross between a caw and a chuckle, an amalgamation of his former and current forms, "Well, then I suppose I made the right choice. So... my lady, what would you like me to do first?"

I lowered my hand and allowed him to perch on it. With no one left to watch over, I left the lower deck and took Hatch up top to feel the gentle, cool breeze wafting across the bay. I shut my eyes for a moment, letting the chill of autumn bathe me like it had the first night I had set foot in the Colonies. I reached into the pocket of my coat and produced a piece of folded parchment that I had written on two days ago. 

"I'd like you to take a crack at flying." I said, holding up the letter, "I need you to deliver this to someone in Salem, Massachusetts. Are you up for it?" 

Hatch bobbed his head, his new way of nodding, "Of course. May I ask who I have the pleasure of delivering it to?"

"Her name is Agatha Harkness. She's the only living witch in the village, it should be no trouble to find her." 

Hatch took hold of the letter with his broad beak and started to flap his wings. After a few efforts, he lifted off my hand and flew upward, turning south and disappearing against the star-flecked navy sky. Giving a small sigh, I continued to watch the stars until they gave way to the faintest rays of morning light and for the first time in nearly a year, I felt happiness tug at my heartstrings. 

[punemy-spotted]

Sixteen Tons - Chapter 1

Chapter 1 - Muscle and Blood

Pairing: Miner!Curtis Everett x Witch!Reader

Warnings: THIS IS A HORROR FIC, Discussion of death, graphic depiction of someone bleeding out, 1890s coal mining town aesthetic in the modern day, strong pro-union opinions, Pentecostal Christianity, Appalachian Gothic Horror, Cosmic Horror, See future chapter warnings for additional tags, DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT

PLEASE REMEMBER THAT YOUR CONSUMPTION OF MEDIA IS YOUR OWN RESPONSIBILITY AND IF YOU ARE UNCOMFORTABLE WITH THE CONTENT THAT IS BEING PRESENTED, PLEASE DO NOT READ

Chapter Summary: The world melts away, rots into dirt and decay, and as a garden grows untended, you find your gifts crowding out the rest of your life.

We all know that the only light in the deep dark is a paycheck. So hush. Count your blessings, boy. Roof over your head, food on the table, diesel and grease, work boots on the porch, crippled back, crumbling joints, and silence. Company and even union, tuck you in, shut you up, and leave you to rot. And God damn it, you’d better be grateful. - Old Gods of Appalachia Episode 3: The Covenant

Notes: This fic also serves as a sort of direct sequel to Glory, Amen, in that the reader is technically the daughter of Pastor and Ma Rogers, but uses a pseudonym outside of the home she grew up in. The song referenced in this chapter is No Glory, by The Eagle Rock Gospel Singers. They're wonderful, so check them out!

At the time of publishing this chapter, the Family Sleepover, Down in the Valley is still ongoing! Please come by and check it out as we celebrate spooky season all year ‘round!

Also, in this house we support Unions.

All of my work is 18+ Only, Minors DO NOT INTERACT. I do not consent to my work being posted anywhere besides Tumblr or Ao3 and I post my work there myself. Do not copy, translate, or repost any of my content.

Curtis Everett is going to die.

‘Course, everything dies, eventually. Much as you loathed sittin’ through your daddy’s sermons, you knew the truth in ‘em — death is a prize every livin’ being, regardless of sapience or the desire to be, ought to aspire for.

Death is the gift of all gifts, your daddy would proclaim from his bone-and-antler pulpit, the final gesture of our loving Lord and Savior — an’ of course, you, your sisters, your momma, your daddy and a few others your daddy claimed were kinfolk on his side were just… all the guides meant to introduce all manner of worldly beings too blind t’understand just how precious that kind of oblivion was to the glory of that final, permanent end.

Still.

Curtis Everett is going to die.

Curtis Everett is going to die in your kitchen, his own pickaxe embedded in his chest, the final desperate pumps of his pierced heart pouring blood all over that pretty linoleum you didn’t actually like keepin’ in your kitchen an’ probably would tear up after you came to terms with never feelin’ like you could scrub away the remnants of him.

You watch it play out before you like you’ve done plenty of times before, the course of Curtis Everett’s life written in scars yet t’be earned, bruises waitin’ to bloom on flesh that has known little more than the danger an’ dread of coal dust for as long as you have known him.

You also watch him sittin’ in your clinic, for once not complainin’ as you finish cleaning and re-wrappin’ the thankfully not festering burn he’d been dutifully lettin’ you treat — per your own professional orders — for the past week-and-a-half, Looks like it’s healin’ nicely, but it’ll probably scar.

It’s not the first scar he’s earned in Snowpiercer, but it’s certainly not goin’ to be the last. You’ve been countin’ down the months — and injuries — to that particular worry for a while. The ones you can help him avoid — the ones he listens to you about — you warn against, and the ones he can’t escape, you patch up. The same as you would anyone in Snowpiercer, bein’ the company’s own doctor as you are.

Your momma’d scold you up, down an’ sideways if she knew what you were doin’, interferin’ with the predestined path of men as you watched ‘em struggle, suffer, an’ eventually succumb. But your momma wasn’t here to know, an’ ever if she was, your momma’d never be able to understand just what sorta poison of a gift it was she’d saddled you with.

Death is a Rogers daughter’s birthright, even if they themselves were more often than not denied the majesty of its truest gift. You were not born into this life to die, but to be a guardian of it, to guide the walkin’ dead makin’ their way beyond the borders of that ol’Holler you’d been born in through the trials of judgment an’ that precious, ultimate verdict.

You were not, your momma woulda reminded, voice sharp as the trowel she always kept at her side, garden bloomin’ by her stern hand, meant to shield ‘em from the pains of life — an’ the lessons to be gleaned from ‘em!

Anythin’ you want me to do with it? Curtis Everett’s question breaks you out of your bitterness, reminds you of the more pressin’ responsibilities you chose. You turn to watch him, lookin’ at him as if you might just need a moment to remember the exact instructions you ought to give for his wound care.

Except that’s not what you give, is it?

‘Stead, you look over Curtis Everett’s work-weary expression, the quest dread in his eyes at the prospect of needin’ to manage yet one more thing, one more purchase at the Company Store, one more burden to bear, Just come by every evenin’. I’ll keep the coal dust outta them wrappin’s for you.

You know full well you’ll need to work late t’take care of it — an’ t’clean the coal dust outta your clinic — but it’s better you than him.

Least, that’s what you tell yourself, as Curtis Everett’s shoulder relax, relief floodin’ those work-weathered features you’ve almost started memorizing by this time, makin’ the sleep you will almost certainly lose tomorrow and the remainder of this week worth it.

It must always be worth it.

By the time you leave your clinic, barrin’ the doors for  the night, even the moon’s started its settin’, leaving the town in near-pitch darkness. You might’ve — if you were young an’ naïve enough — equated the darkness around you to a mineshaft, if mineshafts still had the privilege of fresh air to reward you for breathin’.

Not on Company Time.

Wiser folk than you might’ve considered stayin’ indoors ‘til sunup. Maybe even considered the merits of puttin’ a cot in your office to avoid havin’ to brave the deep woods durin’ the Witchin’ Hour, everyone more than aware of what sorta shadows lurked beyond the borders of a sad little minin’ town — an’ what sorta shadows would encroach upon those borders the moment they got the chance.

You… ain’t got much time t’think about that now though, not when you catch sight of the figure lurkin’ by the road, the only path there is t’ween your two worlds — the Clinic and the House. Everett?

There he is, hands jammed into the pockets of his overcoat, lurkin’ by the lone streetlamp Pierce an’ Rumlow’d finally seen fit to install in this part of town, after you’d spent about four years complainin’. Too late to be walkin’ back alone, Doctor, he tells you, almost sheepishly, expression invisible in the darkness — and yet you know exactly how his lips have curved into a half-smile you might’ve been quick to return had you seen it in the daytime, Figured I’d walk you back up as thanks for stayin’  late for me.

You can’t help yourself, really — you smile at him right back, the corners of your mouth tickin’ up despite the cruelty playin’ out before your eyes, at least until you remember yourself an’ blink away the vision, If I kept the same hours as you pit boys, nobody’d be gettin’ patched up. Now you best not be tellin’ me you were lurkin’ out here in the pitch dark an’ cold waitin’ for me t’finish my notes and close up, Curtis Everett.

Maybe you ought not have put words in his mouth — or taken ‘em out, as the case may be — as he shrugs at you and flashes you a grin you cannot see but are certain of, Then I won’t, Doctor.

An’ with that, he starts off back down the road, towards the lights still spillin’ from the windows of your boarding house, hummin’ some ol’ work song you only halfway knew the words too. An’ you watch him go on for longer than you should, takin’ in the sight of his silhouette slowly becomin’ part of the gloom.

You catch up soon enough, keepin’ up with his long, languid strides as if by some miracle, your own steps quick and harried. There are moments you wonder how a man like Curtis Everett — always managin’ to tower over everyone in the room, includin’ Superintendent Wilford an’ that lady Minister Mason he’d installed over at  the Tabernacle of the Iron Gospel — ever really managed to fit in the mines this whole sad sack of a town was built around.

Shouldn’t have stayed out waitin’ for me, you scold with a good-natured ribbin’, not really meaning to chastise… but worry instead, You’ll’ve missed dinner call, Everett.

So’ve you, Doctor, he counters, the burr of laughter in his voice makin’ you roll your eyes an’ put on a scowl you barely mean — mostly cuz you hate feelin’ so outwitted, but no one dare make you admit it.

I’m allowed to be late, I own the place, you argue right back, a rebuttal that earns you another low chuckle, a sound you’re only used to hearin’ from Curtis on rare occasion — earnin’ you a burn of pride in your chest at hearing it now.

You really ought not do this, you know. But here you are, comfortable in the cold silence of the deep night, hands jammed into your coat pockets, walkin’ alongside Curtis Everett with all the calm an’ ease of dear friends.

Glancing at him. Looking without lookin’, pretendin’ you don’t know what you’ll see when you—

You know better, is the bottom line. You know you ought to know better — hell, you know your momma taught you better.

In the corner of your vision, Curtis Everett bleeds his last on your linoleum floor.

In front of you? Curtis Everett hums a work song an’ walks with you through the gloom, right up to the gold-light gleam of your doorstep an’ into your kitchen, the ghosts of the future fadin’ into an approaching dawn.

An’ maybe that’s enough.

Company House — its true name barely in use by you or your boarders, halfway for your own protection an’ halfways cuz it’s just easier — is a handsome-enough structure, nothin’ like that ramblin’ greenhouse you’d sprouted in, a bloom in your momma’s garden.

No. Company House — name lost an’ purpose found — on the other hand, is yours. All yours.

A loomin’ thing, the house cuts through the nighttime gloom like a lighthouse, every window on its main story burstin’ with light. Built on a hill overlookin’ the town proper, it served as home an’ hearth for any miner ineligible for the pretty pre-built housin’ developments south of the mine, where Pierce & Rumlow… rewarded those willin’ to produce more bodies to throw into that gapin’ wound the combine’d carved into the mountainside with such luxuries as driveways, fences, mortgages, an’ obligations.

It was just the way you liked it. Home for the lonely an’ the friendless — least that’s how it sounded in town, if someone dared ask Minister Mason about the mountain fortress an’ the ‘Godless Heathens’ inhabitin’ it. The Iron Gospel she preached ran on the blood an’ bones of its congregation, on family an’ obligation, on ties that bind whole generations to the mine.

A Gospel that had no room for the wholly different kinda worship that comes from strangers sittin’ round a table breakin’ bread an’ formin’ bonds. On brotherhood an’ union, on wantin’ somethin’ better that the paltry concessions afforded by minders with plenty of money t’provide more. You knew it then from your daddy’s own congregation an’ those Sunday suppers your momma arranged each week. You know it now from the warm surety of Curtis Everett’s hand on your arm, keepin’ you from losin’ your footing on that trick step you ain’t had time to fix — I can get Ed to take care of that tomorrow — and the sound of hurried conversation bubbling outta your front parlor, house still buzzin’ with life.

Shit, Curtis’s swearing nearly startles you outta your skin all over again as you both stand on the front porch, stompin’ the day’s coal dust off your shoes, forgot there was meeting tonight. Foreman’s gonna have words for me, no doubt.

You’re allowed t’be late, for walkin’ me home, you tell him, letting the light of the house illuminate your smile as you open the front door.

Meeting is a cute word for it — s’the way things go, get the lonely and the friendless to start airin’ grievances an’ suddenly they ain’t so lonely nor so friendless anymore. A man with a wife and children might think twice about givin’ the company a reason to tear away the roof over his family’s head, divin’ into his future tomb day after day, respirator an’ headlamp in hand, but a man with nothin’ to lose is a man with a bone to pick with the only industry in town capable of puttin’ food in his belly on a daily basis — so long as he survived to see his next meal. Unions, you got used to hearin’ back in your own holler, are the Lord’s way of puttin’ His protection back into a man’s own hands.

Too bad them folks at P&R’d forgotten that sorta conventional wisdom.

Tonight’s union meeting is just about comin’ to a close when you and Curtis walk in, a cracked joke derailing whatever Gilliam’s supposed agenda had left to cover. You’re late, the old man half-scolds, room hushed by his disappointment as all eyes turn to you and the union leader you know you’re already being accused of distracting.

Curtis Everett is going to die.

Ignoring the raised voices that begin in your wake — and unwilling to get between two men in the middle of a union dispute — you make yourself proper scarce, disappearing into the kitchen. Between running the clinic and  the house, you’re run halfway ragged, but you do cheer quietly upon seeing two foil-covered plates sitting in the fridge — Yona keeps true to her eternal word, making sure nobody goes hungry if she’s got the time and the ingredients.

The sound of someone entering the kitchen while you’re putting plates in the warmer don’t surprise you much — someone was bound to follow you into this place eventually — but you don’t turn around, not immediately.

Not ‘til Curtis Everett clears his throat, Thought I smelled food.

You sure  you ain’t part bloodhound, smellin’ it all the way out there?

There. Another burr of laughter, low in his throat, and another burn of pride.

They calm down out there? You wave your hand toward the general direction of the parlor, noting the distinct lack of raised voices now that the warmer’s stopped beepin’ at you.

It’s my fault — should’ve told ‘em I’d be late.

They worried?

He’s quiet at that, the silence sittin’ heavy on both your shoulders while you move around the kitchen some more, collectin’ utensils and glancin’ back at him occasionally, waiting.

Finally — Gilliam’s steppin’ down. Nobody wants the job — company’s made sure of that.

You set the platter in front of him, to quiet thanks, He still want you to take over?

He don’t need to answer. You see it again, written all over his face — someone’s gotta do it.

The rest of the meal is… quiet. Heavy. Uncomfortable. A silence neither of you are willin’ to break, coupled with glances neither of you are willin’ to admit to, brows furrowed and thoughts elsewhere. Barely tasting the food, just glad to have something to busy your mouths with, ‘stead of trying to hold a conversation neither party wants t’have or worse — trying to change the fuckin’ subject, with both your minds trapped on the things you’d rather not think about.

Curtis Everett is going to die.

Everything dies, eventually. You rationalize it between bites, teeth on tongue to keep the scream of it all held in your chest. Everything dies, including Curtis Everett. Including Gilliam — whose death you’ve pre-emptively forgiven certain parties for. Including Yona — whose hands will evidence endless adventures before she lays down for that final rest, satisfied an’ satisfying. Everything dies. Includin’ Curtis Everett.

Curtis Everett, who will take on the work. Who, in three weeks’ time, will be back in your clinic, bullet in his shoulder an’ strike unbroken. Company infuriated.

One injury closer.

You open your mouth, about to do the unthinkable, disappointment and poisoned bloom — everythin’ dies, but Curtis Everett deserves to choose — when the music finally registers with you both.

Music. And singing. And laughter.

The kitchen door slams open hard enough to rattle the plates in the cupboard, Yona’s wild presence in the doorway, Come on!

No explanation. No answers. You’ll have t’see it to know it.

Curtis glances back at you, brow raised an’ hackles too. Better make sure they’re behavin’ out there, is all you give in response to it, on your feet in a flash, empty dishes in hand.

He lingers, eyes on you. Imposes his will with his presence, You need help with the dishes?

Let him stay.

You don’t.

S’two plates an’ a couple mugs. I’ll be fine — you go, keep an eye on ‘em for me.

He’s so fast — behind you in a flash. How does a man so tall an’ so full of presence move so fast?

Got no time  for answering that, not when his hand’s on your shoulder and you’re glancin’ back at him without thinkin’, waiting. Come out there when you’re done or Yona’ll never let either of us hear the end of it.

An’ neither will I, is what he doesn’t say. Not aloud, at least, stepping back only when you nod.

It don’t stop you from hearin’ it though, playin’ on loop in your mind all the way through dishes, through cleanin’ up your kitchen, through makin’ good on your word an’ takin’ that cautious walk to your parlor, where the sound of stompin’ boots joins in with the chorus of voices pouring outta your record player, blessedly drownin’ out all manner of conscious thought.

Take me down to that red dirt road Where all them white tails, white tails roam

The parlor is abuzz with life, a hive of movement as you take in rearranged furniture an’ the slowly climbin’ beat of stomping boots coupled with clapping hands, ring of bodies circlin’ the room, all watching Tanya — up from the General Store like always, on behalf of the widows this town left behind — in her valiant attempt to tutor Edgar in the complexities an’ social conventions of a good ol’ fashioned barn dance.

I don’t belong in a big coal town Can’t hear my Lord in all that sound

You almost manage t’become part of that ring of onlookers, slippin’ past the disapproval ruining Gilliam’s face, but turns out no one escapes Curtis Everet, work-hardened fingers winding around your wrist an’ pulling you back, Thought I was gonna have t’come rescue you from the sink, and now there’s no getting away, nor are you feelin’ quite so keen on it anymore.

Not when he looks at you like that.

Wanna show ‘em how it’s done, Doctor?

You dance, Everett? Since when? And since when did Curtis Everett become capable of smiling so sweet he just might fool you into saying yes?

Hell — what gave him the right?

Well I’ve had my fill, of concrete floor Where all them highways, them highways grow

You don’t get a chance to ask too many questions of him, not when he’s pullin’ your fool self right into the center of that cleared floor, sayin’ somethin’ about secrets you barely catch before he’s turnin’ you about an’ you gotta start paying some fucking attention.

There ain’t no glory None that I see None to compare Your love for me

‘Course, you’ve danced before — your daddy might’ve been a fire an’ brimstone preacher up at that bone an’ antler pulpit but he wasn’t a fool — but barn dances an’ church revivals don’t do shit t’prepare you for the rush, for the easy pressure of Curtis Everett’s hands on you, for the peal of laughter that pours outta your throat before you get a chance to think about it the moment he spins you out an’ catches you back with entirely too much ease.

He surprises you and doesn’t at the same time, sure hands and steady feet, both of you catching on to the rhythm quickly as the rest of the room drums the beat, a cacophony of work boots strikin’ the floor in a steady pattern, You gonna answer my question properly, Everett, you accuse him and he pulls you closer, smile on your face betrayin’ any anger you might be feigning.

I’m full of surprises, Doctor.

My days are few, my time is near But I know God will take my fear

He keeps his hands respectful, holdin’ one of your high and keepin’ the other at the small of your back, but there’s nothin’ either of you can — or want to, you’re startin’ to realize — do about the closeness, about the way you can’t stop looking up at him and the stormclouds in his eyes, like you’re seeing them for the first time. Really seeing them, that is.

It’s somethin’. Hypnotic.

The chorus turns into a loop, a rising swell of voices joinin’ your thudding heartbeat, lips parting to ask another question, make another joke, feel that burr of laughter against your chest, feel hands fallin’ from the glory of God to meet a different kinda worship, feel fingers curl into his coat like a lifeline.

He holds your cheek. He draws you in.

His mouth slides over yours like an invitation, your lips parting like an acceptance, like forgetting, like surrender. The music does not slow, but you do, fallin’ into the languid ease of hungry breathlessness, like you could find answers in the sweep of a tongue against yours, in the tightening of his grip on your back, in the wall of him around you.

Your love for me Your love for me Your love for me Your love for me

[bemusedlybespectacled]

Additional updates! OH JOY, OH RAPTURE.

Update 1 (short but awful):

Kat, Hbomb's producer, got emails claiming to be from James, including one that explicitly threatened suicide. We don't know if they are from James or not – they could be sockpuppet accounts or just imposters sending harassment – but clearly it was on Kat's mind, at the very least, when James posted the suicide note on Twitter.

Update 2 (MORE fraud): In addition to his Twitter and Tiktok sockpuppets, he had a LinkedIn account under a fake name with fake credentials (since deleted, but screenshots are below).

I am specifically calling them "fake credentials" for two reasons: 1) it's James Somerton, no one should believe a word he says without independent, documented proof to back him up, and 2) in his second apology video, he discussed at length how he'd had trouble finding jobs, both in and out of his areas of expertise, because he had epilepsy and therefore was considered a safety hazard, and so couldn't be insured under his employer's insurance. Because of his inability to work a "normal" job, he turned to Youtube for money.

Now, this is bullshit for different reasons: employment insurance is based on the kind of business and whether it's high or low risk (ex: the insurance premiums for a library are going to be much lower than those for a coal mine), not the safety profile of any individual employee, and anyone straight telling him "we don't think you can do this job because you have epilepsy" is looking at a very easy employment discrimination lawsuit. But regardless, that was his claim: "I can't work because I have a head injury."

So, there are three possible scenarios:

James is lying about his credentials on his LinkedIn, and does not have the experience he claims to have had. I'm particularly dubious of his claims to have attended Carleton University for his MBA the entire time he was a "Marketing Specialist and Account Manager" in London, on site, particularly given his other claims that he grew up extremely poor and was still poor enough to need a roommate (Nick) for the first few years of the channel, and AFAIK has never discussed living or working anywhere other than Canada. In both apologies, he only ever mentions moving between different locations in Canada, without mentioning anything like living in the UK for multiple years.

James was lying about his inability to work in his second apology video, and was in fact able to balance multiple jobs while also producing content for Youtube, and hold down those jobs for significant periods of time. This is all despite allegedly being turned away or fired from jobs due to his epilepsy and having such bad memory issues that he could not tell when something was written about his own experience or was copy-pasted from someone else.

James was lying about both: he is capable of working a regular 9-5, but something else (lack of experience, lack of work ethic, lack of the kind of prestige and money he'd want) keeps him grifting on the internet instead.

Sources and screenshots under the cut:

Additional link sources:

Transcripts of his first and second apologies, with commentary, since I reference both. Check out that whole site, btw, they have good breakdowns of the misinformation and plagiarism in his videos.

what's happening with James Somerton right now: a probably-incomplete primer

TW: suicide, including suicide as a threat and a manipulation tactic.

The short version:

James Somerton is a former Youtube essayist who focused entirely on queer history, queer media criticism, and queer issues in general. He is also a flagrant grifter who has made tens of thousands of dollars via fraud, both directly (lying about his finances to beg for money and getting donations for films he never even started making) and indirectly (stealing whole essays and articles and books, reading them out loud verbatim for his videos without indicating they were anything other than his own work, and then using the prestige he gained from using their work to get Patrons and sponsorships).

The story as told James and James apologists was that James attempted to apologize twice, was hounded mercilessly on the internet for weeks, and then, driven to the end of his rope, he posted a suicide note on Twitter, was MIA for several days, and from then on has been avoiding the internet.

The actual story, as revealed yesterday, was that James used two sockpuppet accounts to defend himself and parrot his talking points (again, while publicly claiming to be trying to take responsibility for his actions), using one to try to rebrand the con under a different name and another to deliberately stoke the panic caused by his suicide note. He was not only aware of the pain and anxiety he was causing people, but he encouraged it on one alt while hornyposting about his favorite movies on the other.

He is an unrepentant con artist who successfully used a suicide threat to prevent further interference with future cons. The only reason he was caught is because he is apparently incapable of going more than a couple of weeks without trying to get back in the internet spotlight, allowing people to tie his alts back to him. He lies for fun and profit and he should not be taken seriously, ever.

The long version:

In December 2023, Youtube essayist Hbomberguy (Harry Brewis) put out a four-hour-long video about plagiarism on the internet, and devoted two hours to addressing as much of JS's plagiarism as he could. I strongly recommend watching the entire thing, as the first two hours build on the concepts that he uses later in the video.

He also blew the whistle on James' fraud surrounding Telos, a studio James founded using thousands of dollars of IndieGoGo money that never actually produced any films despite him definitely working on them! Any day now they'll be released! Don't you worry!

A day later, Todd in the Shadows, a guy whose entire thing is music reviews, posted his own video debunking multiple outright lies that James had told about history, especially queer history. A few more days later, The Ace Couple, who run a podcast about asexuality, released an episode detailing how they'd lost $1.5k donating to Telos.

I have put the videos, Twitter threads, Patreon posts, and Reddit posts by other people discussing different aspects of James' fraud under the cut.

Every other time James was caught plagiarizing, prior to Harry's video, he would lie about it. Either he'd have some excuse (easily proven to be a lie) or he'd retreat to his favorite deflection: "I'm just being harassed because I'm gay."

This last lie was one he'd use not only to deflect accusations of plagiarism, but all criticism in general, no matter how trivial. Every time, the critic or someone associated with them would somehow dox him, or harass him, or send him death threats, or threaten to falsely accuse him of sexual assault.

This happened to The Ace Couple (who'd tried to correct him on something extremely acephobic in one of his videos), Jessie Gender (who'd tried to correct him when he claimed that there were no queer content creators on Nebula, given that she and a bunch of other queer creators were definitely on that platform), and the person who first blew the whistle on him stealing from Tinker Belles and Evil Queens by Sean Griffin (who was accused of being behind death threats he'd received, and hounded so harshly they had to leave Twitter).

It is important to note that every time James faced potentially damaging criticism, or even just a threat to his ego, suddenly he would claim to be harassed by people connected to the critic, including threats to his life. There has never been any proof of any threats being directed at him, nor evidence that, if the threats were real, that they are actually from people connected to the critic.

In the original video by Hbomberguy, Harry makes a compelling argument that James brought on a friend of his, Nick, as a co-writer specifically as a shield against accusations of plagiarism. "How dare you accuse me of plagiarism! Nick would NEVER do that!" This is even more apparent given subsequent developments which I will get into.

When evidence started dropping about different aspects of his fraud (not only Harry's video, but Todd in the Shadows' video debunking his misinfo, The Ace Couple's podcast about their experience donating to his fraudulent film studio, and Dan Olson's tweet thread about James' obvious lies about his finances), he went into hiding for two weeks, and then put out the first of two apologies. He then deleted that one and put out another one a few weeks later. And then he immediately deleted that one.

While his first apology was rambling, vague, and dramatic (lots of sniffing/crying), and his second was more measured, thought-out, and totally batshit (lots of hilariously and bizarrely implausible excuses for why he'd done what he'd done), they had roughly the same points:

Not ALL of his stuff was plagiarized! Actually, a lot of it wasn't! No specifics as to what, though!

Most of the stuff that was plagiarized was just a failure to properly cite sources, as he had no idea that putting someone's name in your end credits or video description (without specifying what parts are attributable to that person or disclosing that you are using their words verbatim) is not sufficient credit,

Also, he totally had permission, in some cases, to use their work verbatim prior to publishing the video (this is not true, and is disproven both in Harry's video and his own screenshots);

He definitely didn't commit fraud with Telos and would soon have a good explanation for where the money went! (he did not)

He was going to keep the videos up so that he could either donate the funds from any monetization to the fund Harry had set up for his victims or to "help Nick's portfolio" by showcasing his work;

He lost his best friend (i.e. Nick) over these allegations, who absolutely definitely wasn't a scapegoat, except Nick was also responsible for a lot of the stuff James was being criticized for;

He was going to keep the videos up so he could either donate the advertising proceeds to Harry's fund for his victims (first apology) or to "help Nick's portfolio" by showcasing the work he'd done; and

As a result of this entire ordeal, he had attempted either self-harm or suicide (he merely alluded to "doing something stupid").

Again, his response was to 1) downplay the severity of his actions or flat out ignore allegations against him, 2) come up with ridiculous excuses for his behavior, 3) throw Nick under the bus, and 4) claim to be in mortal danger. As far as I am aware, he has never taken any concrete action to make amends to any person, not even donating money to charity.

This was coupled with some kind of attempt to profit: monetizing his apology videos, closing and then reopening his Patreon right before the monthly charge cycle happened (totally to let people unfollow him, not at all as a grab for that money), creating a new Patreon under a different name, and changing his Twitter and Youtube handles to distance himself from the controversy while gathering new followers.

At one point (I forget if this was on Twitter or Instagram), he also said that someone had broken into his apartment due to the notoriety he'd received from Harry's video. I believe that was after his first apology, when people started to point out that he'd just changed the name of his Twitter and Youtube channel and had restarted a new Patreon under a pseudonym. (BTW, the pseudonym he used for his new Patreon was "The Gay Raconteur"; this will be important later).

It had what I think was the desired effect: any attempt at pointing out that he was rebranding his grift now came across as weirdly fixated on minor things he was doing, which certainly wasn't worth putting him in physical danger. (Again, he has never provided any proof of this happening, nor provided any evidence that these people allegedly threatening him were, in fact, in some way inspired by Hbomb).

So along comes March 5, 2024, and James posts a suicide note on his Twitter, saying that he is going to set up his videos to automatically publish (for Nick's portfolio), provide in some way for the ad revenue to go to a suicide prevention nonprofit, and then kill himself.

The immediate response from the internet was compassion and totally chilling any further criticism, since you might be callously criticizing a dead person. Harry and Kat worked for a couple of days to get a wellness check for him while a substantial section of the internet called them murderers.

On March 6, a day after the note was published, Nick tweeted that that he had cause to believe James was fine. Kat confirmed that James was safe on March 11. Due to the drama of the "suicide attempt," however, the chill on criticizing James stayed in place for months.

And then yesterday Lady Emily, one of the cowriters for Sarah Z., drops two more bombs:

James has not one but two alt accounts that he was using to rebrand and start over.

The first one was created between his first and second apologies, and originally was for "The Gay Raconteur" until he changed it to "Will"/"thatgayyouknow" and, later, "The Achillean Boy."

The second one was much older, under the pseudonym "Mikey JB," and used stolen pictures from Grindr instead of his own face. However, it is pretty obvious that it is, in fact, a sockpuppet account and not just some other person who happens to like James, as detailed below.

Both accounts, both between apologies and after his "suicide," talked about how criticism of James was unfair because the plagiarized stuff was "like a decade old" and repeating the same excuses that James had also made.

The "Mikey JB" account not only supported James, but actively threw Nick under the bus, saying that a criticized part of a video "reeks of his co-writer."

On March 6, the day after James' main Twitter posted the suicide note, The Achillean Boy account was hornyposting about Ryan Phillipe. James didn't even take a day or two off of Twitter. If he had been completely off Twitter for a couple of days, that could have been an indication that he really had hurt himself and was unable to access his phone, or at the very least unaware of the panic. But he wasn't. He was aware of it and did nothing. Actually, no! Worse than nothing!

On the same day (March 6), the Mikey JB account was actively contradicting Nick saying he was okay (they "haven't spoken in months" so there's no way Nick could know if he was alive) and saying that "people like you" i.e. his critics, "drove him to it." Not only did he ignore the panic he'd intentionally created, he actively drove it.

He saw people going emotionally through the wringer over the idea that they might have somehow caused his death, and intentionally made them keep thinking it. He say people calling his critics "murderers" for "driving him to his death," and he joined in.

Why am I explaining all of this? I want to make a couple of things extremely clear, and the context is necessary to my ultimate points, namely:

James Somerton didn't merely "credit people improperly;" he conned his followers out of more money than some people make in a year with the Telos con, while raking in thousands more per month on Patreon and buying expensive equipment, while claiming to be near insolvency and in desperate need of money.

James Somerton has never taken full responsibility for his actions or attempted to make amends. He has only ever tried to dodge responsibility, particularly by throwing Nick under the bus.

Every time he has ever been criticized, for any reason, he has lied about threats to his life to gain sympathy and quell criticism. This is a standard part of his MO. He has done this over and over and over again. At this point, I think if he says the sky is blue, someone should go out and check first before doing anything.

"But BB, what if he really is getting harassed/threatened or really is suicidal?"

So, okay: people who are attempting to manipulate you may use legitimate problems as a tool. It doesn't need to be fake to be effective - in fact, it might be more effective if it it's true. An abusive ex who says "if you leave me, I'll kill myself" and genuinely means it and actually attempts it (and possibly even succeeds!) is a lot harder to leave than someone who says the same thing but is clearly just bluffing, because the threat is real.

My rule of thumb in these cases is to treat the threat like it's real, without caving to the intended manipulation. Whether your ex is lying or telling the truth when they say, "I'll kill myself if you leave me," the appropriate response in both cases is to immediately call a mental health service or supportive family member. If it's fake, it's inconvenient for them; if it's real, you reacted appropriately. Your response needs to be the same regardless.

You don't get back together with them because it's a real threat (presumably you wouldn't do that if you knew it was fake and they were never in any danger), and you don't tell them that they're a piece of shit who should be dead (HOPEFULLY you wouldn't do that if you knew for a fact that they were telling the truth).

In this case, I am extremely confident in saying that he was coldbloodedly lying the entire time and was never once threatened, and certainly not to the degree he claimed to be. But even if he wasn't, that does not and should not change anyone's behavior in terms of holding him accountable.

And I mean actually holding him accountable: making sure he doesn't try to start a new con on new people, continuing to point out that he hasn't paid anyone back for his previous con (so long as it's still true), that sort of thing. It doesn't mean people should tell him he should go die for real or, I don't know, try to get him fired if he gets a job at Tim Horton's or Target or something else that's not fraud. That would be wrong regardless of whether he's actually in danger or not. The point is to avoid being cruel without negotiating with terrorists.

Video sources and links under the cut:

Links:

It's like Breaking Bad, but backwards: a brief history of how Somerton successfully screwed himself Dan Olson's Twitter thread about the financial fraud My Year With James: Todd's post explaining the backstory of his video (Patreon-locked) DJSO#: Dan Olson's breakdown of James' second apology (Patreon-locked) Lady Emily's Twitter threads revealing James' alt accounts, part 1 and part 2

[fairhopeman]

𝐋𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐚𝐧 𝐀𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐧

It has been a day full of news, not all of which I will have the space to put into this letter. But before I get to the extraordinary news of tonight’s indictment of former president Trump and 18 others on 41 criminal counts, including racketeering, for their attempt to overturn the results of the 2020 presidential election, there are two other landmarks to record today.

First, a major legal victory for those combating climate change:

In 1972, after a century of mining, ranching, and farming had taken a toll on Montana, voters in that state added to their constitution an amendment saying that “[t]he state and each person shall maintain and improve a clean and healthful environment in Montana for present and future generations,” and that the state legislature must make rules to prevent the degradation of the environment.

In March 2020 the nonprofit public interest law firm Our Children’s Trust filed a lawsuit on behalf of sixteen young Montana residents, arguing that the state’s support for coal, oil, and gas violated their constitutional rights because it created the pollution fueling climate change, thus depriving them of their right to a healthy environment. They pointed to a Montana law forbidding the state and its agents from taking the impact of greenhouse gas emissions or climate change into consideration in their environmental reviews, as well as the state’s fossil fuel–based state energy policy.

That lawsuit is named Held v. Montana after the oldest plaintiff, Rikki Held, whose family’s 7,000-acre ranch was threatened by a dwindling water supply, and both the state and a number of officers of Montana. The state of Montana contested the lawsuit by denying that the burning of fossil fuels causes climate change—despite the scientific consensus that it does—and denied that Montana has experienced changing weather patterns. Through a spokesperson, the governor said: “We must focus on American innovation and ingenuity, not costly, expansive government mandates, to address our changing climate.”

Today, U.S. District Court Judge Kathy Seeley found for the young Montana residents, agreeing that they have “experienced past and ongoing injuries resulting from the State’s failure to consider [greenhouse gas emissions] and climate change, including injuries to their physical and mental health, homes and property, recreational, spiritual, and aesthetic interests, tribal and cultural traditions, economic security, and happiness.” She found that their “injuries will grow increasingly severe and irreversible without science-based actions to address climate change.”

The plaintiffs sought an acknowledgement of the relationship of fossil fuels to climate change and a declaration that the state’s support for fossil fuel industries is unconstitutional. Such a declaration would create a foundation for other lawsuits in other states.

Second, an unprecedented and dangerous situation in the U.S. military: Thanks to the hold by Senator Tommy Tuberville (R-AL, although the Washington Post’s Glenn Kessler pointed out a few days ago that Tuberville actually lives in Florida) on Senate-confirmed military promotions, the U.S. Navy today became the third branch of the U.S. armed forces, after the Army and the Marine Corps, without a confirmed leader. Tuberville Is holding more than 300 senior military positions empty, including the top posts in the Army, Navy, and Marine Corps. He claims he is doing this in opposition to the military’s abortion policy.

And finally, third: tonight, just before midnight, the state of Georgia indicted former president Donald J. Trump and 18 others for multiple crimes committed in that state as they tried to steal the 2020 presidential election. A special-purpose grand jury made up of citizens in Fulton County, Georgia, examined evidence and heard from 75 witnesses in the case, and issued a report in January that recommended indictments. A regular grand jury took the final report of the special grand jury into consideration and brought an indictment.

“Trump and the other Defendants charged in this Indictment refused to accept that Trump lost” the 2020 presidential election, the indictment reads, ”and they knowingly and willfully joined a conspiracy to unlawfully change the outcome of the election in favor of Trump. That conspiracy contained a common plan and purpose to commit two or more acts of racketeering activity in Fulton County, Georgia, elsewhere in the State of Georgia, and in other states.”

The indictment alleges that those involved in the “criminal enterprise” “constituted a criminal organization whose members and associates engaged in various related criminal activities including, but not limited to, false statements and writings, impersonating a public officer, forgery, filing false documents, influencing witnesses, computer theft, computer trespass, computer invasion of privacy, conspiracy to defraud the state, acts involving theft, and perjury.”

That is, while claiming to investigate voter fraud, they allegedly committed election fraud.

And that effort has run them afoul of a number of laws, including the Georgia Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations (RICO) Act, which is broader than federal anti-racketeering laws and carries a mandatory five-year prison term.

Those charged fall into several categories. Trump allies who operated out of the White House include lawyers Rudy Giuliani (who recently conceded in a lawsuit that he lied about Georgia election workers Ruby Freeman and Shaye Moss having stuffed ballot boxes), John Eastman, Kenneth Chesebro, Jeffrey Clark, Jenna Ellis, and Trump’s White House chief of staff Mark Meadows.

Those operating in Georgia to push the scheme to manufacture a false slate of Trump electors to challenge the real Biden electors include lawyer Ray Stallings Smith III, who tried to sell the idea to legislators; Philadelphia political operative Michael Roman; former Georgia Republican chair David James Shafer, who led the fake elector meeting; and Shawn Micah Tresher Still, currently a state senator, who was the secretary of the fake elector meeting.

Those trying to intimidate election worker and witness Ruby Freeman include Stephen Cliffgard Lee, a police chaplain from Illinois; Harrison William Prescott Floyd, executive director of Black Voices for Trump; and Trevian C. Kutti, a publicist for the rapper formerly known as Kanye West.

Those allegedly stealing data from the voting systems in Coffee County, Georgia, and spreading it across the country in an attempt to find weaknesses in the systems that might have opened the way to fraud include Trump lawyer Sidney Powell; former Coffee County Republican Committee chair Cathleen Alston Latham; businessman Scott Graham Hall; and Coffee County election director Misty Hampton, also known as Emily Misty Hayes.

The document also referred to 30 unindicted co-conspirators.

Trump has called the case against him in Georgia partisan and launched a series of attacks on Fulton County District Attorney Fani Willis. Today, Willis told a reporter who asked about Trump’s accusations of partisanship: “I make decisions in this office based on the facts and the law. The law is completely nonpartisan. That's how decisions are made in every case. To date, this office has indicted, since I’ve been sitting as the district attorney, over 12,000 cases. This is the eleventh RICO indictment. We follow the same process. We look at the facts. We look at the law. And we bring charges."

The defendants have until noon on August 25 to surrender themselves to authorities.

— 𝐀𝐮𝐠𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝟏𝟒, 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟑 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐂𝐎𝐗 𝐑𝐈𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐃𝐒𝐎𝐍

[autumnslance]

About Plagiarism

I left a long, planned essay on Twitter tonight. I will copy the meat of it here for y’all, as recently a friend was copied (a rarer ship in the fandom, so very noticeable by the writer and their regular beta reader) and it seems we need a Talk, kids. Links and screenshots and my rambling underway.

------

Apparently we need to discuss what is and isn’t plagiarism. Especially in FanFic where we're interacting with the same characters, settings, ideas. Let’s start with the dictionary and continue the thread from there (I like the word origin/history personally):

Definition of plagiarize

transitive verb  : to steal and pass off (the ideas or words of another) as one's own : use (another's production) without crediting the source

intransitive verb : to commit literary theft : present as new and original an idea or product derived from an existing source

The Kidnapping Roots of Plagiarize

If schools wish to impress upon their students how serious an offense plagiarism is, they might start with an explanation of the word’s history. Plagiarize (and plagiarism) comes from the Latin plagiarius “kidnapper.” This word, derived from the Latin plaga (“a net used by hunters to catch game”), extended its meaning in Latin to include a person who stole the words, rather than the children, of another. When plagiarius first entered English in the form plagiary, it kept its original reference to kidnapping, a sense that is now quite obsolete.

“Ideas” is fuzzy in the Merriam-Webster definition. There are story archetypes that exist in many forms. Joseph Campbell’s Monomyth/Hero's Journey outlines many famous stories. And it's popular to say that “Avatar” is “Dances with Wolves” is “Pocahontas” is “The Last Samurai” etc.

But note how while those films have similar plotlines--”Military Guy falls for Native woman, learns to appreciate her Culture, stands up to Evil Bosses”--none of them execute those ideas in the same way. Sully’s story is different from Dunbar’s not just cuz one’s a Science Fiction epic and the other a Western. Disney's “Pocahontas” Very Loosely takes history and uses the same story beats. The Last Samurai uses the Meiji era Westernization. Same ideas, different executions, even beyond settings.

None of these are plagiarizing each other though the ideas are similar. They’re told in their own ways, own language; both in the genres they belong to (Western, Pseudo-History, SciFi, Animated) and how characters interact with each other and settings. Original dialogues (variable quality).

We also see this in books as similar novel plots get published in waves so we end up with bunches of post-apocalypse teen revolutionaries or various vampires or lots of young wizard stories all at once. Sometimes ideas just happen like this; multiple discovery, simultaneous invention, concurrent inspiration, cognitive emergence are all phrases I’ve seen for it. So it happens in original content as well, and legality gets fuzzy (Also why you don't send authors your fanfic ideas).

In existing properties, this gets trickier but even “Elementary”’s Holmes and Watson are nothing like the BBC’s “Sherlock” characters. Who are nothing like other versions of the Detective and his Doctor pal over the decades in various media properties.

FanFic's in a similar position where like Sherlock Holmes we play with the same characters, setting, and storyarcs but give our own spin to them. People can and will have similar ideas about plots. Trick is to use your own words. Take the characters and make the story your own.

I have a good example courtesy of @raelly-writing​. We both ship Wolcred. We both wrote soft post-Paglth’an scenes with Thancred and our WoLs. Both features the couples helping each other undress, examining injuries, bathing, bantering. My fic was written soon after 5.5 part 1 came out. Dara’s is much more recent. Yet at no point reading hers did I feel she was copying my words. The PoVs differ. Our characters focus on different things. Mine has a mini-arc concerning the Nutkin.

The links for comparison’s sake (and maybe leave kudos/comments if so inclined please and thanks). Note while the scenes are very similar no phrases are written in the same way. Mine: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25417882/chapters/76059467 Dara’s: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26067565/chapters/81832915

Dara and I both hang out in certain Discords and I know conversations about Thancred and WoL caring for each other post-battle has come up in those channels and we've both participated. It’s a stock FanFic scene to boot. Cuz it's soft and feels warm and snuggly.

I HAVE been copied before, back in WoW. My case is pretty clear cut so here are the images of my old RP Haven profile (1st, old RP website) and the plagiarist’s RSP (2nd, an in game mod to share descriptions and basic info). 

This was a decade ago on Shadow Council and I think the character deleted so any Availa’s in WoW now aren’t the same person. I left the names to point out what changed. Just the names and a word or 2 to make sense for the class changes as well. Otherwise lifted directly from my RP profile.

The funny part is how the person got caught. Literally walked into our weekly RP Guild meeting that I was running and asked to join. Folks noticed right away the similar backstory; after all there may have been more Outland-born Azerothians. My initial excitement at a character I could weave into our story turned to gut-twisting rage and grief as I recognized my own exact words though. Words I’d carefully crafted and constantly iterated on to improve over time (before and after this incident, until the site died).

When caught they tried to claim their significant other had leveled the character for them and made up the backstory based on Skyrim. If you know WoW’s Outland story and Skyrim’s plot you know how ridiculous that is. Also tried to lie about other drama I knew about thanks to roommate's characters but hey. I had to be blunt that I’d shared the info with Haven mods and other guild officers Alliance and Horde. That we would not “laugh about this” one day though lucky this was “just” RP not original or academic work. Cuz if it'd been monetized or academic I would've raked them through the coals.

I felt violated. Hurt. Had anxiety attacks. They took MY WORDS and tried to claim them as theirs. Have another character born in Outland trained by Draenei; Awesome! Our characters have an instant connect in similarities and differences of that experience. Don’t steal my characters wholesale!

Then the audacity of trying to come into my guild as if no one would notice. ShC wasn’t a large server by then, still active but not nearly Wyrmrest Accord or Moon Guard big. My character was well known due to my writing and RP. Speaking of how easy it is to get caught in specific spaces...A case of a self-published novelist getting noticed for plagiarizing fanfic was discovered recently (explicit erotica examples through the thread).

One way they got noticed was how much content they put out in only a year, lifted from fandom. The examples in Kokom’s threads show how the material was altered but still recognizable. In some cases, just the names are changed as in my experience. In other passages more has changed but you can still see the bones of the original fic poking through in the descriptions and character interactions, even with adjustments made.

Similar ideas happen. Similar plots exist. Same 'ships with friends are fun! In FanFic we’re working with the same material. It’s possible to write a similar scene differently. To make that scene and characters your own. All we’re asking is not to copy others' words. Others' characters. Others' specific phrases and descriptions used to bring those words, those characters, to life. Use your own. In the end you’ll be happier.

I get wanting to have what the perceived “popular people” have. I get seeing concepts others succeed with and wanting some of that too. We all get a bit jealous now and then for various reasons. Sometimes we don't even realize it, consciously. But do it in your own way. Maybe check to see if you’re getting a bit too close to the “inspiration” you admired, maybe reread often. Don’t hurt your fellow creatives. If you do and get caught don’t try to double down. Have the grace to be abashed at least and work to do better. Eventually you WILL get caught. All it takes is once to throw all else you've done into question. Ao3 doesn’t take kindly to plagiarists. Nor do a lot of fan communities focused on writing and RP. Getting back that trust is hard. The internet doesn’t forget easily, for good or ill.

[captainkurosolaire]

All Purpose.

Recognizing explanation was required, Silv’a least felt to owe it all to his benefactor. Such a stupid boy, playing with forbidden magic was alway’s preached by many, but not in his House. “Story Time, kiddo.” “Our House was curated off the blood. From our neighboring allies I failed to mend during the War.” “Watching the frailty in being man, provide us against Dragonkin the God’s cloaked in Light have abandoned us... The Noble’s who paved a path for that victorious conclusion, their name forgotten to an endless abyss and inescapable purgatory, they still remain tormented as their soul’s linger unrested. Proud nationalist, supporters of the suicidal war brought on by a simpleton’s conquest and ambition to a fairy-tale ‘vision’ of a deluded old coot who claimed they spoke with a Deity. Insanity is the easiest grasped intelligence to manipulate, often fueled and recycled continuously causing histories to repeat. Those who are strong and possess numbers always invade and control the quickest place they can settle.” “The credit of brave, but yet seen as obsolete pawns of my platoon was left to rot and decay. Calls of backup unanswered. Because strictly my race was all those Elezen bastards ever saw, I was unlike. I offered them my arms. I gave them my life and they repaid me by offering me an insulting title and estate after I had already nothing left.” “It’s when I lost my faith. And cast a pact with a better allegiance. I chose the winning side to immortality to disregard this imperfect body for zero defect.” ”...Then my fortune returned when you were announced under that cheating charlatan of an obsolete, ‘Mother’ of yours...Knowing my blood flowed through you like the thickest of rivers; you were my phase of revenge. Larger than anything your life ever would surmount too.” “Playtime is over and you’ve outlived that title as Heir.” “At this end, since the dawn of beginning. You were but a prop. I infused you with the prowess of blood magick. Groomed you to be ripe perfection. Despite knowing you’d never meet my expectations. I made do with what a disappointed Father had too.” “Inside carries every deplorable weight of your buried Father. All your mistakes and sins are mine. You are but a rehashed image of me and my former imperfect state, a mortal insignificantly desiring more.” “Now because of you, I get my due redo.” ”Sought with your own foolish volition to Protect. The irony, that power-hungry, greed. That uncanny Lonewolf mentality brought you to this deadly point. It was you who was reliant on being safeguarded. From your wasteful Mother to her estranged disappointment she gave in a halved whelp. No oathbound knight, or that happy ending.” “I warned you. There are no answers to search. You’re either born for success or a befitting tool to shape it for another.” “This has always been a part of my plan. To grant me a second life. It all conveniently happened when I was deployed to mend and heal a convoy of Ishgardian Knight seeking to oversee a dragonkin den supposedly harboring a Broodmother. Instead, our stare found the eyes of the void in the darkness. Behind that even further level of study. Powers you couldn’t even comprehend. I’ll fix this realm’s problems, once and for all.” “...Overall this grueling process and taking my fall to your believing hands all those zodiacs ago. I gave you a bloody conductor that began absorbing my soul into that foul rage. The crucible of your awakening was also mine. I hid back behind your overthinking consciousness. The loudness left me ever beyond your awareness.” “You never thought once it was odd...? Sudden answers and knowledge to things certainly came to you naturally. Despite you never researched it? Those clues were signs of me once again. Passing on and giving you a chance and day to shine even though you were but coal to a diamond.” “If you die from these wounds miserably, It’d warm me.” “But I am a grateful son. For this ever touching reunion I'll enjoy undertaking an identical glamour to you and reclaiming my throne with eternal vibrancy...Think I’ll pay a visit to your museum and reclaim my sovereignty Relics of the Void, and put them to their intended usage. They collected enough dust. You also naively gave over some, I’ll have to retain them forcefully.” Spoken audibly with a brief bore. As if cleaning his son’s issues was beneath him. Washing a hovered hand over his frail and helpless squirming son he’d clasp the pristine image and glamour before exiting and leaving the pool a clearly visible red soaking through and spreading over the often worn fashioned white tailored suit. An overly frozen encounter warranted an icy pelt from the Keeper’s eyelid. Abandoned, outmatched, alone, used as cattle. He finally understood the ambered-eye Seeker. His vitality and wealth depleted his features from his extensive injuries. He looked slightly younger with the removal of the stress his body held from the added wisdom and blood being supplied to cater a literal leech infecting him. Gloved hands weakly squeezed ash-colored dust from the basement grounds. As further darkness consumed the room.                                                                                 The Immortal Age                           (Previous) << (Voidal Relics) >> (Next)                                   =========Cast=========

[if-you-fan-a-fire]

“Holdup Pair Get Penitentiary Term,” North Bay Nugget. December 3, 1930. Page 1. ---- Sudbury Magistrate Gives One Man Five Years, The Other Three ---- Sudbury, Dec. 3 - (Special) — Appearing for sentence before Magistrate J.S. McKessock this morning on a charge, to which they pleaded guilty a week ago, of robbing the Chicago Cafe of about $9 while armed. Dan McDonald, aged 43 [TOP PICTURE] was sentenced to five years and Steve Harboway, aged 18, was sentenced to three years in Kingston penitentiary. Both men had previous records: McDonald's dating from 1921 and Harboway from 1926 and Crown Attorney Wilkins asked for a severe sentence, remarking that stringent measures should be taken to check such crimes, especially at the outset of the Winter when unemployment is rife. McDonald asked for leniency on his own behalf, remarking: “I was the victim of circumstances and I beg for you to deal with me as leniently as possible." J. A. S. Plouffe, on behalf of Harboway, asked for a light sentence. He pointed out that Harboway’s parent were respectable Ukrainians who had lived in Canada for 28 years and that although Harboway had a record he had been working steadily and had kept out of trouble for over a year. Mr. Plouffe contended that it could not help Harboway to be placed among expert and experienced criminals at Kingston and that a Burwash sentence would not have such a detrimental effect on his character. It was only because Harboway had been laid off and had been out of work for a month that he had been led into crime, said Mr. Plouffe, pointing out also that his client had not been the instigator of the hold-up but had been invited to steal by McDonald. The bench meting out the sentences said: "The men held up a restaurant; how far they would have gone if they had not been resisted is not certain. I do not think that the younger fellow needed much coaxing. It is not a case for Burwash. I do not think that incarceration at Kingston will corrupt Harboway’s morals. I think that has been done already."

[AL: McDonald, who also went as J.D. Curney, is probably one of the most interesting characters I’ve ever encountered in my research into the lives and careers of 1930s criminals in Canada. Born in Newfoundland, (”on a small inlet on the northern shores, the land is barren, the wind, raw and piercing, the sea, dark green leading against the cliff in such a fury that spray goes up a hundred feet”) McDonald was a hobo of the first order, a man who wandered across Canada from shore to shore, working odd jobs, begging, stealing, dining and dashing, joining political organizations (he quips once in his memoir: ‘I’ve been kicked out of every place I tried to join: the church; the Salvation Army; the IWW; the penitentiary...’), riding rod, and ending up not infrequently run out of town, put in jail for vagrancy, and turning to armed robbery to secure food and money...which he would spend quickly and await the inevitable consequences. Sometime in 1938-1939 he wrote a memoir, The Bark of an Underdog, unpublished, that I found in a document set at UQAM. It’s a FASCINATING little book. In it, he claimed to be “square, fair, and truthful” and wanted to detail his life as completely as possible. According to this memoir, he had served on several ships out of Newfoundland and Halifax, including the Jenny Ling (a cargo hauler) and the Southern Cross (a sealer). He also enlisted in the Canadian Expeditionary Force, serving in several battles and claiming to have been “blown head over heels” at Paschendale - his regimental number, one of several numbers he claimed defined his life, checks out and he did indeed serve until honorably discharged for injuries. McDonald claimed then he worked in the coal mines in Cape Breton as a machine helper, after that, but was hurt in a cave in and narrowly avoided death, but leaving him with a limp he’d bear throughout his life. 

After that, he hitchhiked and rode the rails west, getting chased out of Montreal, joining up with a laker doing a spring trip to Lake Superior, and then heading to Iroquois Falls to work as a lumberjack. He then decided to became a member of the I.W.W., having encountered these syndicalists in the bush camps, and joining the One Big Union and working in Port Arthur (now Thunder Bay, my hometown) to gain money to donate to the cause. After the big strikes in 1919 and 1920, he was unemployed, and turned again to "bumming". Here starts his first serious period of incarceration, with short bouts in Burwash Industrial Farm and the Port Arthur Jail and Lakehead Industrial Farm for theft. He spent eight months in Port Arthur Jail for bumming and the day he got out, in early 1926, MacDonald went to the Stanley Cafe on Cumberland Street, stole ten dollars from the till, used this “gorge myself on pork chops” at the Prince Arthur Hotel restaurant and spend the rest on booze with the “jolliest bunch of hobos that ever rode a rattler.” For the Stanley Cafe job, he was sentenced to the Fort William Industrial Farm for a year, escaped that “hoose-gow”, and made it to Kenora, Ontario, where the Chief of Police put unemployed men to work catching stray dogs... until the “Chief got wise" that McDonald was an ex-criminal, and he fled to Hornepayne and then to Winnipeg.

McDonald ended up taking a freight west and making his way all the way to Nelson, B.C., where he was worked around town and begged during the summer. He arrested and given thirty days for punching a local merchant in the face “because I was dead broke, on the ‘steam’ and sick of him asking me to move on or spend money I didn’t have.” After 30 days in the Prince Rupert Jail, he was arrested for the Fort William escape and sentenced to three years in Manitoba Penitentiary. He became inmate #3016 and in the three years there learned to read and write much better, at a high school level, enough that he started to write poetry about his experiences. Many of these poems are included in his memoir. Chased out of Winnipeg “for no reason other than being an ‘ex-convict,’” he ended up in Sudbury, where with “an old rusty German luger revolver” he bought at a pawn shop (he claimed he couldn’t afford ammunition for it) he robbed the American Cafe. He doesn’t mention Harboway in his memoir, although it looks like they met in Manitoba Penitentiary, and Harboway was from Port Arthur, Ontario, after all.

I’ll write more about the rest of The Bark of an Underdog when we get to his second Kingston penitentiary sentence, which started in 1936, but unfortunately his memoir has little about his time inside the Kingston prison as #1999: “The rules [of parole] do not permit me to account fully, as to what took place in Kingston Penitentiary from 1931 to 1935, a shame for I could do a little howling here about that time...”

Luckily, the riot of October 1932 at Kingston Penitentiary led to an investigation, and McDonald spoke a great deal to the investigators once the dust settled. McDonald worked in No. 2 Stone Shed at the penitentiary, one of the centres of inmate resistance and organizing against the guards, where he broke rocks for construction purposes. He believed that the riot was caused by “mental depression and irritation...The men are so depressed with no recreation, no entertainment, nothing to look forward to. It is the monotony.” He believed the officers were needlessly cruel and that "the inability of the officers to deal justly with the men" pushed them to the edge. "Some of the guards do not seem to have the ability to read a man’s character. I think myself, I have a better sense than them, but of course I am only a convict now...if these officers were called together and taught how to judge men and treat them justly, much good would come of it. I believe in a snappy command but not a snappy insulting one.” He believed that most prisoners would be “...willing to let bygones be bygones if these officers would speak more kindly, if they could learn to deal more leniently but firmly.” He resented their bad language. 

McDonald supported the demands of the other prisoner rioters for cigarettes, recreation, entertainment, better work, the removal of corporal punishment from the warden’s hands, and some kind of inmate committee to help manage the prison. He complained: “I do not sleep well. Overseas men generally crack up.” His ultimate hope was that there would be more oversight and transparency in the administration of justice: “The Guards and Police in this country take matters into their own hands.” His offence reports for his time in prison include 23 entries for talking, ‘fishing’ notes between inmates, refusal to work, smuggling contraband, making a nail file and a comb, smuggling cigarettes, and insolence to officers. He spent much of 1933 and 1934 in segregation because he was an agitator, and indeed was returned in August 1934 to the maximum security section for “disobedience” (in the wake of riots against the cancelling of baseball) until his release in January 1935. Harboway we know a little less about. He was much younger than McDonald, born of Ukrainian immigrant parents in Port Arthur (now Thunder Bay) and like McDonald, had been in prison a number of times: as a 14 year old in the Portage La Prairie Reformatory, and in the Port Arthur Jail, the Lakehead Industrial Farm and Manitoba Penitentiary as #3159. At Kingston, he first worked in the Machine Shop, where he made the acquaintance of a number of prisoners, notably Murray Kirkland, John O’Brien, and Alfred Garceau, who were plotting an escape in the summer of 1931. They attempted to bring several other prisoners, including Leo Mitchell and Jean Maurice into their confidence, but these men, worried about the potential violence, did not join and merely “dropped a line” to the Deputy Warden that “something was in the air.” Harboway on August 5, 1931, created a disturbance on purpose to be brought into the punishment cells so that he could safely and privately tell the officers about the escape plans, which were close to fruition - Deputy Warden Walsh felt that “Harboway had gotten cold feet” and was afraid that there would be mass bloodshed and death. Harboway revealed that knives had been hidden about the blacksmith shop in the prison and even revealed the likely day of the break. The next day the other five plotters were all put into solitary confinement, and O’Brien would spend the next year and a half locked away in the ‘hole’. Somehow, the fact that Harboway had been “the rat” leaked out to the general prisoner population and his name became a byword for treachery in the penitentiary. Ironically, Garceau and Kirkland both became active leaders in the October 1932 riot, having experienced a kind of ‘awakening’ to organizing and peaceful protest thanks to meeting several incarcerated Communists in 1932. 

As for Harboway, several inmates accused him of “degenerate acts” and “self-pleasure,” a clear attempt to weaponize homophobia and anti-masturbation ideas against him even though both practices were not uncommon in the prison. Thanks to threats from other prisoners, Harboway was moved to the Dome, and cleaned open areas away from other prisoners. He described having disagreements with other prisoners, especially a man named Schwartz...and worse, despite preventing a bloody escape, the guards ALSO were “down on him.” He was released July 1933, although like McDonald this would not be his last sentence to the penitentiary.]

[dyingforbadmusic]

Henry Harrison Mayes Roadside Cross in Cecile, OH

Couldn't locate the cross on google streetview but it must have been around here: https://goo.gl/maps/nmemsHV5fMZEdULQ7

Cross is now at the museum https://goo.gl/maps/NNfPR6GDEWtiZMrK7

https://brucegerencser.net/2015/07/get-right-with-godconsult-the-bible-when-making-a-decision-and-keep-america-communist-free/

Public sentiment leads to old cross staying, new cross planned

Blessings in disguise

Tuesday, July 28, 2015 11:00 AM

By NANCY WHITAKER Progress Feature Writer CECIL – The old cross sign will remain in Paulding County, which was good news for a lot of people who have become attached to the cross that has stood for the past 49 years. Now, a second cross is in the works, thanks to enthusiastic public support. The original cross, which stands on old U.S. 24 approximately a quarter-mile east of the Vagabond, was placed there in 1966 by an old preacher from Kentucky. Harrison Mayes had promised God after surviving a serious coal mining injury that he would dedicate his life to God and his ministry. The homemade cross bears the message, “Get Right With God.” A few weeks ago, a woman from southern Ohio spotted the old sign in Paulding County and wanted to place it in the American Sign Museum. Following a social media post, there was a lot of support to try and keep the old rugged cross in the county. The founder of the American Sign Museum, Tod Swormstedt, explained in a telephone interview how and why the traveler happened to want the cross from Paulding County. “My girlfriend was trying to surprise me for my birthday next week by obtaining the sign for the Sign Museum,” he said. “However, I got an email stating that due to social media and the media, the owners had decided to keep the cross and let it remain where it was.” Continuing, he said, “I am very glad that so many people got excited and wanted to keep the sign.” He also advised that the sign be removed and put in a place out of the weather. Landowner Roger Nicelley said Monday that the sign isn’t going anywhere. “This cross isn’t going to leave. It should stay right where the guy felt lead to put it. Its message is intended to come from that spot,” he said. “It’s staying here; I never did want it to go.” Nicelley was contacted about a month ago by a representative from the Cincinnati museum. He was told it is basically a formalization of one man’s private collection and continues to be privately owned. Although the cross is probably in the Ohio Department of Transportation right-of-way along old U.S. 24, Nicelley has been a contact for people through the years who have wanted to do maintenance work on the sign. Through the years, Roger has cut back tree branches and brush that has threatened to cover the sign’s message. “I’ve never claimed it to be mine,” said Roger. He added that it has developed a lean this year and if it fell, it would land on his property. Anyone who is interested in helping maintain this piece of Americana should feel free to contact Nicelley at 419-899-2279. With a chuckle, Roger noted, “Since this all has come up I find myself humming ‘The Old Rugged Cross’ quite a bit.” In the meantime, county resident Jack Fetter read the story in the Progress last week and was shocked at the history behind the cross sign. He noted, “I have been taking care of a cross for 25 years I knew nothing about.” Jack also said that the saying “Get Right With God” is what drew him to care for the cross. Those words always have been his mission and played a vital part of his ministry. He said that the saying has always made his heart beat a little faster each time he heard or read those words. He said he was always happy to see the old cross. Fetter recalled, “In 1985, Tony Gonzales Jr. painted the sign as a project scholarship to attend Youth For Christ Camp. The sign was also repainted in 1997.” He added, “Up until 2008, I have been back and forth to the cross site many times to trim bushes and trees that blocked the sign.” Fetter also had some other good news to share. Thinking the old cross was going to be donated, he started right away working on a project to construct a new cross, which will be a replica of the old one. The old cross measures 13 feet tall and the letters “Get Right With God” are all roofing shingles, painstakingly cut out by hand by Harrison Mayes, who placed the sign there in about 1966. The so-called “Roadside Evangelist” spread God’s word by placing his wood, metal and cast concrete signs in 44 states. “I have a lot of volunteers who

are willing to help with the project and we are looking at three different sites at the current time,” Fetter said. “Any of the three sites will be very visible from both sides.” Tony Gonzales III has volunteered to bring some of his wrestling team to help with the mound of dirt and stone for the foundation of the new cross. Hartzog Lumber is going to help assist with some supplies and Fred Merritt, another volunteer, is busy designing the plans for the new cross. It is hoped that the new cross will last another 49 years like the one Harrison Mayes built. Fetter said, “I was just so happy to hear of the interest in the old cross and while it does need to be out of the weather, it made me realize that through the years many, many people noticed the cross and we just don’t know the impact it had on many lives.” Fetter disclosed that tentatively, the new cross sign will be up by this fall. Fetter asks that if anyone has any questions to email him at jkfetter@tds.net. “The old cross remaining in the county is indeed a blessing and the support I am getting on constructing a new one has also been a blessing,” Fetter said. Somewhere above, the preacher known as “God’s ad man” must be smiling. – Additional reporting by Denise Gebers

https://web.archive.org/web/20211220160703/https://progressnewspaper.org/Content/Home/Home/Article/The-old-rugged-cross-still-carries-a-message/-2/-2/190177

[sserpente]

As a deposit | Part (2/2)

Synopsis: “Come now, don’t be like that. There must be something else I can appease you with. How about an alternative? A deposit? Be a guest in my house. You’ll get your own room, your own bed and as much beer and ale as you like. Beef, chicken, pork… I can get you everything. You must have appetites like any other man.” Geralt remained silent, making your father clench his fists. “What about a woman?”

With a start, he looked up. You frowned. He would never invite a whore to his home, now would he? He cared too much about his reputation. But to your utter shock and surprise, he suddenly glanced at you. “My daughter is still untouched.”

A/N: At long last, here’s Part II. Thank you all so much for your lovely feedback on this story! Enjoy!

Read Part I here!

Words: 2531 Warnings: injury, mentions of prostitution, bad parenting

Focusing on your daily chores, it had never been this hard before. You were distracted, at unease. This morning, before dawn, Geralt of Rivia had left for the mines. The Gods knew when he would return and what stories he would have to tell.

The beast your father had described to the village was savage, vicious and cruel. Its people were in dire need for help, this wasn’t just about you. If Geralt…

There he was again, sneaking into your thoughts, consuming your mind. What if something had happened to him? You gasped, realising with a start what it was you were feeling. It was worry. You were worried for him.

It wasn’t just your moral compass spinning wildly, knowing you had practically begged him to help you… if he died now, it would be your fault. He might have been a stranger and yet… you cared. Last night, when he had put his arms around you, making you feel so safe and secure… your heart had never felt so warm and at peace.

The sun was setting already. What if something had happened to him? You kept repeating the question over and over. What if the monster… or whatever it was Geralt claimed, had killed him too?

Your father seemed not concerned at all. He knew he had put the Witcher’s life at stake by hiring him for his mines but if he was ready to sell his former wife’s daughter to the local brothel, how would he possibly care for a stranger with a sword?

You flinched when somebody knocked on the door—loud and empathically, as if their life depended on it. It was late. Who could want something from your father… or you or your sister, for that matter, at this hour? Your sister had already gone to bed, as had your father. You were still in the kitchen, cleaning the cutlery and plates from supper, the Witcher still on your mind.

“Father… did you hear that?”

“Ignore it.” His voice came from the nearest bedroom, his door open just a smidge.

“What?”

“Some beggars, probably. Ignore them. I don’t have any money to spare, not right now.”

Beggars? Beggars were quiet, devoted. They did not bang on people’s doors as if they meant to initiate the exorcism of a house.

“What if they are burglars?”

Your father rolled his eyes in an annoyed manner. “Do burglars knock? No. Now shut up, extinguish the lights and let me sleep, useless wench.” He muttered under his breath already half asleep, earning him a mute sigh from you.

His harsh words for you had long ceased to sting. It was now, however, your growing fear made your stomach churn, cushioning his insult.

Pressing your lips together to a thin line, you risked a glance through the rough curtains outside—and gasped for air.

Geralt. He was limping, his expression distorted and full of anger and spite and pain. Blood poured from a wound just above his hips and through his fingers as he pressed his palm against it tightly. Repeatedly, he gathered bits of his remaining strength to bring his fist to the door.

Alarmed, you hurried to open him. He almost landed on the ground, struggling to keep his balance.

“What happened? Geralt…”

“Where’s your father?” He growled, teeth gritted. He hissed in pain when he stood up straight, his yellow eyes locking with yours in the most scrutinising manner.

“In bed, he… went to sleep not long ago. Geralt, you’re hurt.” The slight raise of his eyebrow was all you received in response—as if the blood dropping on the makeshift carpet and ruining it wasn’t obvious enough already. Swallowing thickly, you focused on his face, gently leading him to your bedroom instead.

Whatever it was he wanted to speak about with your father… whatever horrors he had experienced in that mine… you needed to tend to his injuries first.

“Let me… I’ll clean your wounds.” You offered sheepishly, your hands shaking when you had him sit down on the chair in the corner.

His yellow eyes never left yours when you reached for his sword to take it off him and put it in the corner of your room, hesitating for a moment to let him stop you if he so wished. He did not utter a word.

“I’m so sorry… this is all my fault.” You mumbled, your voice trembling.

Geralt gave you a puzzled look in response. It was much softer than his usual expressions you were already familiar with—always calculated and serious, letting no one in on his deepest thoughts and feelings.

“I… I mean I was the one who brought you here. Now you’re hurt.” You meant it—you felt terrible. You could have never forgiven yourself if the Witcher had died because of your fear of ending up a prostitute by the doings of your own father.

“I accepted your father’s offer. It wasn’t your fault. And I’ve had worse injuries, (Y/N).” Your heart skipped a beat when he spoke your name, making you swallow thickly.

“You should… would you like to take a bath?”

“That would be great, actually.” His voice, as deep as you remembered it, sent shivers up and down your spine. Nodding bravely, you stood, disappearing in the bathroom to prepare everything. It would take you a while to heat up enough water, in the meantime you could hear the Witcher following you almost entirely mutely and peeling off his clothes.

You refrained from peeking behind you, already knowing what to expect. A broad and muscly chest with countless scars, well-defined and that fascinating Witcher’s medallion around his neck. It would be immodest to look down any further and find out how well he was equipped down there.

Geralt waited patiently until the tub was ready—only when you had filled it up with hot and steaming water and provided him with a fresh towel did he move and climbed right into it, the water’s splashing noises as he drowned his body in it echoing through the otherwise quiet room.

“Let me properly disinfect your wounds. My father keeps expensive alcohol in the kitchen, it will—“

“No need,” he interrupted you gently but also firmly. “I heal quickly. The water will suffice.”

“Are you sure?”

Geralt nodded, relaxing in the tub. He leaned back so his long hair disgorging over the edge like a white river and closed his eyes, giving you the opportunity to admire his body. Even smeared with blood he looked breath-taking, like the heroes you read about in novels in the local library.

“At least let me wash the blood and dirt off of you, on your back.”

His initial response was a low grunt, barely audible to anyone standing a few feet away from him. “Thank you.”

“So…” you began timidly as you carefully ran a wash cloth you wetted in the tub over the mangled skin on his back, “what happened? In the mine?”

Geralt sighed. “Your father,” he spat the word with disdain in his voice, “is not as innocent as he claimed. He knew about the faun in the mine.”

“A faun?”

“Yes. A creature half human, half goat.” Geralt explained.

His skin was soft when you ran your digits over it to make sure you had not missed a spot. There were scars on his back too. You longed to trace them all with your fingertips. Did he… did he just shiver upon your light touch?

“He blew up the mine deliberately—not just for the coal to harvest. I was right—Mindor is not a monster.”

“Mindor? Is that his name? So why did he injure you?” You replied almost hysterically.

“I didn’t know what to expect when I entered the mine. He knew what I am.”

You frowned, pushing yourself along the outside of the tub to look him in the eye. “That is no excuse. He could have killed you!”

It was the first time Geralt smiled—barely visible, it spread on his lips, revealing the amusement you could not see sparkling in his yellow eyes.

“It takes a lot more to kill me.”

“What happens now? Will… will Mindor stay in the mine?”

“No,” he replied. “I convinced him to take shelter in the forest, in a cave still close enough to the village to benefit from its resources. The humans, especially your father, wouldn’t have stopped hunting him down like a beast.”

“Is he not?” You murmured quietly.

“No. He killed out of rage and self-defence. Your father’s men attacked him with pickaxes and swords.”

“He never told me that.”

Geralt snorted. “Of course not. They never do.”

Silence spread in the small bathroom, the water he was still lying in slowly cooling down. Lone drops meeting the surface were the only, reassuring sounds you were able to hear for a while. Only now did you give proper thought to why he had returned here of all places.

Your father wouldn’t let him in, assuming he was a beggar asking for food, money or shelter. Had you not been home, would he have nursed Geralt back to health? You sincerely doubted it. If the Witcher failed to do the task he had been paid for, he would have chased him away cruelly, if anything for not actually killing the creature. Now Geralt did not strike you as the type of person your father could simply chase away, yet you feared…

“Perhaps… perhaps you should still tell my father that you killed Mindor.” The Witcher frowned and turned to face you, his medallion shining in the dim candlelight.

“I don’t lie, (Y/N).” He stated seriously. “I only kill monsters. Mindor wasn’t one.”

“I… I know, I just… you don’t know my father like I know him.”

“How old are you?”

“I… (Y/A).”

“So you are of age.” He continued, followed by a thoughtful pause. “You could leave him.”

“As a woman, alone? I am not married, Geralt. Where would I go, all on my own?”

“Away from him,” he growled, heaving himself from the bathtub. You bit your lower lip when you caught sight of his well-defined backside, modestly handing him the towel.

You smiled weakly as he dried himself off, still kneeling at the edge of the bathtub. “I could come with you then. Travel the whole world and help you fight vampires and furies and werewolves…”

Geralt turned around, the soft towel now covering his lower half to not reveal anything. There it was again—that disarming smile you had the feeling not many people got to see on him.

“My life is dangerous, (Y/N).”

“More dangerous than my life here, with my father?” You responded. He sighed. “Honestly? Probably not.” Your father is an atrocity, he added silently. And humans are sometimes the scariest beasts you’ll encounter in this world. They are capable of terrible things they will gladly accuse creatures of to live with their choices. But he did not speak these thoughts out loud. You were terrified as is. 

Geralt spent another night in your bedroom, your petite form, compared to his anyway, cuddled up next to him to keep you warm. You were more careful this time, to not come in contact with the fresh wounds you had bandaged for him before going to sleep.

Today, he had claimed, they had almost healed completely already.

Needless to say, your father was shook when he found Geralt walking out of your bedroom the following morning.

“Geralt!” He exclaimed, failing miserably at hiding the nervousness in his voice. “You’re back! The mines… what happened?”

“The creature is gone.” He growled in response. “I expect my payment by dusk. That should be enough time to sort out your business.”

“Geralt… I thought we had an agreement, that’s so very soon. Have my daughter for another night, did she not satisfy you? I’ll get you your money tomorrow morning. The blacksmith has already ordered—“

“By dusk.” Geralt repeated darkly, shutting him up in an instant. “You can consider yourself lucky I didn’t tell Mindor where you live for him to take revenge on you himself because I care about your daughter.” He added under his breath, so quietly only he himself was able to hear it. Only when he turned his fully dressed form, including that intimidating sword on his back, to the door to greet Roach outside, your father spoke up again.

“Hey, how do I know the monster is really dead?”

Geralt didn’t turn around. He stopped dead in his tracks, barely moving his head to glare at him threateningly. “If you don’t believe me, go up to the mines and see for yourself.”

You were already outside, drying the towel Geralt had used last night and admiring his horse from afar.

“Your horse… is it a she?” You asked curiously when he approached, blushing as his yellow eyes were entirely fixed on you.

“Yes,” he said. “Roach.”

“Hello, Roach.” Smiling, you came closer and petted her nose, gently, to not startle her. Geralt observed you for a long moment—as if he’d forget what you looked like if he did not pay attention. His expression was, just like yesterday when you had offered him a bath and apologised for his wounds, so soft you pressed your lips together to a thin line to not take a step back, confused about how his demeanour shifted when he was with. The tenderness he had wrapped your body in his arms with… you blinked.

“I can’t take you with me right now, (Y/N).” He suddenly said calmly. “I can’t protect you.”

You should have expected this. After all, you had suggested it to him jokingly, last night. Still, the painful sting piercing your heart like a sharp dagger upon hearing his words felt painful, antagonising even. You sighed.

“I know… I know, Geralt.”

“Listen…” He began. Darkly and a little… insecure? No, ineptly. “I will be back. Not any time soon but I will. I will be back collecting my payment tonight, then leave town for good.” You nodded. This was not a promise, not directly and yet… butterflies spread in your stomach, stealing any rational thoughts from your mind.

Your eyes met—you were going to miss that bright and menacing yellow, bearing so many, countless secrets. Bravely, you stepped forward, stood on your toes and supported yourself by gently pressing your palms against his strong chest.

Your lips met his before he could utter a word, a feather light kiss serving not only as a thank you but also a promise of affection and even desire. Your eyes fluttered shut when he wrapped his arms around you, one of his hands buried in your neck to pull you closer. Geralt was the one to intensify the kiss, almost desperate for your touch as his tongue darted out to taste your lips.

When you broke apart, your breathing was heavy—so was his. He nodded slowly, one last time flashing you that rare and sincere smile before mounting his horse, your fingertips caressing your now swollen mouth. You did not return inside before he was out of sight.

A/N: Check out my blog to find more Imagines and take a glimpse at my first (to be) published novel! If you enjoyed this story, I would appreciate so much if you supported me on Kofi! ko-fi.com/sserpente ♥ Also I am really sorry if you asked to be tagged in Part II! I'm really flattered you all want to be the first people to read my stories as soon as I post them, I really am but I don't have taglists, never had any, never will... especially now with 17k+ followers, that be would be way too time-consuming. :( And I really just hate tagging! *giggles*

[gumnut-logic]

Minerva (Bit 4)

Bit 1 | Bit 2 | Bit 3 | Bit 4

Really just some brotherly fun :D I’ve posted a couple of snippets from this bit, but there is plenty more, a whole 1600 words worth :D

Thanks to @vegetacide​ and @scribbles97​ for the reading and support ::hugs you guys::

I hope you enjoy this fluff :D

-o-o-o-

“Scotty! Bro! How ya doin’?”

Virgil had to smirk at his little brother. Gordon was acting like his hand had been caught in the candy jar.

“Gordon, what are you doing in Minerva?” One lowered just slightly. “Virg? What the hell? Gordon!”

“What?! He needed some fresh air!”

“He has two broken legs!”

“Yeah, but Grandma was cooking up a storm.”

“Oh.”

“Exactly.”

Virgil twisted his lips. “You do know I am a sentient being and can both speak for myself and make decisions on my own.”

“Did you hear something, Scott? There was interference on the line. Sounded like Virgil was claiming he was able to look after himself.”

The snort from the hovering Thunderbird was loud.

“Hey!”

Gordon actually cackled. “Sorry, Virg. Great at looking after everyone else, total shit at looking after yourself.”

The glare he shot his brother should have scalped him.

Gordon only grinned more. “We all have our strengths and weakness, bro.”

“Shut up, Gordon.”

Thunderbird One began lowering as if to come into land.

“Hey, don’t you dare land that tin can on the reef, Scott. Mel will have your hide, right after I kick your butt.”

“Keep your pants on, Fish, I’m well aware how attracted you are to my butt.” Thunderbird One pirouetted midair like the graceful craft she was under his brother’s hands, shifting towards the centre of the lagoon. Her landing struts unfolded from her fuselage.

“He’s not going to...” Virgil’s eyes widened.

But Gordon was grinning. “Oh, yes!”

A crack in the air and pontoons at the end of her landing gear inflated with a snap, One suddenly sprouting what looked like fat ski blades. Her front strut shot out extenders either side for stability and Thunderbird One settled on the calm ocean like the prim and trim bird she was.

“That’s not something you see every day. I thought Scott hated landing on water.”

Gordon snorted. “He does.”

“If Brains asks, it’s practise and equipment testing.” Scott’s voice was smirking on comms. In the distance his brother’s flight chair slid smoothly out of the cockpit to hang above the water. Scott reached beneath the seat and pulled out a package. With a yank of a cord, he inflated his own little lifeboat, chucked it onto the water surface, and lightly stepped onto it. He sat there fiddling for a bit, enough to have Gordon frowning across the water, but then Scott was moving in their direction.

“So, dropping by for a swim? Or just checking up on us?” Gordon’s voice was flippant, but Virgil sensed a touch of concern under it all.

“Does it matter?” As Scott got closer Virgil frowned. The blue of his uniform was smudged with something black.

A flick of the water seat’s controls and Gordon yelped as Virgil flew off the edge of the reef and splashed his younger brother with water as the contraption forced stability in a way it really wasn’t quite designed for. Virgil cursed as the seat hit its maximum speed which was little more than walking pace, a limitation he had put in there himself to stop Gordon from killing himself. But it got him across the water, however slowly, those few moments faster to his eldest brother. As Scott pulled up alongside him, Virgil raked him with his eyes.

His brother was filthy, but there were no obvious injuries. “What the hell happened to you?”

Scott rolled his eyes. “I’m fine. Took a bit of a tumble down a coal mine.”

“A coal mine? Are you okay?” Scott still looked a little off with his pencilled-in eyebrows still growing back. Wasn’t the first time one of them had had to use makeup to hide an injury from the world at large. Scott had more soot on his face than anything else. “Did you wear your helmet?”

His brother’s shoulders slumped with the most put-upon whole-body expression he could manage. “Of course, I did. I’m fine, Virgil. A few bruises and a lot of grime. That’s all.”

Virgil didn’t stop frowning as he grabbed a handle on the inflatable and held himself steady. “Why didn’t you go home and get cleaned up?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Just happened to find a brother with two broken legs sitting on a reef out in the middle of nowhere. What the hell are you doing out here, Virg? You’re supposed to be resting.”

“I am! I’m still sitting on my ass. Andre and Cecil, not to mention, Gords, have me wrapped up in bubblewrap. I’m fine!”

Scott arched a wonky eyebrow at him.

Virgil’s lips twisted and he combed his brother with his eyes for injury one more time before conceding. “Fine. We’re both fine.”

The grin that split Scott’s face was kind of worth it.

It was a sign of how involved they were in each other’s medical condition that they both startled as Gordon suddenly surfaced beside the boat. Their fish brother flicked his wet hair out of his eyes forcibly enough to get both of his brothers with the spray.

In the distance, and still on the reef, both Andre and Cecil were staring at them.

“Hey, bros.” Gordon pretty much hovered in the water like the water seat his movements were so practised. “How goes?” In others words, ‘What the hell are you doing?’ When both brothers just stared at him, his eyes narrowed. “Scott you’ve dragged Two Broken Legs out onto the water by your mere presence. You look like shit, he worries. Go back to A Little Lightning and get cleaned up. Meet you on the reef when you are more respectable.” The Fish’s glare turned to Virgil. “And you. You are giving Andre conniptions. You fall off this seat, there is drowning in your future. I know you know this because you drummed it into my head multiple times.” His brother parroted Virgil’s own words from years ago. “‘Its use must be accompanied by adult supervision at all times’. While I know ‘adult’ in my case can be a grey area, we didn’t hire two suitably respectable nurses for you to fly out of their reach and go drown yourself. Now, get your ass back on that reef before I throw it onto my boat, take you straight back home, and force feed you Grandma’s cooking!”

Virgil stared at Gordon. Okay, perhaps he had acted a little irresponsibly. Of course, Scott took the opportunity for what it was and turned his own glare on Virgil for reinforcement.

Gordon’s glower upped a notch at the lack of movement. “Now!”

“Okay, Gordon. Fine. Whatever.” Virgil somewhat meekly let go of the life raft and turned back towards the reef, the seat humming quietly beneath him. Gordon growled further words at Scott and a moment later the life raft took off for A Little Lightning.

It wasn’t often Gordon put his foot down, but it was usually a good idea to agree with him when he did.

But then it wasn’t like he could fall out of the seat, being strapped in an all.

The whole tone of his own thoughts screamed pout and Virgil was forced to acknowledge that yes, Gordon was right.

The aquanaut swam alongside him, quite capable of keeping up with the seat’s easy pace.

By the time they reached the edge of the reef, Virgil had worked himself up to an apology. “I’m sorry, Gordon.”

His brother had stopped swimming a little way back and was now wading. Looking down and watching where he put his feet, Gordon sighed. “Don’t beat yourself up about it, Virg. Just keep yourself safe and in one piece, and we won’t have any problems.”

Virgil brought the seat to a halt and turned to his brother. “Gords, thank you. For all of this.”

Gordon stopped and stared, a small smile curving his lips. “Anytime, bro.” And of course, he had to take it that step further. He flung his arms wide. “My boat is your boat. Mi Casa, es su casa. Yours, mine, ours. Happy families and all that.”

Virgil stared at his goofball brother a moment. Then a flick at the controls, he darted over, grabbed two armfuls of Gordon and hugged him until he squawked.

“Oh, god, Virg, getorff!” Gordon struggled, but even in the water, he was no match for heavy lifting biceps. If Virgil closed his eyes and just clung for a moment, he wasn’t going to admit it or care. If it wasn’t for the fact that the seat was on the verge of flipping, he would have hung on longer.

It was Gordon stumbling and righting him before he took a swim in the drink that finally broke the clinging.

“God, Virg, don’t you dare get all teary on me or I’m telling John the combination to your personal refrigerator.”

Virgil grinned, if a little sloppily. “He already knows and it is not what you think.”

“What, it’s not Two’s launch date?”

“What?” Oh shit.

Gordon’s grin split his face in half and he cracked up laughing. Virgil was reduced to grabbing at him again in either an attempt to throttle him or give him the biggest noogie since he hit adulthood. That explained the mystery of the damned banana caramel pie from last week. He’d have to change it again.

His brother ducked out of reach basically by throwing himself underwater. Sure, the water seat was designed to follow, but damnit! “You owe me pie! Cecil made that for me, you brat!”

Gordon just kick-splashed his brother and laughed harder.

-o-o-o-

TBC

[ukdamo]

Remembrance of Things Present

One of mine...

The gloryhole in 89 Napier Street was the repository for practical things not necessarily needed immediately to hand: the scorched and rickety ironing board (the iron standing on its heel on the shelf above); left-over rolls of wallpaper; a canopy of coats cascading untidily from too few hooks; the two books (Universal Home Doctor and Family Bible); a bashed brown tea caddy, minus its label, that held buttons, wooden cotton reels, a selection of sewing needles, hair grips, press-studs on their cards, folorn biros with bitten ends; the Ewbank (at an earlier date), the reconditioned Hoover now in its stead. And mum's handbags. Old ones bulged with insurance policies, family snaps, the one £5 Premium Bond and the the three £1 ones, grave papers, mass cards, cast-off compacts with cracked mirrors or broken clasps, and almost-but-not-quite empty jars of Pond's cold cream. And the little cylinders of fake gold that held the stumps of greasy, muted-pinky-maroon lip sticks. It was all illuminated by a bare low-wattage bulb.

The gloryhole was, basically, under-stair storage. It was accessed from a door in the corner of the living room. Once the door was opened, you faced a narrow underdrawn space that sloped upward from left to right, following the contours of the stairs. In front, where the height permitted it, a shelf ran around the space. Under it were the old, two-pronged coat hooks. Mum's discarded handbags dangled by their frayed straps from those Victorian coat hooks, smothered by coats. They made occasional forays out into the light, when documents needed consulting or prayer cards needed re-homing. To the left of the door, down one-step, the space retreated into an increasingly confined wedge, so that the smaller objects had to be shoved into the deepest part of the recess and the taller ones stood immediately adjacent. The gloryhole was seldom decorated: it always lagged behind the rest of the house by at least two or three colour-schemes. Occasionally, when its yellowing paint became too depressing, it was freshened up by left over emulsion. The gloryhole housed the left-over wallpaper from various rooms - but never enjoyed a Polycell make-over of its own.

From the vantage point of 2017, Napier Street as our family home is long-gone. So are my parents; dad in 1995, mum a decade later. Equally long-gone are those old handbags with their stash of yesteryear's oddments. But, as I beetle along towards old age, the inherent power of those distant objects to seems to grow exponentially. The handbags and their associated evocations perhaps most of all.

Pond's cold cream. I don't know if it still exists. When I was a boy, it lived in small, glass, oval jars with bakelite screw lids. It was not gloopy or waxy. It was a reassuringly viscose white fondant, and had always the imprint of mum's last finger-scoop. The texture was cool, smooth and soothing. Its fragrance was of mum. Or maybe it was the other way round. A discreet scent of jasmine with distant lilies. It was soft on the palms and immediately made skin more malleable, less friable, less care-worn, more translucent. I can sympathise with her fondness for it: less a cotton winders' hands, more of a princess's. I used to have occasional dabs of my own: less a scrawly schoolboy's hands, more of an aesthete's?

In one or other of the bags there was a ladies Ronson lighter – it still had a working flint but its petrol-infused lint had long since dried out. I used to enjoy the dry, rasping spark with electric flare. Not so much a burning smell as a mechanical one. And then there were the compacts. They were usually smudged by the old lipsticks, their hinges encrusted with their own pink-blush powder. Indeed, the insurance policies, prayer cards and the faux-satin linings of the handbags were similarly smudged. The dull gold-coloured compact, the one with the cracked mirror, had a thin flat disc in it – satin one side and mildly padded on the other. Practically all the powder was gone from the insert. Little bevels of it remained where the side and bottom of the pan met. But the pad was still redolent of dustings and pattings. The powder was an anhydrous mist, different from the silky puff of Johnson's baby powder. Matt rather than shiny, the pad gave a satisfyingly muted pat when applied to the back of your hand. It had a fragrance, too, different from the cold cream, but complementary. The aroma was a pink carnation.

Mum was a delicate creature in some respects – allergic to anything other than gold jewellery. In this, I am not her son: I can wear any base metal, though my fondness and preference is for silver. Anything other than butter on her bread made her nauseous. Wartime had been a torture for her (the chemical coarseness of margarine, you understand). She had to trade all manner of coupons to secure enough butter. I sympathise with that. Her choice of butter was always Lurpak but she'd tolerate Kerrygold or Anchor if it was demanded of her. Stork – which the adverts claimed was indistinguishable from butter – was relegated to cake-making. Rightly so. Vile. Only desperation would make a person use it on bread.

Mum's repertoire of soaps was as limited as her butter.

Pears (those amber ovals) she liked – but it was too pricey. Imperial Leather (“Simon, Bermuda”) was also valued but equally pricey. I don't recall it featuring anything other than rarely – probably when it was on offer. We were a family of six, with four blokes, you see: that's a lot of soap. So, the mundane soap was a Lever Brothers stand by: Sunlight. With lanolin, even. I had no idea what lanolin was – but mum could use it on that delicate skin. This was in the days before hypoallergenic was a even a word, still less a range of products. Sunlight soap came in fat, cumbersome, rectangular, pale magnolia cakes. Really, it was very unfeminine: great half-charlies that were too big for the hand, unless you were a navvy or a coal miner. They had a wide groove on their upper surface, with a cursive 'Sunlight' stamped in it. I don't know if Sunlight is still going: it had a retro makeover many years ago but I can't recall seeing it in decades. The gradual demise of the C2 working class probably doomed it to extinction. And as for lanolin, people finding out that it was the oil from sheep's fleeces no doubt undermined its appeal, somewhat. Sometimes it's best not to know: when I hear what goes into mum's old Oil of Ulay (now sans oil, and simply Olay for copyright reasons, I think), it is cringeworthy.

But lanolin. I recall coming face to face with it a few years ago on a walk to the Water Meetings and Quaker Bridge in Barrowford. Summer time. No azure flash of kingfishers racing along Pendle Water that trip, but as I forked right and headed up the road into Blacko to follow it homewards, there was the buzz of clippers in a field. A Landrover was pulled up, with trailer uncoupled. The trailer sported on- /off- ramps, a generator, and a tall pole, attached to the top of which was a flexible bendy cord. At the end of the cord was the source of the insistent buzzing – sheep shears. The trailer was adjacent to a sheep pen, in which dozens of ewes jostled half-heartedly for position, and peered blankly out. I stopped to watch proceedings and, after a minute or two, the farmer came over, opened the gate, and invited me in.

And so we stood, the three of us. Me, the farmer, and the sheep shearer. And I learned about shearing, fleeces, and sheep. The shearer travelled from farm to farm (hence the Landrover with its bespoke trailer) making his way through Wales, Lancashire, Yorkshire on a pre-arranged timetable and route. He was netting £2 a fleece – and he had each of those pliable ladies, and some cantankerous ones – nabbed, shaved, and released at no more than 90 second intervals. The farmer penned the sheep ready, so there was no delay, and they contracted for a minimum number, so farmers with smaller holdings rendezvoused at the farm where the shearer was to set up. Prices for fleeces rose and fell – they weren't bad that year, as I recall, but sheep need shearing whatever the price.

The bewildered ladies were unceremoniously up-ended and plonked on their ample bottoms, whilst the young fella planted his muscular legs and gripped them, and set to work with the clippers. Mostly, they were subdued once he had them: perhaps reassured by his evident skill and no-nonsense approach. That always worked with me when I was a boy: the sound of the airplane clippers, the smell of 3-in-1 oil, and the firm purpose of the barber. Short back and sides and sparse conversation. Mind you, I don't think the barber netted £2 a scalp back in the day.

The sun shone, the sheep skittered off once fleeced, and we three chatted. Soon my eye was drawn to the large grease spot on the wooden trailer. Lanolin, live and in-person. Handy for soap making, handier still for shedding the filthiest Lancashire weather: these sheep were well set up for inclemencies. I noted, too, that the shearer was wearing moccasins. As the farmer explained, the best shearers wore moccasins. Their suede nap gave some purchase on the slippery grease and their firm pressure was kinder to sheep. Lots of younger men were sporting trainers now, he said, but he didn't rate them. They were not good. The risk of injury to sheep, and man, was increased. I found myself glad that the shearer stood fully congruent with his occupation – no flirting with any Nike or Adidas innovations. Real sheep shearers do it in moccasins.

After the family home was sold and mum and dad went to live in Lomeshaye Village, in one of the old-folks' flats, mum's predilection for Imperial Leather resurfaced. There was always a bar in the bathroom. With just the two of them (kids all gone) the economies necessary for a family of six, on a wagon driver's income, were less stringent. Imperial Leather as pensioner indulgence! One of the things that most endeared me to those lozenge-shaped bars of buttermilk hue was the little foil label that conjured up the decadence of the Romanovs. It was my understanding that the label was there to prevent the soap leaving a mess on the sink ceramics or soap dish: you stood the bar on its label. As the soap wore down, the label stood proud and the soap was no longer in contact with the sink – hence, no mess. Perhaps because we were very plebeian, the soap was never label down. You announced the fact that you were using it by having the label showing.

For me, nowadays, picking the soap up, lathering it under the tap, releases not so much a fragrance as a wave of nostalgia. Imperial Leather's fragrance has elements of sandalwood and the richness of plant oils – it's mildly exotic and suggestive of luxury. Which is, no doubt, what Cussons were aiming at. But for me, it mostly carries aromas of mum. It's powerfully evocative. Aromas are.

I recall a visit – with mum – to Gawthorpe Hall. It's one of the places we'd scoot off to for an afternoon of cultural noseyness, and cake. The cafe was lodged in the stable block and featured home-baking and pots of tea. Ideal for us. After a leisurely brew and news-swop, we were about to go and explore the lovely Elizabethan pile: I decided to make a visit to the lavatory first. The tea room was above, the toilets below, so I skittered down the stairs and found the Gents. The soap was in an old-school wall dispenser: fingers under, palm operates a rectangular squirter. One squidge was enough: the years receded and I was age six, it was dinner time, I was standing at a child-height sink in St George's RC Primary School, Vaughan Street, Nelson, washing my hands so that Mrs. Ingham (a diminutive tyrant) would not throw me out of the dinner queue. The soap dispensed in the Gawthorpe toilet was the same amber-coloured, antiseptic liquid that Lancashire County Council used in its school thirty years before. The power of scent created a wormhole in space-time and drew me through it, irresistibly. That power can be used to advantage, though. You can elect to make the journey. Fragrance can open the portal, on demand. If liquid coal-tar soap can take me to primary school, other fragrances can take me elsewhere.

4711, for instance. That eau-de-cologne can transport me to Köln, and the year 1976. It's a school exchange trip and I'm in Germany, staying with a family from Mayen: we're on a trip to Cologne. I've been up the cathedral tower and seen the Rhine bridges and I'm looking for a present for mum. On Glockenstrasse, at number 4711, stands an impressive perfume factory and shop – home to 4711. The original eau-de-cologne. Echt Kölnisch Wasser. It's still there – flagship shop of the perfume house, and it still glitters with possibility. I bought mum a bottle of the eponymous 18th CE perfume and she wore it ever after. Generally, she kept it in her current handbag (before they were, successively, relegated to the gloryhole). She'd dab it on her hanky and freshen up with it on car trips. As a perfume, 4711 has had an odd evolution over the 200 plus years of its existence; it was, originally, a men's fragrance for the prestige Houses of Europe. More latterly, it has been a women's fragrance – but 4711 indicate it as unisex. I agree. The scent is of citrus and wood that carries a fresh, sharp finish and has enduring undernotes. For me it's an everyday scent: it lives in my sports bag, for application after swims. It's also my travel fragrance and comes with me on every trip, near or far.

As I age (just clocked 56, Not Out), I seem to be developing a deepening appreciation for my past and how it has shaped who I have become. I heard once that making sense of your life is only possible when you look back over it – I recall an analogy that compared it to running your fingers over a fish's scales: they lie smoothly when stroked in one direction but are likely to tear your flesh if stroked in the wrong one. I can see connections, recognise how events and people shaped my experiences. I know I hold threads together, personally. I weave my own cloth - but on a loom I inherited. More tellingly still, some elements of the pattern, some of the aesthetics that inform the weave, some of the yarns, were given to me. I'm the child of weavers in more ways than one.

I can find, too, there's comfort in the sureties of the past. Like the familiarity of an old pair of slippers (not that I wear slippers), the quiet resonances of childhood are reassuring. I think we like continuity, as a species. We tell stories. We create in our own likeness. We look to where we came from to make sense of where we are and to decide where we want to go.

I'm conscious of my heritage. Not (I think) conditioned or stultified by it, or forever harking back to a mystical Golden Age that exists only in the warm fuzziness of a smug and delusional imagination. But I know I make choices which ensure there are tokens of continuity that I can carry with me into my everyday life. Mostly, they are mundane. And I like that, too. It's too easy to confuse what's important with what's valuable, unless you guard against that possibility. The richer you are, the more imperilled that discernment is: I've safeguarded myself against that risk very well!

My tokens are trivial. It's good that they are.

I think of the tea caddy spoon – it's in my kitchen, as it was in mum's kitchen, and as it was in her mum's kitchen before her (c/o a pre-WW II holiday to the Isle of Man): or there's my 'ice-cream' spoon – courtesy of Margaret Pepper and the Raj (well, the North Western Railway Volunteer Rifles, circa 1920). These tokens are a continuing connection with people now gone. They are stirred (if you'll forgive the pun) by everyday use.

I note, increasingly, that I am becoming my parents. I look like dad. Really: peas in a pod, chip off the old block, and so on. I look in the mirror and he smiles back at me. I look at my physignomy – and his fingerprints are all over it. My driving style evokes his. In some situations, I can sense him near. Curiously, he underpins my confidence in situations from which his natural diffidence would have disbarred him. If I stand tall, it's because he raised me. As for mum, she's around most days. Wimbledon Fortnight, she practically moves in. It was ever ‘our time’ - I’d rock up with whimberry charlottes, or strawberries, and we’d sit on the edges of chairs for hours and hours as Nastase, Connors, Becker, McEnroe, Ivanisovic, Sampras, Federer and Billie Jean King, Martina, Steffi and the Williams sisters thwacked balls back and forth. I miss her acutely then. And we both missed Dan Maskell, together. She’s at my elbow at breakfast when I make a pot of Yorkshire Tea (there's another evocation!); when the Imperial Leather is handled at shower time; twice weekly, in the men's locker room at Crow Wood, after a swim. Perhaps it's fortunate that the evocation is a personal, rather than an universal, one? (Otherwise, explanations might prove difficult).

I don't know if the trivial and potent associations that so flavour my life – 4711, Imperial Leather, and two old spoons – will evoke the same responses among my nephews and nieces and their respective kids once I'm dead. It’s open to doubt. They don't live cheek-by-jowl with them, as I do. It matters not. They will make their own. As things stand, I'm the orphan in the world, now mum and dad are long dead: the comfort blanket offered by fragrances and spoons is mine, and very probably mine alone.

There's quiet comfort in that, too.

© Damian, April 2017

[mostlysignssomeportents]

West Virginia's governor Jim Justice: billionaire, deadbeat

Billionaire Jim Justice is the richest person in West Virginia, and he is the state's governor - a position he campaigned for by claiming that his riches proved that he was really good at money management.

But Justice didn't build his coal business - he inherited it (along with his name) from his daddy, and the business's growth since is largely attributable to the fact that Justice is a cheater who does not pay his bills.

https://www.propublica.org/article/the-billionaire-governor-whos-been-sued-dozens-of-times-for-millions-in-unpaid-bills

The Justice companies have been named by in 600 lawsuits for nonpayment of bills, in dozens of states. The suits were "filed by workers, vendors, business partners, government agencies." He cheats tax-collectors, manufacturers, workers - even his own accountants and lawyers!

Justice loses these cases, but then he refuses to pay again, forcing his creditors to go back to court over and over again to collect the judgments they're owed.

Some of those frauds kill people. For example, when he stopped paying insurance premiums for his workers' health insurance, doctors started refusing to treat the chronic illnesses and injuries they acquired while working for his companies.

Justice was a deadbeat long before the coal downturn - he started getting sued for nonpayment of his bills in the 1990s. And the lawsuits kept rolling in at an accelerating clip, even after he became governor.

Among those: a settlement with the DoJ to pay $5m in "delinquent mine safety penalties," which Justice had stiffed the DoJ on for years.

Justice's grift started small, with wage theft from coal-miners, but he's not above stealing from his fellow plutes, or Uncle Sam.

Justice is such a crook that even other coal barons think he's unfit to govern. His bid for the governor's mansion was opposed by Bob "Eat Shit and Die, Bob" Murray, a walking colostomy bag in a skinsuit.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c5W06xR8EYk

Alas, he did manage to sucker the leadership of the United Mine Workers of America, who endorsed his gubernatorial campaign -- and whom he later stiffed. They have withdrawn their endorsement.

If you want to explore the $128,000,000 in legal claims against Justice, Propublica's Ken Ward, Jr and Alex Mierjeski have you covered:

https://www.propublica.org/article/see-whos-taken-billionaire-gov-jim-justice-to-court-over-unpaid-bills

[skottydawgblog]

Top 25 Albums of All Time

Scott Welsch

Criteria:

Every song on the album must be attractive for listening. No “skippers” on the album. No, “Eh, that song kinda sucks” on the album. *Greatest Hits albums ARE NOT acceptable for this list. (This rule devastates me, as it disqualifies Foo Fighters)

2. The album/music/lyrics should still be relevant (and listenable) today.

3. The artist can’t just be for a specific crowd or followers (e.g. Jimmy Buffet, Grateful Dead, Moody Blues, etc.).

4. There is no need for the album to have won any awards or previous recognition.

5. I could have easily made this a “Top 100”, but I have a life.

TOP TWENTY FIVE ALBUMS OF ALL TIME:

#25 Billy Joel — Glass Houses

I played this album at bedtime growing up. I listened to side one, flipped the album, then listened to side two until the needle lulled me to sleep by making the “click click” noise at the end of the record. The album features Billy Joel’s first song to reach #1 status on Billboard (Still Rock and Roll To Me).

#24 Guns n Roses — Appetite For Destruction

My best friend in the 80s said to me, “Have you heard of this new band?” and handed me a cassette tape (in 1987). I listened to the entire cassette from start to finish the first time, and thought to myself, “Oh, man. These guys are gonna be huge.” Sure enough, Guns n Roses became one of the best-known names in modern rock. Their debut album (Appetite) has a buffet of glorious songs to listen to. Repeatedly.

#23 Elton John — Goodbye Yellow Brick Road

Elton John released this album as a two-disc set because he ended up writing and recording more songs than required by his recording company for the release. His creativity had kicked in full force (and then some). He recorded it in Jamaica (the country, not the neighborhood in Queens, NY).

#22 Red Hot Chili Peppers — Blood Sugar Sex Magik

The Chili Peppers’ fifth studio album, BSSM pushed them into mainstream. Prior to this album, the closest they had gotten was with a Stevie Wonder cover of Higher Ground on the Mother’s Milk album. No one has ever duplicated the variety of melodic undertones created by the combination of acid-rock, soul-funk, early alt-rock, and blues style on BSSM.

#21 Billy Idol — Billy Idol

Billy Idol’s debut album, released in 1982, was an absolute success after his breakup with the band Generation X. The song Dancing With Myself (track 11 on the 1983 reissue of the album) was actually a song originally recorded BY Generation X (with Billy Idol on lead vocals). It was a retail failure when released with Generation X, but when Billy Idol re-recorded and re-released it as a solo artist, it went mainstream.

#20 The Police — Zenyatta Mondotta

This was the last album The Police recorded by combining their reggae and punk music style before they switched to a more “popular” music style. Songs like Canary In A Coal Mine and Bombs Away had innuendos of political undertones, while Don’t Stand So Close To Me and De Do Do Do De Da Da Da were more lackadaisical and humorous.

#19 Van Halen — Van Halen

This album is an anomaly. Van Halen is a very well known band. They produced twelve albums. Yet, this is their debut album and has their legacy songs. The album has reached Diamond status by selling over ten million copies. It has one of the best-known guitar instrumental songs in history (eruption).

#18 Nirvana — Nevermind

This is my nod to the Foo Fighters, since they are not eligible for the list. Nevermind was the cork that popped and brought alternative rock (as a whole) into the mainstream. It basically created a whole new genre of both musicians and fans.

#17 Lynyrd Skynyrd — (Pronounced Lĕh-’nérd ‘Skin-’nérd)

Well…Free Bird, of course. I don’t need to write any about this album more than that.

#16 Pink Floyd — The Wall

I used to just listen to this album and watch the movie because it was the cool thing to do. Then, once I picked apart the meaning behind both (the music and the screenplay), it was totally eye opening. Pink Floyd was successful at concept before concept was cool.

#15 The Doors — The Doors

The Doors recorded this album in less than a month, yet it will inspire musicians for centuries. Critics often rate it the best album of all time.

#14 Rainmakers — Rainmakers

The Rainmakers self-titled album epitomizes my “100%” criterion. Every well written song tells a story, either historically or humorously. Also, The Rainmakers made rockabilly cool when no one knew what rockabilly was.

#13 Rush — Moving Pictures

With so many amazing Rush albums to choose from, it was difficult to pick just one. However, the rules of my list narrowed it down to Moving Pictures. I have spent countless nights in my life listening to this album from start to finish. Although Side B has no songs that ever received radio play, they are still AMAZING songs.

#12 Linkin Park — Hybrid Theory

This debut album launched Linkin Park into their river of greatness. Linkin Park was initially rejected by 42 recording agents before recording Hybrid Theory and becoming one of the all-time greatest alt rock bands.

#11 Beastie Boys — Licensed To Ill

Licensed To Ill is one of the fastest selling debut albums in history. It gained Diamond status (over 10 million copies). Some claim that Licensed To Ill is the best punk rap album ever released.

#10 Van Halen–5150

5150 was Van Halen’s debut album with Sammy Hagar as lead singer. Each song has crisp, clear instrumentals and incredibly well written music. Although the album received negative reviews from critics, each song creates different feelings and scenarios with the tempos and feelings. I know, I know. Van Halen is already on this list. However, as stated: this album is with Sammy Hagar as lead singer. The previous one was David Lee Roth.

#9 Violent Femmes — Violent Femmes

This was Violent Femmes debut album. It was the party album of the eighties. Every partygoer knew every lyric to every song. The Femmes had one of the most distinctive sounds of the times and remains an enduring classic. The minimalism and simplicity of their music created the attractiveness, and their lyrics are a drug.

#8 New Order — Substance

This is a compilation (2 disc) album. NOT a greatest hits album. It contains a ton of great New Order music. The only reason I made the exception (of “Greatest Hits”) is because it has a “B” sides disc included with many unreleased, 12-inch, and dub versions of the original songs. For New Order fans, this is a gold mine.

#7 The Who — Who’s Next

There are so many great tracks on here. The primary reason this one made the list is Baba O’Riley. This song (often mislabeled as Teenage Wasteland) was originally 30 minutes long. I would have had no problem with the song being that long.

#6 Prince — Purple Rain

Purple Rain had innovation that was unheard of in the early ’80s. For example, When Doves Cry does not have a bass line. The consolidation of R&B with rock was a new concept. Lastly, Prince’s guitar playing on this album was out of this world.

#5 U2 — Joshua Tree

Bono’s “great romance” and fascination with the United States served as the inspirations for The Joshua Tree. I wonder if Bono would have found today’s United States as inspirational? One of the BEST songs on this album- Running To Stand Still.

#4 AC/DC — Back In Black

This is one of the best-selling albums in history. It is AC/DC’s leanest, meanest album of all-time. It will always sound timeless and simple, yet savagely crafted.

#3 Led Zeppelin — IV

This album defined not only Led Zeppelin but the sound and style of 70s hard rock. It encompassed heavy metal, folk, pure rock-and-roll, and blues. This album not only served as a cornerstone but also a turning point for the future of music. Just don’t ask a guitar player to play Stairway (or Freebird).

#2 Nine Inch Nails — Downward Spiral

It’s no surprise that Trent Reznor collaborated with Jane’s Addiction drummer Stephen Perkins on this album. The instrumentation throughout the album is amazing. Every song leads into the next (it should, as it’s a concept album). Just don’t listen to the lyrics too closely. It could prove very, very depressing!

#1 Pearl Jam — Ten

Ten was the debut album from Pearl Jam in August 1991. Although most consider Pearl Jam a “Grunge” band, the album is more classic rock music. Most of the songs on the album began as simple instrumental band jam sessions that Eddie Vedder then wrote lyrics to go along with. The songs on Ten, despite their deep, dark lyrics, will remain on playlists for generations to come. Ten is powerful, insightful, deep, dark, thought provoking, and brilliant. “Why is the album named ‘Ten’?” you ask, when there are eleven tracks on it? Jeff Ament’s (the band’s bass player) love for NBA point guard Mookie Blaylock provided the inspiration. Blaylock’s involvement in a tragic car accident hit Pearl Jam like an injury to a family member. Blaylock’s jersey number was — you guessed it — Ten.

HONORABLE MENTION:

Steve Miller Band — Book of Dreams

This album has a few legendary songs on it: Jet Airliner, Swingtown, Jungle Love, and True Fine Love. The only reason it did not meet the cut is because it has some “eh” songs on it. However, a host can play this album straight through at a party or a get together, and no one will complain.

The Cars — The Cars

This is an amazing album. Clean, crisp guitar. Ric Ocasek’s vocals and lyrics are powerful. However, two songs (I’m In Touch With Your World and Dontcha Stop) prevent this album from meeting the “100%” criterion.

[leftistcrap]

If you had to make a rat depressed, how do you think you’d go about it?

[...]

It turns out you don’t need to traumatize them. The most reliable protocol is “chronic mild stress.” There are many methods of making the lives of experimental animals mildly but chronically miserable — a cage floor that administers random electric shocks; a deep swimming pool with no way to rest or climb out; a stronger “intruder” introduced into the same cage. One neuroscientist actually nicknamed his apparatus the Pit of Despair.

But they’re all variations on the same theme: remove all predictability and control from the animal’s life. Then take notes as they gradually lose interest in being alive.

The media mostly discusses job stress in the context of white-collar, educated professionals. We don’t put nearly as much time and energy into exploring the stress of unskilled, low-wage service work — even though the jobs most Americans actually work could be mistaken for Pits of Despair.

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The factors a scientist would remove from a rat’s life to make it depressed — predictability and control — are the exact things that have been removed from workers’ lives in the name of corporate flexibility and increased productivity. There’s little more relief for many low-wage workers than for those lab rats desperately trying to keep their heads above water.

For one thing, everything is timed and monitored digitally, second by second. If you’re not keeping up, the system will notify a manager, and you will hear about it.

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Computers and algorithms also have a much heavier hand in what a worker’s schedule looks like. The scheduling systems used to staff most major retail and fast food chains have gotten extremely good at using past sales data to extrapolate how much business to expect every hour of the coming week. Stores are then staffed around the predicted busy and slow times, which means workers’ schedules are often completely different week to week.

The more recent the data, the more accurate the prediction, which is why so many fast-food and retail workers don’t get their schedule until a day or two before it starts. It leaves workers in these industries unable to plan their lives (or their budgets) more than a few days in advance. 

Algorithmic scheduling also results in bizarre things like the “clopen” — back-to-back shifts closing late and opening early the next morning with only a few hours to sleep in between — and unpaid quasi-shifts where workers are expected to be on call in case it’s busier than predicted or sent home early if it’s slower.

Technology has also made understaffing a science. At my McDonald’s, we always seemed to be staffed at a level that maximized misery for workers and customers, as exemplified by the constant line and yells of “Open up another register!” Not only did this permanently strand us in the weeds, it meant that customers were often in a bad mood by the time they got to us. 

Understaffing is a widespread tactic to cut down on labor costs. For what it looks like in fast food, check out the dozens of Occupational Safety and Health Administration complaints filed by McDonald’s workers in 2015 about deliberate understaffing at stores in several cities. The workers claim the corporate-supplied scheduling system understaffs stores, then pressures the skeleton crew to work faster to make up for it, which leads to hazardous conditions and injuries like these:

“My managers kept pushing me to work faster, and while trying to meet their demands, I slipped on a wet floor, catching my arm on a hot grill,” one worker, Brittney Berry, said in a statement when the complaints were filed. “The managers told me to put mustard on it.”

Responding to the OSHA filings, the company wrote that “McDonald’s and its independent franchisees are committed to providing safe working conditions for employees in the 14,000 McDonald’s Brand U.S. restaurants. We will review these allegations.” 

The statement also made a reference to Fight for $15, the Service Employees International Union-funded campaign that had been involved in coordinating and publicizing the complaints: “It is important to note that these complaints are part of a larger strategy orchestrated by activists targeting our brand and designed to generate media coverage.” (The cases have not been resolved.) 

According to a 2015 survey of thousands of US fast-food employees by the National Council for Occupational Safety and Health, 79 percent of industry workers had been burned on the job in the previous year — most more than once.

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American culture is full of lingering afterimages of Midwestern guys making cars and mining coal, but, to quote an excellent headline from the Chicago Tribune, The Entire Coal Industry Employs Fewer People Than Arby’s. This is the modern working class — fast food, retail, warehousing, delivery, call centers. Service workers.

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Why do so many people choose to put up with this? Because some choices aren’t really choices. 

In my experience, most people are willing to make immense sacrifices to keep their children safe and happy. In a country with a moth-eaten social safety net, health care tied to employment, and few job quality differences between working at McDonald’s, Burger King, or Walmart, corporations have long since figured out that workers will put up with nearly anything if it means keeping their jobs. This fulcrum is being used to leverage more and more out of workers — even, ironically, the ability to spend time with their families. Many of my coworkers were in the O’Henry-like position of providing for families they barely got to see because of their work schedule.

Free market capitalism doesn’t assign a negative value to “how much stress workers are under.” It just assumes that unhappy workers will leave their job for a better one, and things will find a natural balance. But when the technologies that make life miserable spread everywhere at the speed of globalization, finding something better isn’t really an option anymore. And a system that runs by marinating a third or more of the workforce in chronic stress isn’t sustainable.