#Communist commuters

[nando161mando]

Communist commuters

[yellow-yarrow]

thinking about Steban's long commute to campus, of course he's not attending classes

[garset-grocery]

I don’t usually make vent posts like this but I need to scream into the void about this right now and my friends don’t want to hear it anymore.

Tomorrow I have a doctor’s appointment about an hour’s drive away. Unfortunately, I don’t have a car because I just paid for school and insurance would tear me apart.

Outside my building is a train track that goes right up to the edge of the property. It’s hidden by a fence, but every time a train goes past it’s like a continuous rolling clap of thunder that you feel in your inner ear. Naturally, one would assume that there would be a train station in town. One would be dead wrong. There isn’t a train station for miles in any direction, and the only way in and out of town is through the highway.

Looking up bus routes on google maps shows me several with the same rough timing: SEVEN HOURS. Somehow, taking the bus is more time than it would take to bike all the way there (six hours). Even with all the stops a bus makes, you would assume that once it got on the highway there wouldn’t be much of a difference. But if it takes me FOURTEEN HOURS to see the only doctor that does HRT nearby, then that’s simply not viable. I have free time, but not that much. Not that much.

Of course, I could take an Uber. At this point it seems like the best option. Pay hundreds of dollars for a drive that would normally cost <$100 for gas, while stranding a complete stranger in an entirely different town. An Uber driver once told me that if they drove out of a certain area, they would have to drive all the way back to it before they could pick up more riders, which wastes their time and their money. If I order an Uber, I’m asking two separate strangers to make a two hour round trip drive in which they’re only allowed one rider at a time. Just an absolute dogshit thing to do to another person.

I live in Ontario, which is supposed to be Canada’s number one industrial powerhouse. We have the highest population of any province in the country, mostly in one dense area along the US border. Every year the government spends millions of dollars to maintain the roads and highways connecting all these places. And not one, NOT ONE train station in my whole fucking town? You’re telling me there’s enough money for the roads and highways and all the streetlights and fuel for transport trucks and construction. But it’s just not in the budget to lay down some fucking tracks and make commuting without a car fast and affordable? Really?

I guess if everyone just buys a car then that’s good for oil companies and insurance companies and car companies and… you know, all the people that get rich off covering everything in pavement and waiting for people to die. But for people like me who don’t have a car and need to get somewhere an hour away? Well, I guess we can just go fuck ourselves. It’s our fault for not having enough money to buy our own personal 3000 pound death machine.

Look. I get it. People like driving their little metal boxes around. It’s fun. Whatever. But human beings have been laying railroads (not like that) for literally hundreds of years. The industry my country loves so much was built on railroads. We KNOW that trains work, we KNOW that they’re fast and easy and they get people places on time, and we KNOW that they can transport WAY more people than a highway while taking up way less space. SO WHY THE FUCK IS THERE NO TRAIN STATION IN MY TOWN. WHY IS THE ROAD THE ONLY OPTION. WHY AM I STUCK USING BUSES AND RIDESHARING AND SHITTY HALF-MEASURES TO GET AROUND THIS OBVIOUS GAPING HOLE IN OUR PROVINCE’S AWFUL INFRASTRUCTURE. STOP ADDING MORE LANES TO THE GOD DAMN HIGHWAYS AND GIVE US A WORKING TRANSIT SYSTEM. JESUS FUCKING CHRIST.

[seat-safety-switch]

Here's the thing about kids: they'll work really hard, for not a lot of money. Child labour has been an essential component of the gettin'-stuff infrastructure since children were invented, and I figured it was high time I got my cut, too.

As opposed as I am to private high schools (they cost money,) I can't resist a chance to convince my parole officer I am indeed applying to jobs. And so it was that fateful morning when I got hired to replace Ms. Nettles, the former drama teacher, after she got in her Gremlin X and left the country entirely rather than do another minute of educating the leaders of tomorrow. The pay was shit, sure, but "theatre teacher" sounds a lot better in a courtroom than "freelance scumbag."

For the first couple days, it really wasn't that bad. Band/drama kids, like when I was in high school, were largely self-organizing. They built their own sets. They read the textbook and did their own exercises. They didn't complain too much when I told them that my "method" was to sit in the dimly-lit back of the room, put on dark glasses, and sleep while they worked hard to rehearse the big play. As far as they knew, all this was normal. Until it wasn't.

On the night of the big play, I dressed up. I did the gladhanding. The principal in particular was greatly impressed, telling me that he has heard fantastic things about my students and I was likely to be lifted aloft as a god of entertainment, eligible for a $0.25 cent per hour raise (not including grading, prep, and commute time) and revered forever. Just as long as the class production of Atlas Shrugged went off without a hitch.

Here's the thing about child labour, though: it's cheap for a reason. Turns out, without me being there to teach them what to do, the kids actually read the book. And then they got mad at each other about the book, and they decided to do their own version. If I had been awake at any point during class over the last four months, I probably could have stopped the development of, or at least the staging of, Atlas Fucked.

Things could have gone worse. I managed to pivot blame onto their free-thinking history teacher, who was no doubt filling their minds with Communist indoctrination, and slipped out the back door. A new drama teacher would replace me, ready to put on a production where the kids (and by extension their parents) could be told the things they already believed. I didn't leave empty-handed, though. In addition to the meagre salary I extracted, I also got to loot the principal's office while he was busy watching the show. Got a pretty nice stapler.

[starshideurfics]

A Mother’s Love - part 2

part one

omegaverse, pre-steddie, past mpreg, cw: child death

Marsha Harrington was proud of her work under Dr. Martin Brenner. They were doing cutting-edge research, pushing the boundaries of what the human mind could do, and ensuring the communists didn’t win.

At least, that’s what she told herself as she held a grieving mother whose baby they had stolen.

Then, she told herself she was doing it for the children, protecting them as best she could.

But she couldn’t protect them. Not really.

Two was angry, even as a little boy, and Four followed his example. Five was cold, easily molded by Brenner. Each of them did whatever Papa asked.

Except Seven.

Seven cried often, and he kept to himself. The older boys liked to make him cry. And he was afraid of the girls, like being near them would burn his skin.

He was always distressed during Brenner’s tests, so distressed that they never got good data. Brenner tried ignoring him, a “cooling off period” he called it, to see if Seven could calm down and regulate enough for testing. It didn’t work.

“He’s washing out,” Brenner said one day after a failed attempt to get Seven to guess at the pictures on the cards in Brenner’s hands. “Schedule him for tomorrow.”

One child had washed out before. Four had been a twin. 004A and 004B, but A never stood out, let B push him around. He’d hit his head, had a cranial hematoma. There was surgery, but he recovered… below Brenner’s standard. He washed out at six-years-old.

“Washed out.”

He was cremated.

And 004B became 004.

Marsha volunteered to handle 007’s procedure. She changed out the vials, gave him a mild sedative, and covered him with a sheet. A janitor helped her sneak him out a backdoor.

She brought him home, told her husband she’d leave him if he didn’t agree to adopt the boy. Richard simply smiled and nodded.

Marsha had had cancer in her early-20s, lost both ovaries in the course of her treatment. She’d gone to therapy, made her peace with it. Found a husband who didn’t care that she couldn’t have children, who liked being able to knot her without worrying about babies.

Richard did not care for babies. But Seven was already almost 5-years-old. Richard could handle that.

He was also a lawyer, so getting papers filed to adopt the boy were simple. They named him Steven, figuring it was close enough that if he remembered anything his brain could make sense of it.

Steven David Harrington.

Marsha and Richard were quiet about Steve, treating him like he’d always been around. They moved to Hawkins, closer to the lab, hiding Steve in plain sight. And Marsha kept her job.

If they ran, someone might ask questions, but Marsha wanted to save time on her commute. Who could question that?

Out of the lab, Steve calmed down. He enjoyed his routines, liked going to the park, liked swimming in their new pool with Mommy. For the first time, Marsha saw him laugh out loud, and she hoped the worst was behind them.

Then he started school.

The other children overwhelmed him, and his teacher called home 45 minutes after drop-off because Steve could not stop crying.

Marsha went to pick him up, promised they would work on emotional regulation and try again next Monday.

“Steve, can you tell me what’s wrong?” she asked on the way home.

“Hurts,” he said, sniffling and rubbing his chest. “Hurts inside. Everyone is scared and loud and it hurts.”

“Oh, my poor, sensitive boy!” Marsha pulled into the driveway, pulled Steve out of the backseat, and held him close. “Let’s see if we can figure out how to make it quieter for you, Stevie.”

When Steve went back for the second week of Kindergarten he still kept to himself, but he could manage the half day surrounded by his peers. By the end of the week, he had even made friends.

He got better control, grew up happy and healthy, and most importantly, safe.

Marsha continued to work for Brenner until one day, after nearly 20 years, she was reassigned as a specialist at the VA. Brenner said their funding was cut. That the program was finished.

Steve was almost 13 by then. Marsha was fairly certain he didn’t remember any of it. And he didn’t cry much. Not anymore. But when he came home to his mother crying in the kitchen, his eyes filled with tears. “It’s okay, Mom,” he said, throwing his arms around her.

“I know, Honey. I know.”

🫂🫂🫂

Wayne leaves Steve dozing in his nest around 4:10, and goes to try calling the Harrington’s. Marsha picks up on the third ring, voice light and breathy. Wayne tries to be as cordial as possible, introducing himself and mentioning that he’s seen her at the VA when he goes in for his physical.

“But let’s get down to brass tacks, I’ve got your son, Steve, here, in my nest, sleeping through his presentation heat. My nephew’s a freshman, he found him, and you know how teens are, he brought him to the first safe omega he could think of—”

“Thank you!” she cuts him off, sounding a little hysterical. “Thank you, Wayne! I thought I had more time before it hit him. It’s been so long since I’ve worked with pups—with teens…” she trails off, suddenly quiet. “I should have been paying more attention.”

Wayne waits a long moment, then he asks, “D’you wanna come pick him up? Or should I…”

“Yes! What’s your address?”

Wayne’s ready to give directions, but he says Forest Hills and the lot number, and she thanks him again as she hangs up her end of the call. Shrugging, Wayne hangs up his own receiver, and gets a glass of orange juice from the fridge.

Steve’s still sleeping peacefully, his face tucked into the side of the nest, fingers curled in the blankets.

Wayne crosses over to him, strokes his hair and murmurs, “Hey, Kid. Your Mom is on her way over.” He feels Steve’s forehead, still burning with his heat. He holds up the orange juice. “Need to get some sugar into you, make up for everything your body’s burning through.” He helps Steve sit up, holds the glass for him as he drinks it all.

Finished, Steve turns to hide his face against Wayne’s shoulder and whines.

“I know, Kid. This is a rough one. The first of many.”

“Can I lay back down?”

“Sure, get comfy. I’ll bring your mother back as soon as she gets here.” Wayne watches Steve sink back down to the same spot, realizes then where Steve’s nose is, and holds back a keening cry of his own.

Benny deserves to know.

But Benny wants his pup safe before anything.

Marsha must have broken a few traffic laws with how quickly she arrives, and Wayne opens the door for her before she can knock. “Thank you!” she says again, following Wayne back to his nest and running over to Steve. She rubs his back, softly says, “Stevie, I’m here. It’s okay.”

Steve lifts his head, eyes unfocused as he turns to look at her. “Hi, Mom.”

“Are you ready to go home? We’ll get a nest started on your bed and you can sleep.”

“It’s nice here,” Steve mumbles, “Smells nice. Safe.”

She sniffs theatrically. “You’re right, it does.” Then she sniffs Steve’s hair. “But don’t you want a nest that smells like you?”

Steve shakes his head, fist clenching the white undershirt, pulling it to his nose.

Marsha strokes Steves hair, bends down to sniff quietly at the shirt, and goes stock still. As she recovers, she kisses Steve’s hair and gets back to her feet. Her eyes are watery, lips pursed as she approaches Wayne to ask, “You know Ben Hammond?”

“He’s my best friend. Don’t you know he lives in town?”

She shakes her head. “I try not to be involved, for-” She cuts herself off, pauses. “You know, don’t you.” It isn’t a question.

“Yes.”

“Call him. Now.”

🫂🫂🫂

“Benny’s Burgers, how can I help you?” Benny drawls into the receiver, expecting a to-go order.

Instead, it’s Wayne. “Benny, you need to come over right now.”

“Wayne, no. Dinner rush is about to start, I’ve already got a few early birds, a couple te-”

“Benjamin Hammond, this is serious!”

That wasn’t Wayne, the voice too high-pitched. Feminine and familiar.

“Marsha?”

“Hi, honey. God, I owe you a million apologies. More even.”

“You do.”

“But Wayne said you know, and he needs you.”

Benny’s heart races. “Wayne needs me? Marsha, what the hell is going on? Is Br-”

“Wayne is fine. He needs you.” Marsha is being careful, keeping him from saying too much over the phone. “Please, can you come to Wayne’s? Now?”

“Yeah, just gotta close up.”

“I’m so sorry, Benny.”

“Save it for later, Marsha.” He hangs up, hurries the customers who have already been served. Orders everyone else out with a barked, “Emergency closure. Come back tomorrow.”

Benny hops into his pickup, drives to Wayne’s, confused for a moment by the BMW parked next to Wayne’s truck. But his brain catches back up, and he parks right beside it.

As soon as he’s through the door he can smell it: Peaches, light and sweet. He shouldn’t be able to, with the strength of Wayne’s cinnamon mixed with cigarette smoke, but he does. Peaches mixed with the fading milky scent of a pup.

Wayne and Marsha are in the kitchen, both staring at him.

“I’m so sorry, Benny,” Marsha says again. “What we did to you was unforgivable. What we did to the pups was worse. But I got Steve out. I kept him safe.” Her voice is shaky, but her eyes stay dry, never looking away.

“I wanted to name him David,” Benny says in little more than a whisper.

“I know. His middle name is David, but Steven was easier for him to adapt to.”

“Adapt?”

“Brenner gave them numbers.”

That doesn’t surprise Benny; Brenner was always so clinical. Methodical. But it clearly shocks Wayne. “Numbers. Y’all didn’t even give them names?”

“His name was Seven.”

Marsha glances at Wayne, sees the disgust there. “Brenner thought it would make it easier for us to see them as subjects than as children. But they were always children to me. And Steve was sensitive, stubborn and scared. I got him out, and Brenner thinks he’s dead. As long as he doesn’t call any attention to himself he should be safe.”

“Talking to me will call attention to him, won’t it?” Benny asks, heart and mind racing. For a moment he considers grabbing Steve and running god knows where, but he can’t do that to his pup.

“Not that much. Brenner shuttered the program. I don’t work for him anymore. I’m just a nurse at the VA. And all your files are secured and confidential. No one should be watching you.” Marsha takes two steps, crosses the tiny kitchen, and tentatively reaches for Benny’s shoulder. “And he needs you. His heart still knows you.”

“I think my heart would know him anywhere. No matter what.” Tears stream from his eyes, and Benny nods down the hallway towards Wayne’s room. “I have loved him every day—every minute—of his life, and if you let me in, I’m not leaving. Ever.”

“I know. We’ll figure it out. Keep him safe. Together.”

Marsha takes his hand in both of hers, squeezes once, and lets go. “He’s sleeping, but I think he’ll feel better if you’re nearby.”

Benny panics, suddenly struck with all his worst fears. “He’s not hurt, is he?”

“No more than any other omega on the day they present,” Wayne answers gently.

“Oh.” Right, the peach scent. Benny’s grandmother smelled like peaches. He misses her. She taught him how to bake.

“He found your scent token in my nest right away,” Wayne adds.

“Oh,” Benny says again, his legs beginning to shake. “Oh.”

Marsha guides him back to the nest. To his pup.

Steve is asleep, a plain, white shirt clutched in his fist, held by his nose. The exposed skin of his back is covered in a sheen of sweat, and his cheeks are pink. Too warm all over from his presentation.

Slowly, Benny sinks down to sit at the center of the nest, and he carefully places a hand on top of Steve’s, aims his wrist towards his boy’s nose.

Steve purrs and nuzzles towards it, and Benny purrs in response. His hand moves to grasp Benny’s forearm and he mumbles, “Good, safe.”

“Yeah, Baby, you’re safe.”

🫂🫂🫂

Steve wakes around 9 that night, his cramps intense. He lets out a whine that sounds pitiful, even to his heat-addled mind. “Mama?” he asks softly, even though he hasn’t called his mother that since he started grade school. “Mama?”

“It’s okay, Steve. It’s okay,” she soothes back, petting his cheek.

Her powdery scent fills his nose, mildly floral, and he whines again. His belly cramps harder, an ache that radiates through his pelvis. He turns, seeking out the comforting scents of Wayne’s nest, only to press his nose into the palm of a callused hand.

Steve breathes in deeply. Apples and warmth.

He whines again, wordless and high pitched, both hands reaching, grasping. Steve feels safe, feels loved. Desperately. Overwhelmingly.

He reaches for it with his heart, touches that love with his own, and cries out. A love so big it hurts.

His fingers catch on soft cotton, body-warm because it’s being worn. He clenches his fists, whines as he pulls himself closer.

Steve’s not sure if he imagines it when he hears his mother say, “See, he needs you,” so gentle. When he hears a shaky gasp in response.

Then big arms lift him up, holding him like a pup, cradled against a strong chest. A warm hand guides his head down, positions his nose so he’s hit with the most intense burst of apples and love. Of sweetness and safety.

He snuffles closer, wants only this. Feels himself relax.

He does not understand yet, but he knows. His feelings have always been too big, but here they can be. He can let them be big, because here they are only love. Only joy.

Steve drifts to sleep in his mama’s arms for the first time, and for that moment, all is right with the world.

[zvaigzdelasas]

On my commute, I pass by a house that recently put up a flag that appears to be the South Vietnam flag with a guy's face in the middle. Is there some South Vietnamese government-in-exile or something?

It's a communist government of course there is and of course its based in the US (specifically Anaheim) lol

Assumedly this guy? Đào Minh Quân

English Wikipedia:

Then one notable difference from the Việt wikipedia page is for "some reason" the English one doesn't mention the part where he's not only the self declared president of the Republic of Việt Nam but also the self declared Emperor

On June 19, 2022, Đào Minh Quân, supported by his political party, declared that the republican government would merge with the monarchy as "Emperor of the Empire of Vietnam". However, due to disagreements with other Vietnamese political parties in the United States, the organization was reorganized in early November 2022.

They've been trying to overthrow the Socialist Republic for years but have ramped up recently, don't let US strategizing around attacking China in the region lead you to believe they're not going for everywhere they can lol

[darkeagleruins]

Joe Biden commuted the sentence of a Chinese national convicted of possessing child pornography after 47,000 files of child pornography were found on his computer.

[lil-tachyon]

Noticed that you take socialist banners as inspiration on your art and that made me curious about your political views, Are you a socialist or Marxist? Os just kinda left leaning?

I really enjoy your blog btw

I’m glad you’re into what I do! I appreciate the very direct question so I’ll try to give a very direct answer.

I would consider myself an anarcho-communist. At least, that’s the kind of society I’d like to live in. I genuinely believe the abolition of private property, states, and hierarchies is a real (if very difficult) possibility and is in the best interest of the vast majority of people. That said, I’m an anticapitalist and a socialist first and I’m broadly (if critically) supportive of most movements that have had any success fending off capital. I’m not so naïve that I ignore the real historical failures of anarchism to create alternatives to capitalism on the scale of the USSR,PRC, Cuba, etc.

My politics are still evolving and I only really became radicalized in the last couple years. But anarchism still makes the most sense to me.

That’s what I’ll say for now. I try to be transparent about the things I believe but also I’m literally a guy who draws robots on the internet. Nobody who follows this blog needs me to lecture them on politics lol. If anybody reading this wants more detail about my views you can send me an ask but depending on the question I may not answer it publicly. An email (tachyonart@gmail.com) may be better.

To keep this somewhat relevant to what I normally post about, here’s the New Jersey ancom flag I drew a little while back:

And some articles about socialist experiments in the Garden State:

-“The Anarchists Who Took the Commuter Train” about the Stelton Colony in what is now Piscataway.

-“Uncle Sam’s House: Anarchy in Piscataway” same topic but more focused specifically on the Goldman House (no, not that Goldman although I believe she visited the colony at some point), one of the last-standing and most distinctive structures from the Stelton Colony. Plus I’ll take any opportunity to plug Weird NJ.

-“Jersey Roots: Looking for Utopia in Colt’s Neck” on the Fourierest North American Phalanx Community.

-“All About the Utopia That Was Once in Perth Amboy, NJ” about the Raritan Bay Union, founded by dissatisfied former members of the North American Phalanx.

Also if anybody has the original newspaper article that talks about Peter Kropotkin visiting Jersey City, please send it my way. I’ve seen it referenced in a few places but I can’t track it down.

Peace,

Logan

[am-i-the-asshole-official]

Am I the asshole for not covering a shift?

I work in a very small store, five employees including myself and the owner. This means that often when someone is sick or has to call out, there’s very few people who can cover, and we all know it’s a matter of going in or closing the store.

This week, both my boss (K) and coworker (E) have been sick, leaving just myself and two others (J and N) available. N is the manager and has a full 40 hour schedule, so he often can’t take on extra shifts, and J has another job, which makes me the last line of defense currently.

This weekend I covered three shifts for E, very suddenly, and outside of my regular available hours, because of the emergency of it. E has another shift scheduled tomorrow, but she’s still sick, so our boss K asked who was able to cover it. N is already working and J has a shift at his other job. Which leaves me. But I have therapy appointments and plans with my housemates tomorrow, making me unavailable for the shift.

I initially said yes to the shift because I forgot about the appointments and thought that my housemates would be able to go without me, but then I realized I was the ride and they couldn’t. Then I remembered my appointment which gave even more conflicts.

I told my boss K this and she asked if there was any way I could come in for just an hour, as N’s shift ends an hour before closing, and if no one can cover the shift we’ll have to close the hour early. This really annoyed me, because… it’s just an hour. Who wants to do an hour shift? It seems more reasonable to close the store at that point than even ask.

I reminded her that I live 20 minutes away, and that I didn’t want to commute to work and back for a single hour. She said “oh right” and that she’d figure something out.

I’m really annoyed with her for trying to squeeze me into the shift, but I also know how annoying it must be that I said yes and then back tracked. I feel like a jerk for not being able to come in, but at the same time the little communist in me is screaming about how stupid labor is and I just…. Grrr!!!!

Am I the asshole?

What are these acronyms?

[darkmaga-returns]

California Declares State of Emergency Over H5N1 Bird Flu Just as CDC Reports 'First Severe Case' in Louisiana - here we go again people just in time to shut down the country again. This is another excuse to lock us up, jab us, and kill all the animals in order to end meat and dairy production. DO NOT FALL for the fear mongering. It will be up to Americans to stand together and say NO! Bird flu is a scam - Leave it to the communist state of California to kick off the next scam - I am sure they usually used the invalid PCR to start yet another scamdemic. Funny how bird flu (if it is really a real thing) has been around for many decades but all of a sudden is infecting humans - WE CANNOT TRUST ANYTHING these people say - ARTICLE/VIDEO (3 min.)

Robert F. Kennedy Jr. Commits to Restoring Key Pro-Life Policies - ARTICLE

Joe Biden Threatens African Country, Will Deny $480 Million in Aid if It Doesn’t Legalize Abortion - And then there is the team that wants not only to murder babies in the US but is putting pressure on other countries to murder their babies too - ARTICLE

Countdown to Chaos? Dangerous Weeks Before Inauguration by Frank Gaffney - ARTICLE

Biden Commuted Sentences for Scammers Who Defrauded $5 billion From Over 1 Million Victims - I wonder how much these criminals paid Biden (or his family….because Biden is brain dead) to release them from prison. As if his administration has not cause American enough pain he had to end his reign by spitting in our face and showing us all how much contempt he has for the American people. No matter who is pulling his evil, dirty strings he is still the man signing the deals - ARTICLE

Biden Extends Liability Protection For Pfizer and Moderns For Covid Injection Damage or Deaths Until 2029—In The Wake Of RFK Jr. Saying He Is Exploring Removing These Protections - ARTICLE

Congress to Fund New Biolab Construction, Deadly Pathogen Research, Coming Influenza Pandemic, Vaccines: Speaker Johnson’s New 1,500-Page Spending Bill by Jon Fleetwood - ARTICLE

'Groom children': Watch school activity that demands students be 'gay or lesbian' - if you think this is only happening in CA you would be sadly mistaken - ARTICLE

Foxx on Biden-Harris Jaw-Dropping $1 Billion DEI Spending Spree in Schools - 1 min. VIDEO

[rootbeerrex]

saw this ad and had to do a double take because I saw the word "commute" and my brain auto filled the rest of it as "iced coffee makes you communist" and so naturally I assumed it was Karl Marx in the background but. it wasn't. so yeah. that happened to me. anyway do you think a loving god really exists or is a god that condemns his children to eternal suffering inherently evil

[beardedmrbean]

A Vietnam court on Tuesday rejected an appeal by tycoon Truong My Lan to have her death sentence revoked. 

The chairwoman of the real estate development firm Van Thinh Phat Holdings Group has been on death row since April for her role in the country's largest-ever financial fraud case.

She was convicted of embezzling $12.5 billion (€11.9 billion) an amount equal to almost 3% of Vietnam's 2022 GDP.

Fraud that hit Vietnam's entire economy

"The consequences Lan caused are unprecedented in the history of litigation and the amount of money embezzled is unprecedentedly large and unrecoverable," said prosecutors according to state-run news outlet VietnamNet.

"The defendant's actions have affected many aspects of society, the financial market, the economy," they said.

Lan is perhaps the most famous target of the communist government's recent anti-graft campaign known as "Blazing Furnace." She was accused of illegally running the Saigon Joint Stock Commercial Bank (SCB) from 2012 to 2022, pushing through some 2,500 loans that cost the bank $27 billion in losses.

The reverberations were felt across the banking sector and hit the entire Vietnamese economy hard. It also spooked foreign investors at a time when Vietnam was trying to move away from reliance on China and promote its domestic business opportunities.

Who is Truong My Lan?

Born in what is now Ho Chi Minh City in 1956, Lan took advantage of shifting economic policies towards free markets in the 1990s to set up Van Thinh Phat Holdings. From there she and her family came to control vast swaths of real estate across the country, including residences, shopping centers, business properties, and hotels.

In 2011, she organized the merger of SCB with two other lenders. According to prosecutors, she used SCB to pay loans to "ghost companies" as a way to cover up the money she was paying in bribes.

The scale of the crimes was such that she was put on two separate trials. In October, she was given a life sentence for stealing $1.2 billion from some 36,000 investors by illegally issuing bonds from several of her companies. 

In her appeal, her lawyers had argued that there were mitigating circumstances to the case that would take the death penalty off the table. However, the judges in Ho Chi Minh City disagreed. It is still possible for her death sentence to be commuted to life in prison if she manages to reimburse three-fourths of the money she embezzled.

[azurdlywisterious]

The Brainless Ones (part 4)

Okay so it's been a few months, but hopefully this has been worth the wait! This time we're going from Beagle's perspective! Hopefully it won't take me another five months to write part 5 haha.

Word count: 2.5k

CW: body horror played for comedy (idk how else to describe sir’s empty head), very unethical scientific practices, mentat laced water, technically attempted suicide? viewer discretion is advised

“Okay,” Sir begins to summarize. “It looks like you got ‘commuter’ confused with ‘communist.’ A reasonable mistake, really, if you’ve never had anyone correct you.”

I don’t know what she wants me to say in response to all this. Her voice is fascinating to listen to, though. It’s choppy and mechanical, about as deep as mine yet strangely melodic.

I take a swing of whiskey from my flask and ask her, “You’re, like, some sort of powerful supercomputer, right?”

“That’s one way to put it,” she answers honestly.

“Does it bother you that I don’t know everything like you?”

“Why would it?” She tilts her bald head to the side. “Having a wide variety of perspectives and backgrounds and skills from a large variety of different people is the best way to keep statistical outliers from gaining a false prominence.”

I blink a couple of times, overwhelmed by her verbose vocabulary.

She continues, “Does that make sense?”

“I think?” I admit sheepishly.

“Think about it this way,” Sir adds on, “I know about communism and can explain that to you, covering that blind spot in your lobotomite data bank. You know how to make those smoke rings, covering a blind spot in my human one.”

“Those don’t seem very equivalent, Sir.”

She smiles brightly. “I disagree. All knowledge is valuable. To me at least. You might not think that knowing how to make those smoke rings is very valuable, but it says a lot about the people around you. It helps paint a more vivid picture of the environment where you grew up.” 

I feel my throat get tight, but do my best not to show it. I shove my hands deep into my pants pockets. 

“Yeah,” I reply, focusing solely on keeping my voice sounding smooth and steady, “something like that…”

“Also, we will be arriving at the NCRCF very soon,” she informs me. “What is the plan to, and I quote, ‘clear it out?’”

“You’re good at killing things, and there’s a lot of people there that need to go. Easy as that.”

Upon hearing that answer, Sir stops dead in her tracks. The constant hum of her fans cease for a few seconds before picking up at full speed. “‘Good at killing things?’”

Fuck. 

I try and salvage the conversation, starting, “Look, uh, what I meant-”

Her eyes constrict, staring daggers into me with her pinpoint sized pupils. “I was created by the Think Tank in order to explore and gather research on the outside world. I am not your killing machine.”

“That’s not what I meant!”

“Then what did you mean? How else could you manipulate this data?”

“Oh, manipulate?” I stare at her incredulously. “Is that what you think of me?”

“Better than being told you’re no more useful than a lobotomite.”

I can feel my blood start to boil. “Oh, of course! Why didn’t my stupid lobotomite brain think of that!”

“Lobotomites kill for no discernable reason. You are proving my point.”

“Those guys killed my sister and brother-in-law!” I yell louder than I should in this desert where everyone wants me dead. I grip the inner linings of my pockets, hoping that she won’t see me tremble. All my mental fortitude gets devoted to keep the cracks in my being from showing. 

And all she asks in return is, “Are all lobotomites this brutish and myopic?”

I grimace, running my tongue over my teeth as I try to find the right words.

She sighs, as if somehow knowing thatI wouldn’t have an answer to her question. 

I end up spitting out, “Let’s just keep going.”

As we walk, she keeps peppering me with questions about my family and the people at the NCRCF, but I just ignore her. If I answer any of her questions, I’ll start bawling like a baby. 

I can feel my eyes stinging. All I can do is hope that it’s just sand. 

She eventually stops asking me questions, instead choosing to chat with those disembodied voices that chime in occasionally. Just as well. I don’t feel like talking.

Once Sir has visual on the place, she stops the chattering and crouches down. I follow suit, holding my pistol out in front of me. 

I look over at Sir, distracted by some movement in her direction. I watch her as she points her fingers and thumbs in various directions. 

“What?” I whisper. 

She sighs and asks, “Are they hostile?”

“I have no reason to believe they wouldn’t be.”

She starts moving her hands in various patterns some more before giving up. “Just… wait here. I’ll handle it.”

“I can’t just let a lady go in all by herself.”

“If you think I’m so good at killing, then you should be fine with me walking in alone,” she says, steadying my shaking hand with hers. Her skin is cold and kinda tingly. I can feel my hair stand on end a little bit. 

I pull out my tape recorder to take notes as she works. 

“Sir is stealthily making her way towards the front gate,” I start. “There are a few Powder Gangers on the towers above, but they don’t see her. She walks up to the front gate without cover. I fear that this might be the end for Sir. She’s talking to one of those Powder Gangers stationed at the entrance. I can’t make out what she’s saying, however her posture has changed. I see her hold her hands out to them palms first.”

I stop narrating as a loud buzz emanates from her hands. I’m far enough away that it doesn’t bother me, but the guards at the front collapse. By Jove, I think their ears are bleeding. 

I continue, “Sir managed to neutralize the guards with some device I can’t see. It emitted a loud noise that caused the men to collapse. I think their ears are bleeding. I’m going to move in closer to see how things are going.”

As I slowly crawl my way towards the gate, I can hear Sir tearing it up on the inside. Gunshots ring out, but are quickly silenced by the loud buzz of whatever Sir’s weapon is. I take another swig of whisky before crossing the gate’s threshold. 

I see her standing in the middle of a pile of dead bodies, all of which have blood spilling from their ears. She looks rattled. As I get closer, I can hear the sound of her fans overclocking. Her skin glistens from sweat as she pants. She moves like she’s in slow motion, or drunk.

Sir turns around sluggishly and slurs out, “Beagle?”

She tries to stumble forward, but ends up collapsing. I dash forward and catch her just in time. She’s much heavier than she looks. Must be all those computer parts. 

Her skin is feverishly hot, so hot that it almost burns mine on contact. I have to get her somewhere out of the sun that’s safe. Good thing I see a building right in front of me. 

I sling her over my shoulder, not even taking the time to ask what’s wrong. Lord knows we don’t have time for that. 

Upon entering, I see that I had chosen wrong and that we aren’t alone. Four Powder Gangers aim guns at us while one runs upstairs. 

I hold my free hand up, trying so hard not to jitter and shake. 

My hands start to tremble a little as I allot focus to keeping my voice level enough to ask, “Truce? Please?”

“That’s the bastard that killed all our men!” The one closest to us answers, gun still trained on me. 

“Sir?”

“What?” He snaps. “You think that being a kiss ass will keep me from pumping both of you full of lead?”

“Please, I-”

From the doorway, a voice booms, “Marky, stand down.”

He nods as a tall man with a hardened exterior makes his presence known. His straight brown hair is slicked back. There’s an evil glint in his eye. He paces over to me, a sadistic smile dancing across his lips. I try to back away on quivering legs, but I don’t get far. 

“Silver hair,” he says as he plucks the worthless badge from my chest, “and a deputy. I think I’ve heard of you.”

“I think you might have the wrong person, uh… officer?”

He chuckles darkly in response. “Officer Eddie, I like that. Maybe I’ll let you live, George Beagle.”

I can feel my stomach drop when he says my name. Sir tries to move, but I can tell that whatever’s wrong with her hasn’t been fixed. She’s tragically dead weight on my shoulder right now. 

He continues, “Scooter over there told me all about your kidnapping and ransom. I’d try and make a deal with you; but, from what he told me, I doubt that you could even pull a trigger on yourself. I mean, you certainly couldn’t as that lovely couple got murdered one room away.”

I feel my heart burn as hot as Sir’s skin still is. “What? Want me to prove it?”

He snort laughs at the idea. “Sure, why not? If the little pissy crybaby can kill himself like a man, then I’ll let him live.”

As Eddie continues to laugh, I hear Sir wheeze, “Beagle… this is a bad idea.”

Focus, Beagle, focus. Eddie offers me his pistol. Hands shaking, I take it. 

I press the gun to my temple. By Jove, what am I doing?! Sir is right, this is a terrible idea. 

Unless I can pull this off. 

As fast as I possibly can, I change the aim of the gun to have it point at Eddie. I land a few shots before he goes down. 

Hellfire rains down as the other guys realize their leader is dead. 

Without thinking I run back outside, doing my best to shield Sir from the gunfire. A few bullets nick me, but nothing fatal. 

I high tail it out of there as fast as I can. My lungs and legs are on fire, but I’m not going to leave Sir behind. 

I hear her camera eyes click occasionally as I run. Eventually, I find some demoed buildings far away from the facility to hunker down inside. 

I do my best to fan Sir with my hands. Anything to cool her down. I notice that her camera eyes are shut, but I can still hear her wheezing over my own. 

Once I see her sit up and open her eyes, I collapse from exhaustion. Maybe a bit of blood loss. I don’t know. My head feels kinda fuzzy. 

“Wow,” I hear her say. “You’re lucky you’re still alive.”

“What?”

“There’s at least three near misses that would have been fatal had they actually hit their mark.”

“Don’t tell me where,” I tell her as I reach for my flask. 

“Strange, but alright.” She snaps a few pictures with her camera eyes before asking, “Do you have any disinfectant on you?”

“Disinfectant?”

“Yes, like alcohol, heat, or radiation.”

I sigh deeply and hand her the flask. 

“Alcohol, Beagle,” she clarifies, “not water.”

“Whisky’s alcohol, right?”

She opens the flask and waves her hand between the opening and her nose.

Finally, she comments, “That would explain your poor hydration levels.” 

“I’m doin’ fine, Sir,” I reassure her as she opens up her head to get me a bottle of water. It’s weird that I’m getting used to that. 

“You really should be staying hydrated out in this desert heat.”

“I could say the same to you,” I retort as I accept her bottle. 

“What happened earlier was because I had to overclock my systems. It was either that or die.”

I take a sip of water as she talks. It tastes kinda funny, sweet but chemically; but I don’t question it. 

After a few sips, something clicks inside my head. 

“I never told you why we were heading to the NCRCF before our argument.”

“Oh.” She grimaces at the memory. “Yes. Our argument.”

“Sir, I’m sorry for what I said to you. I don’t how I could make it up to you aside from promises, but I know you like information. I can give you that in recompense.”

“Information on what?” She asks me, her expression softening.

“Anything you want, really. I could tell you about why it was hard for me to tell why I wanted to clear the NCRCF as badly as I did.”

She smiles slightly, the keyhole scars under her eyes morphing a bit. “I would like that.”

I sit up next to her, propping myself up against a wall and pull out my tape recorder. I scrub through until I find my recordings from that night. 

I pass Sir the device as it plays so that I can take another swig of whiskey. I got you, Barb.

Once the tape has finished playing, Sir sets the recorder down and shuts her eyes to think. I take the chance to pull out my handkerchief and dry my eyes without her noticing.

Her eyes shift open as I put my handkerchief. 

The first thing she asks me is, “Why a voice note? I notice that your hands shake, is that why?”

The question catches me off guard. “I guess? I’ll be honest, I’ve never thought about it that much.”

“Was this what prompted them to kill your sister and brother-in-law?”

“You ask a lot of blunt questions,” I laugh quietly through the pain, “but yeah, I’d assume so. After I was rescued, I went back to their house. I guess there was a part of me that still believed that they would be alive when I got back.”

“Grief is… odd from what I’ve researched,” Sir comments thoughtfully. “Not the actual act of grieving, but what can result from it.”

“It was easily the worst day of my life,” I muse and take another swig of whiskey. “It felt like-”

I take a second to gather my thoughts as Sir stares at me.

I give her a sad smile. “Like my world got set on fire. And I was left to sift through the ashes.”

“Fascinating,” she chirps.

I go to take another swig of whiskey, but find that I’ve run out.

“My turn for a question.” I ask, “Do you have any more water?”

She nods and picks up the half full bottle I set down next to me.

After I take another sip of that chemically tasting water, I ask her, “Say, what’s in this water?”

“Is it not just water?”

“Take a sip,” I offer, handing it to her.

She tastes it, ponders the flavor. She hands it back to me and casually replies, “It tastes like Mentats. It must be from Dr. Mobius.”

I pause for a second, weighing my options. I shrug, deciding to take another drink. At least it’s not got dust particles floating in it.

I fall asleep easily soon after. I trust that Sir could keep me safe during the cold desert night.

[buff-electra-truther]

man I gotta laugh when I jokingly called Electra a “Fully Automated Bi Space Communist who wants to run catenaries across the Rocky Mountains and Siberia” a couple months ago.

I still stand by the first section. But I really stepped on my own rake with the details- those routes already HAVE been electrified at some point! The Trans-Siberian Railway is electric! The Milwaukee Road used to have a mostly-electrified transcontinental route that partly did it because steam engines were struggling in high mountains and very low temps. One of the earlier uses for electric engines in the US WAS in steep, mountainous areas and you often have the funny dichotomy of “urban subway/commuter trains” and “enormous mountain climbers” looking at old lists of US electric engines.

Which unintentionally really works with how I view Electra- people brush them off as an idealist detached from reality but the things they preach are just… accepted norms elsewhere or have already been done 100+ years ago.

(As a side note, I think it would be interesting if Electra was a totally neutral character who genuinely thinks Rusty threw the Uphill Final because steam engines are infamously terrible at that, and gets absolutely PISSED at him. Electra just physically has zero reason to cheat going uphill, they are at such an advantage vs even most diesel engines.)

[metrotransitposter]

good morning to everyone EVEN the WOKE METRO TRANSIT COMMUTERS from HORRIBLE WOKE LIBERAL SOCIALIST state of MINNESOTA in the BEAUTIFUL MIDWEST how does it feel to know you WOKE TWIN CITIES TRANSIT RIDERS are DESTROYING our BEAUTIFUL and GREAT AMERICAN pastime of being stuck being steering wheel and miserable in our GREAT BIG BEAUTIFUL morning traffic in your RADICAL LEFT buses and trains and COMMUNIST BIKE LANES RETAKE YOUR CITY AND MAKE MORE GOOD AMERICAN EXHAUST FUMES

[orpheuslament]

Hi! I adored your poem so much that I got excited and had lots of thoughts about your lovely writing. So one thing led to another, I wrote some notes, and I thought it might be a fun experience to share my thoughts with you. So here are my notes on Sharing a Cigarette with Joan of Arc. This isn’t nearly everything that there is to say about this piece, I just wanted to gush about my favorite aspects of my initial reading (which may or may not have happened when I was drunk, I will admit). 

(Also, sorry if it’s a bit confusing, there are lots of grammatical mistakes and lacks structure. I mostly wrote/adapted this on my phone this morning while commuting and English isn’t my native language. I’m so sorry if I’m not quoting you right too, I’m mostly doing this from the top of my head)

As a queer person myself, I am very familiar with feeling small & vulnerable, grasping at the straws to figure out who (what?) I am, stuck in limbo, which is probably why I love it so much that your barebone characters melt into one another, the mirroring and entanglement that lasts only for a moment but isn’t any less significant. I loved the metaphorical give-and-take between the reader and Joan (a conversation that never happened between past and present. A revelation of sorts? Euh, I can imagine that) echoing the banality of sharing a cigarette with a stranger at the bar (Joan borrows your lighter but she rolls your cigarette and you’re sharing the same experience). I loved the economy of words, the graceful dryness of the writing. There’s no need to say too much for us to see what we’ve been looking for; your poetry is a mirror (I don’t remember what was the first piece of you that I’ve read, but I thought it was cruel; demanding & merciless. I loved it).

I love the parallels between the scene and the content, the characters are standing in between spaces (religious & secular space, masculinity & femininity, freedom & constraint, etc…) both figuratively and literally  (‘the emergency exit of a Parisian bar”). More generally; I love the back and forth between temporalities, the inside & outside, the person & the saint.

Ok, here’s something interesting; the figure of Joan of Arc is very ambivalent. She’s revered as a martyr and a Catholic saint (she was beatified in 1909 and then canonized in 1920 if I remember well, so that’s pretty recent, and an interesting political move) but she’s also considered a feminist icon, and a national symbol,  so as far as historical figures go, she is associated with various movements and currents of thoughts. Joan is a figure of antithesis. During World War I, her image was used to fuel the French national sentiment, and during World War II, she was simultaneously a symbol of Pétain’s France of Vichy, a symbol of the Résistance under de Gaulle's leadership, and of the Communist resistance. This is kinda crazy when you think about it because nowadays she’s mostly associated with the monarchists, and more generally the  French far-right (every year the RN celebrates JoA on the 8th of May. There’s a funny story to it). Her legacy is rich and contradictory, and it tells you exactly nothing about who she might have been; because she had no say in how her story was recorded, and the chronicles of her life were written by people who had lots of stake in how future generations would interpret her actions (& their inaction). We know nothing about who she was; “ I don’t want them to keep me. As a saint you lose all autonomy, your body is not yours to bury.” But that’s also what makes her so fascinating, right? I personally very much love the ambivalence of Joan's image; because to me as a French person, she’s deeply associated with a sense of identity (Joan’s sense of self is her divine right), but she’s also a symbol of individuality, transgression & defiance against social norms. That’s why I loved the ideological scope of your poem so much; a reinterpretation of the myth that reconciles every one of these facets. I love her for what she tells me about the loneliness of the struggle; the push to action; the jaded resilience and determination. (On a side note, did you know The Second Coming of Joan of Arc by Carolyn Gage or  I, Joan by Charlie Josephine? I’m kinda betting that you do cuz you seem pretty well-read, but if that’s not the case, those might be interesting and right up your alley) “In poet’s tongues & in the tip of the artist’s fingers. In the sound, a young girl’s hair makes when it falls to on her shoulders, in the way a boy creates himself with a pair of kitchen scissors & his parent’s dismissal. Patron saint of non-conformists, angel of the oversized sweater, of the buzzcut & the transsexual.” Those are my favorite lines, you have no idea how much i'd wanted to hear that.

I love the use of religious imagery in this context; the run-on pattern of light and fire that is so pervasive within the Christian mythology that’s associated here with the cigarette, which simultaneously joins the images of fire, smoke, and ashes, and defines the temporality of the piece as well; that transient moment of sharing a cigarette & chatting with a stranger at a bar (watching a small fox chasing a butterfly). Of course, Jeanne was burned at the stake so the association with fire is pretty commonplace, but what I love most is how you’ve capitalized on so many aspects of the symbolism of light and fire at once, be if within the Christian mythology and some sort of collective imaginary driven but many other influences, a rich network of associations feeding into one another. For instance, fire is often used as a symbol of God's presence in Christianity (‘ to be touched by God is to be destined to early fire’). In the New Testament, Jesus is the one who brings fire to the earth, and the Holy Spirit is the "tongues of flame" (in this case, I love the idea that there are so many readings available to your poems because your art is also a revelation, this is also your language,  ‘in poet’s tongues & in the tip of the artist’s fingers’) In Joans’s hands, the cigarette becomes an object of worship, much like in Christianity, the worship of fire was preserved through ritual candles (‘omens of a future in which her name is constantly lit by candlelight’). Religion and sanctity are simultaneously the conditions that make transcendence possible and the reason why Joan’s freedom is constrained. Fragile and illusory (the angel is parallel with a bird, a butterfly chased by a small fox. Which almost feels like a warning. Being seen is a point of no return. Doesn’t mean it’s not worth it). More generally (I’m thinking of Bachelard’s book, The Psychoanalysis of Fire, but I’m pretty sure any dictionary of symbols might say the same), and maybe more crucially, fire is associated with change, passion, or inspiration. Fire is the element of conversion in alchemy because everything that touches fire is irreversibly transformed, and often changed beyond recognition. But I kinda imagine that it’s not so much that fire has the ability to change something but instead fire reveals the underlying form of an element. Something that was there all along, a potential. As an element, fire has also mixed symbolism because it represents vitality and destruction, life and death, the lights of heaven and the pits of hell, a force that can be helpful when controlled (a candle, the cigarette), but volatile if left unchecked (the early fire; the pyre).

Association between the reader (you) and Joan, threading both into the same thoughts and experiences, creating a sense of belonging and understanding. I love the reference to physical transformation as liberating and cementing your sense of self and identity. Also, the repeating sequences about the hair reminded me of Patti Smith’s poem, “jeanne d’arc” which is also a subversion of the myth though she’s exploring a different alley. I love these lines, “got no hair / weighing me / cut so close / scalp is nicked”. I never knew it was such a universal experience, cutting your hair real short for the first time. I used to be so scared.

I love the choppy rhythm of your prose, the use of asyndeton that was kinda taken to the extreme, with the short sentences, you often dropping the subject clause, speech melting into thoughts into memories. There’s something organic about this that’s not quite like the usual stream of consciousness. Your poetry is like being out of breath.

Moreover, the dynamics of the passing of time are really neat in that piece, because you get the feeling that time stops, and freely moves backward (recollections; but also Joan’s presence - a sweet apparition) and forward (anticipation, and our knowledge of history, the cost of transgressing social norms throughout the past centuries. How far we’ve gone and how far we still have to go), which allows the reader to connect the dots on their own and retrace the underlying stories that transpire between the lines (Joan’s past, her fears, and doubts, her aspirations, etc… everything that makes Joan her own person before she is a Saint dispossessed of herself), gradually revealed in a smooth mix of inner dialogues, more distant thoughts & flashbacks, every aspect of the events connected to the characters and their journey. How brilliant.

On a side note, I am often reminded of Angels in America reading your poetry, mostly because you’re very similar in how you’re queering religious spaces (that is using religious motifs to express ideals, devotion, while simultaneously criticizing religious institutions & the dangerous hypocrisy of their tenants). You’re more radical tho, and I love your writing for that.

Alright, I'm done rambling. Good evening & take care!

THIS IS SO FUCKING COOL IM GOING TO CRY i loved Loved LOVED reading your thoughts about my poetry im always stunned when people take the time to analyze something ive written. sometimes you guys figure out things i didnt even know i was doing!! its such a cool way to discover things about myself + my writing. ill admit that sharing a cigarette is not the best thing ive written but seeing how it resonates w people fills my heart with joy. also i cant believe youre comparing my work to aia that play was extremely formative for me ive read it three times i think!! thank you sososososososo much!!!