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fatehbaz · 7 months ago

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"The most fashionable bathing station in all Europe". British industrialists and American mining investors plotting the colonization of the Congo, while mingling at Ostend's seaside vacation resorts. Extracting African life to build European railways, hotels, palaces, suburbs, and other modern(ist) infrastructure. "Towards infinity!"

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In 1885, King Leopold II achieved an astonishing and improbable goal: he claimed a vast new realm of his own devising, a conjury on a map called [...] the Congo Free State. [...] [A] fictional state owned by the king, ruled by decree, and run from Brussels from 1885 to 1908. [...] This was [...] a private entrepreneurial venture [for the king]. The abundance of ivory, timber, and wild rubber found in this enormous territory brought sudden and spectacular profits to Belgium, the king, and a web of interlocking concession companies. The frenzy to amass these precious resources unleashed a regime of forced labor, violence [millions of deaths], and unchecked atrocities for Congolese people. These same two and a half decades of contact with the Congo Free State remade Belgium [...] into a global powerhouse, vitalized by an economic boom, architectural burst, and imperial surge.

Congo profits supplied King Leopold II with funds for a series of monumental building projects [...]. Indeed, Belgian Art Nouveau exploded after 1895, created from Congolese raw materials and inspired by Congolese motifs. Contemporaries called it “Style Congo,” [...]. The inventory of this royal architecture is astonishing [...]. [H]istorical research [...] recovers Leopold’s formative ideas of architecture as power, his unrelenting efforts to implement them [...]. King Leopold II harbored lifelong ambitions to “embellish” and beautify the nation [...]. [W]ith his personal treasury flush with Congo revenue, [...] Leopold - now the Roi Batisseur ("Builder King") he long aimed to be - planned renovations explicitly designed to outdo Louis XIV's Versailles. Enormous greenhouses contained flora from every corner of the globe, with a dedicated soaring structure completed specifically to house the oversize palms of the Congolese jungles. [...]

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The Tervuren Congo palace [...]. Electric tramways were built and a wide swath of avenue emerged. [...] [In and around Brussels] real estate developers began to break up lots [...] for suburban mansions and gardens. Between 1902 and 1910, new neighborhoods with luxury homes appeared along the Avenue [...]. By 1892, Antwerp was not only the port of call for trade but also the headquarters of the most profitable of an interlinking set of banks and Congo investment companies [...]. As Antwerp in the 1890s became once again the “Queen of the Scheldt,” the city was also the home of what was referred to as the “Queen of Congo companies.” This was the ABIR, or Anglo-Belgian India Rubber Company, founded in 1892 with funds from British businessman “Colonel” John Thomas North [...].

Set on the seaside coast, Belgium’s Ostend was the third imperial cityscape to be remade by King Leopold [...] [in a] transformation [that] was concentrated between 1899 and 1905 [...]. Ostend encompassed a boomtown not of harbor and trade, like Antwerp, but of beachfront and leisure [...] [developed] as a "British-style" seaside resort. [...] Leopold [...] [w]as said to spend "as much time in Ostend as he did in Brussels," [...]. Ostend underwent a dramatic population expansion in a short period, tripling its inhabitants from 1870–1900. [...] Networks of steamers, trams, and railway lines coordinated to bring seasonal visitors in, and hotels and paved walkways were completed. [...] [A]nd Leopold’s favorite spot, the 1883 state-of-the-art racetracks, the Wellington Hippodrome. Referred to with an eye-wink as “the king incognito” (generating an entire genre of photography), visitors to the seaside could often see Leopold in his top hat and summer suit [...], riding his customized three-wheeled bicycle [...]. By 1900, Ostend’s expansion and enhancement made it known as “the Queen of the Belgian seaside resorts” and “the most fashionable bathing station in all Europe.” Opulence, convenience, and spectacle brought the Shah of Persia, American tycoons, European aristocrats, and Belgian elites, among others, to Ostend.

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Leopold’s interventions and the Congo Free State personnel and proceeds played three pivotal and understudied roles in this transformation, all of which involved ABIR [British industrialists].

First, it was at Ostend that an early and decisive action was taken to structure the “red rubber” regime and set it in motion. In 1892, jurists such as [E.P.] had ruled, contravening [...] trade laws, that the king was entitled to claim the Congo as his domanial property [...]. Leopold [...] devised one part of that royal domain as a zone for private company concessions [...] to extract and export wild rubber.

Soon after, in 1892, King Leopold happened to meet the British “Colonel” John Thomas North at the Ostend Hippodrome. North, a Leeds-born mechanic [...] had made a fortune speculating on Chilean nitrates in the 1880s. He owned monopoly shares in nitrate mines and quickly expanded to acquire monopolies in Chilean freight railways, water supplies, and iron and coal mines. By 1890 North was a high-society socialite worth millions [...]. Leopold approached North at the Ostend racecourse to provide the initial investments to set up the Anglo-Belgian India Rubber Company (ABIR). [...]

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One visible sign of Ostend’s little-known character as Congo boomtown was the Royal Palace Hotel, a lavish property next to the king’s Royal Domain, which opened in 1899. With hundreds of rooms and a broad sweep of acreage along the beachfront, the palace “occupied the largest space of any hotel in Europe.” [...]

King Leopold met American mining magnate Thomas Walsh there, and as with North, the meeting proved beneficial for his Congo enterprise: Leopold enlisted Walsh to provide assessments of some of his own Congo mining prospects. The hotel was part of [...] [a major European association of leisure profiteers] founded in 1894, that began to bundle luxury tourism and dedicated railway travel, and whose major investors were King Leopold, Colonel North [...].

At the height of Congo expansionism, fin-de-siècle Antwerp embodied an exhilarated launch point [...]. Explorers and expeditioners set sail for Matadi after 1887 with the rallying call “Vers l’infini!” (“towards infinity!”) [...].

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Text above by: Debora Silverman. "Empire as Architecture: Monumental Cities the Congo Built in Belgium". e-flux Architecture (Appropriations series). May 2024. At: e-flux.com/architecture/appropriations/608151/empire-as-architecture-monumental-cities-the-congo-built-in-belgium/ [Bold emphasis and some paragraph breaks/contractions added by me. Italicized first paragraph/heading in this post was added by me. Presented here for commentary, teaching, criticism.]

#tidalectics #ecology #multispecies #abolition #this full article has far more info about leopolds obsession with opulence and all the many infrastructure projects in belgium he sponsored #full article also expands more on congolese art and anticolonial art projects that criticize belgian architecture #eflux did several articles focusing on anticolonial responses to belgian extraction and art noveau and modernist architecture #including a piece on spectacle of belgian worlds fair and human zoos #silverman has very extensive research history #ecologies #geographic imaginaries

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slttygeto · 4 months ago

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༉‧₊˚. PLAYLIST

༉‧₊˚. episode 05: twenty eight.

preview: ". . .It’s never been this bad with you. Hanma can’t recall the last time your words sounded as spiteful and bitter as they do now. A side of you he never thought he would see after losing you for a decade—but it can’t be helped when he’s adding fuel to the fire. Clearly, neither of you is ready to back down from the argument and Hanma was starting to shiver from the cold. . ."

content warning: v!olence, bl00d, cursing, thr0wing up, mentions of emetophobia, self depricating thoughts, arguments, angsty.

word count: 6k

➜ ┊: @softshuji @mitsuwuyaa @kariatenoh @reiners-milkbiddies @citrusteaa @bejeweled-night-33

➜ MASTERLIST

➜ note: guess who's back after months of writer's block, me!!! this chapter is one hell of a ride. I have been experimenting with the next step for at least a month and a half now and nothing sounded good to me. each time it would make me cringe so hopefully you like this chapter! i feel like i rarely do this, but what do you think is gonna happen next? do we like hanma? what do we think of the reader's decision? share with me your thoughts!!

༉‧₊˚. reblog + comment!

Growing up as a boy in Shinjuku wasn’t the most ideal plan, but Hanma doesn’t like to find excuses for the way he turned out. For the evil that he is–and is constantly surrounded by. For his own lack of empathy, of human emotion. Hanma doesn’t think it has anything to do with his childhood. After all, he can barely remember bits and pieces here and there–some that stand out to him more than the rest. Most of which include you haunting his every thought.

At 12, Hanma first tasted violence against his father, landing blows with a fury that sent him to juvenile detention for a year. The months passed in a haze of paint peeling off the walls and whispered threats, but soon he was back on the streets of Shinjuku, a boy free again yet changed.

The night was cold and dark. A single broken lamppost flickered weakly, its light barely cutting through the shadows. The electric buzzing pulled him from his thoughts, a sudden awareness that he'd been lost in his mind the whole walk home.

His ears shift from the electric sound to the heavy, dull sound coming from a dark alleyway. A crack, then a moan in pain. It is accompanied with manic laughing, giggles even–and his feet start dragging him to the source of the commotion.

Going out after 10PM in Shinjuku was generally a safe option. The city was a bustling area known for its nightlife and entertainment. There were usually plenty of people around, even late at night. However, Hanma’s neighborhood wasn’t necessarily the safest.

An old, poor neighborhood. Nestled between tall buildings and fancy shops, giving the people a false sense of being in one of the fanciest areas in the city. But it was far from being the truth. Hanma glances at the buildings, a mix of rusted metal and peeling paint glaring at him. He was used to the sight of worn out material and balconies filled with old bicycles. He could even see his own from where he was standing, a birthday gift from his father from 3 years ago, which meant that Hanma had outgrown it with the speed at which his limbs were getting long.

Given the reputation of his neighborhood, this meant that people who would get beat up around here were oftentimes the ones who had fallen victim to the false sense of safety in the area.

Hanma’s sandals drag against the concrete floor as he approaches the commotion, hands buried in the pockets of his shorts and the same uninterested look on his face doesn’t budge when he is greeted with the bruised and beaten up body of a boy around the same age as him. The guys responsible for this freeze when they turn around and see that there was another person present, a witness to the violence they had just committed on the boy who had refused to give them his bike as he was riding back from night classes. Their eyes landed on Hanma, who at 13, was only limbs and bones. One of them lets out a chuckle.

“You lookin’ to join him?”

Hanma’s golden eyes snap from the boy’s figure to the one who talked. He looked older than him, perhaps Three or so years.��

“Is that an invitation?””

“I wouldn’t say so.” Another one adds, against the concrete wall. Hanma notes that he tries to appear smug and confident. He had an idea that the boy was quite the opposite.

“More of a threat I’d say.”

“I see.”

A beat of silence follows his nonchalant response, before his fist collides with the jaw of the leader of the trio. The alley filled with a cacophony of groans and the shuffle of worn out shoes on concrete. The leader lunged, fists swinging wildly, his breath heavy with panic as he tried to land a single punch on Hanma’s face.

Three bloodied and beaten up bodies later, Hanma watches as the bruised up boy crawls away from him in fear, curling on himself. Hanma doesn’t say anything as he approaches the boy. He stops and leans down, face dangerously close to his.

“Get the fuck out of here.”

It takes Hanma 2 more years before getting nicknamed Shinjuku’s reaper. He says that he earned the title. And for the first time since forever, Hanma had finally found a source of entertainment, a way to kill time. However, he hadn’t killed. Not yet at least.

When Hanma is 16, he spots you as you walk out of school. Your skirt was short, thigh high socks adorning your legs and he wondered just how soft your skin must be. But that was far from being his priority–not when he was walking around the area with blood coating his white shirt.

He doesn’t expect you to spot him in the place where he is sitting, with a bottle of water in hand, desperately trying to get the blood off of his clothes. Not that it’s ever worked. However, you start approaching him and Hanma looks up from his crouched position, golden eyes boring into yours when you step in front of him with a frown adorning your gorgeous lips. (He’s always wanted to bite them).

“Are you okay?”

He tilts his head to the side, quirking an eyebrow in confusion and perhaps a little offended that you were asking him of all people that question. The hint of worry painting your sympathetic tone, the slight furrow to your eyebrows as you keep glancing between his bloodied shirt and the bottle in his hands. Hanma feels something in him about to snap in your presence.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” He replies gruffly, but you can’t seem to find any malice in his voice. Or the way he was staring you down despite you towering over him.

“You have blood all over you.”

Oh.

You didn’t know that it wasn’t his. And Hanma never told you otherwise. Instead, he took the handkerchief that you had offered him with a dull face–stuffed it in his pocket and watched as you walked away, never asking him to return the fabric. But Hanma being the teenager that he was, thought it would be the perfect opportunity to find you again and perhaps get to know you.

(How do people start conversations again?)

Like a ghost of a memory, Hanma can almost remember the feeling of the handkerchief in his hand. He remembers grazing his thumb over the letters etched onto the fabric, each time coming up with his own guess of what your first and last name were. The feeling of the letter H. is forever engraved in the forefront of his mind. The initial of your last name.

The man’s trip down memory lane is cut short when he hears the sound of annoying flickering above him. Hanma’s eyes squint as he looks up, the electrical buzzing mocks him as it pulls him back to the present. His body aware. Alive yet inexplicably numb.

The built up rust on the chair’s legs make a creaoing noise as Hanma leans back, soulless eyes staring at the dead body with a cold, unblinking gaze. Devoid of any emotion. Reflecting no light or life. He doesn’t remember when he first killed, but this was definitely not the last. His brain is all foggy as he tries to make sense of when his lust for blood first started–what made the death rattle sound so captivating, like a broken record–stuck in his head in a long, torturing loop.

He doesn’t know. Hanma barely knows himself as he is. Referring to himself as Kisaki’s right hand was the closest thing to an identity. He wasn’t a son to anyone, nor a brother. And definitely not a lover.

The events from that night play on repeat in the forefront of his head, no longer trying to hide in the backseat where he keeps most of his unwanted memories. Instead, you plagued his mind. Like a shadow clinging onto the corner of his thoughts, always present–always there. You wouldn’t let him escape.

“Fuck you’re so sweet,”

You moan into his mouth when he angles his hips a certain way, Hanma grins victoriously against your lips and uses his hands to grab the back of your knees. Pushing them to your chest, he enjoys the sight of you taking his cock like a sweet girl. You’re so cock hungry, practically begging him to fuck you silly with those glossy eyes staring deeply into his.

He remembers the look on your face as you slept peacefully in your bed, still dirty with his own cum and spit–yet somehow looking so angelic. As though he hadn’t just ruined you. Like you didn’t have your legs wrapped around his waist and were begging him to fuck you harder, deeper–

Hanma’s finger twitches. A singular bullet cuts through the terrifying silence.

One of the two bodyguards standing before him falls to the ground with a loud thud, his partner looks at his dead body in shock. Terrified, he cannot seem to pull his eyes away from the blood that starts to pool around the body. He is violently pulled out of his numbed state. Hanma’s chair makes a loud, creaking noise he pushes it further back and stands up. Golden eyes stare at his bloodied brown leather shoes and he clicks his tongue in annoyance.

Almost as though the sight of blood was getting on his nerves. Like he didn’t just take someone’s life unprovoked.

Do you need a reason to hurt someone if you have power?

“Clean it up.” Hanma’s cold voice echoes in the empty room, followed by retreating footsteps. As he reaches for his jacket, the chair tips and falls too the ground but neither he nor the bodyguard flinch at the loud noise.

He doesn’t look back as he steps out of the room, simply typing something away on his phone and scoffing at the message that appears on the screen.

We need to talk.

“Fucking bastard.”

—

The artificial light coming from the kitchen cuts through the thick shadows in your hallway, glaring at you from where you’re kneeling on the bathroom floor. Your apartment has never felt emptier. The door to your room is open�� pushed ajar in a frenzy and the carpet in your hallway is moved to the side, messily. As though you almost tripped over it as you rushed to the end of the hallway where your bathroom is. At 2AM, you don’t expect people to still be outside, and it makes your chest ache and burn when you hear the occasional humming of a car driving by your building.

And then you lurch forward again.

The bathroom is filled with heavy stillness, punctuated only by the sound of your stuttered breathing. You're hunched over the cold, unforgiving porcelain of the toilet, your body trembling and weak as your hand grips your hair, pushing it out of the way. Bile rises up to your throat, tears coating your lash line before you’re lurching forward yet again. Your stomach was empty. You didn’t have food to throw up again.

You wish you could say that you were starting to get used to this, but you’ve always been scared of throwing up. Something about the taste of bile, the terrifying feeling of losing control over your body–the gagging and heaving. It scared you. Your bottom lip trembles and your entire body shakes as you brace yourself for another wave of nausea. The acidic taste burns in your throat, mixing with the metallic tang of fear and sleep deprivation.

You’ve been throwing up all day. It simply wouldn’t go away.

When you lean away from the porcelain bowl and rest your body against the wall in exhaustion, you pray that your brain spares you yet another flashback. Another reminder of what had triggered this wave of nausea. You can’t get the feeling of his hands off of you, or how dirty and sickening it felt to wake up and feel that his cum was still inside you—the lack of proper aftercare, no sweet words whispered into your hair. Not the Hanma you thought he would be years later. He vanished like a whisper in a crowded room, fading so quickly that you almost wonder if he was ever there to begin with. Almost.

When you glance down at your thighs, you cringe at the stickiness of his cum despite having showered three times. You can feel the ghost touch of his hands gripping your thighs, his voice whispering filth into your ear as he pounded into you like a God. Last night, he was like a God to you. He knew where to touch, where to kiss, how to leave you breathless and clinging onto him like a lifeline–you felt stupid for being so enamored by the man and his dick. For letting him pull the plug so easily, rendering you the lifeless mess that you were on your bathroom floor.

Beating yourself up was no longer an option though, you didn’t have the energy to hate yourself for what had happened. For thinking he had changed despite being so wary of him since day one. You couldn’t even say that you didn’t ignore the red flags because you did. That man was dangerous, and yet you still thought that you could get him to show a different side.

The quietness in the bathroom is replaced with weak sobs.Your cheeks feel wet and hot and you wipe your tears and snot with the back of your hand. It feels so pathetic to be crying over a man, but even more so when it’s someone you initially thought you could trust. Small, pathetic, dirty–and the list of things he made you feel goes on.

How pitiful of you to think you were any special to him.

When the nausea fades away, you feel numb.

The burn in your heart is replaced with an indifference that magically lifts all of the weight off of your chest. You don’t process nor do you remember how you got off the floor, but your hands were now wet and the tap was running. Water splashes against your face. You don’t recognize yourself as you stare at your own reflection in the mirror. There’s exhaustion, dark circles sitting heavy under your eyes. You blink, then you are in the hallway.

Everything after that is a haze, unimportant to your brain as it moves on autopilot and carries you to your room, on your bed and then under the covers. The plushness of the pillow supports your head well, then you finally allow your neck and your jaw to relax. You had a headache, you realize. But it isn’t painful enough for your body to not allow itself to shut down–you don’t fight it.. You were tired.

You have work in the morning, your cat to feed and a few other errands to run. You don’t want to think about him. Just for a day, you want to forget your responsibilities, who you are.

Just for one day.

—

One does wonder how Toman went from a normal biker gang to the corrupt, ruthless, criminal organization that it became. Upon taking a closer look, at its new leader–everything starts to make sense. The way it’s driven by ambition, manipulation, and violence. All of it reflects the dark goals of its new leader. Kisaki Tetta.

Under Kisaki's leadership, Toman became a shadow of its former self. What was once a gang driven by camaraderie, a sense of brotherhood, and a rough but genuine pursuit of justice, turned into a power-hungry and ruthless organization. Kisaki's manipulative nature corrupted the gang's original values, prioritizing control, fear, and personal gain over any sense of loyalty or righteousness. Everyone was constantly on edge, wary of betraying Kisaki's trust or failing to meet his expectations. His manipulative tactics ensured that everyone was either too scared or too loyal—and his form of punishment consisted of a single word.

Violence.

Hanma embodied the violence that Kisaki needed to ensure that Toman was under his control. If Kisaki’s reaction to betrayal was scary, Hanma’s was terrifying. Savage, barbaric, ruthless. Tall man turned into an even more monstrous version of himself with the snap of Kisaki’s fingers.

However, that didn’t mean that Hanma was obedient. He was far from that.

Up on the last floor of the impressive, imposing building where all of Toman’s business takes place, resided the meeting room. A place where words are shared amongst the dangerous, corrupt men, with the sole promise of never telling a soul. However, the room was eerily silent. The knife that could cut through the thick tension was a testament to that.

The long, round table is empty and the chairs are all pushed to the side messily. Tall windows overlook the gorgeous view of the lively city of Tokyo, the only sound that fills the conference room is the air conditioner and the honking of cars. When Kisaki first designed this room, he made sure that the walls were soundproof. And that whatever is shared behind those walls, stays inside. He did so partly to ensure the privacy of matters being shared amongst gang members, and to guarantee that no one outside would be able to hear what was going on.

There is a singular chair in the middle of the room. It stands out in an unsettling, uneasy manner. Perhaps because of its awkward placement, facing away from the table and more towards the door. Or maybe because Hanma appears cartoonish as he sits on the chair, long limbs and a bloodied face. Messy clothes that look like they had been almost forced off of his skin.

Another harsh punch lands on Hanma’s face, his head whips to the side as he feels the blood trickle down his nose and he turns to look at the man before him with intense, golden eyes. Kisaki’s jaw clenches along with his fist and he raises it in the air.

“You fuckin’ sick bastard.”

The crazed smile on Hanma’s face makes Kisaki pull away from the man who was untied, still armed and so relaxed despite being repeatedly assaulted by the much shorter, weaker man. It was deeply unsettling even to a man as disturbing as Kisaki.

“Nothin’ new to you.” Hanma’s tongue peeks out of his mouth to lick the blood trickling down his nose, the metallic taste feels euphoric against his taste buds and he bites his bottom lip. Harshly. Until it draws blood, and Kisaki’s chest is heaving, exhausted and filled with a fury that eggs on Hanma’s crazed state.

“I’m warnin’ ya,” the short man walks towards the other side of the room, grabbing a few napkins to wipe his hands. The back of his hand then pushes away his sweaty strands of hair that were sticking to his forehead, before grabbing a bottle of water. “Either you fix your fucking self, or I put a bullet through your head.”

When he hears no response, Kisaki turns around and realizes the grave mistake he made of lowering his guard in the presence of a man as unpredictable as Hanma. The cold barrel of the gun kisses his forehead, and his own icy blue eyes meet the tall man’s golden ones.

“Put a bullet through my head, huh?” Sarcasm seeps into Hanma’s cold tone, and a scoff escapes his dry lips as he presses the gun harder against his leader’s forehead. “Gettin’ tired of me?”

“Of your sick fucking games, yeah.”

“So what if I killed a guy? That’s never been a problem to ya.”

“You killed one of the men under Bonten you piece of shit–!” Kisaki groans when he feels the back of the gun make harsh contact with his jaw, then Hanma’s fingers are pulling on his hair. His roots burn, and the angle at which Hanma’s making him stare at him makes his neck ache.

“Watch your fucking tone with me,” Hanma sneers, nose scrunched up. This was the most emotion the man has shown since the start of the long, strenuous meeting. “You think I respect you?” a manic laugh escapes his lips. “I never did. I stayed ‘cause I thought you,” and he pulls at the shorter man’s hair again. “could keep me entertained.”

“It must’ve worked if you stayed this long.”

When neither Hanma nor Kisaki make an attempt to speak, nor move–Hanma’s hand slowly but carefully lets go of the shorter man’s hair. Followed by the gun retreating back to the holster that’s strapped to his pants’ belt. The room suddenly feels colder than usual, the sudden drop of adrenaline sends shivers down Hanma’s spine and the heat that was coursing through his body evaporates the moment he steps away from Kisaki to stare at his reflection in the tall windows.

Shit, he looked rough. There was caked up blood in his hair, on his clothes. The buttons on his blouse were gone and his tie was messily undone. He is surprised he doesn’t have a black eye. Kisaki doesn’t aim that high, he thinks. But he still looks like he got beaten up. It doesn’t necessarily hurt, but it stings when he licks his lips.

“You made a mess.” Kisaki announces as he walks towards the mini fridge situated in the deep corner of the conference room. “With Bonten. You made a huge fucking mistake.”

“I’ll take care of it–”

“Nah, that’s not the problem here–” the door to the fridge slams loudly and Kisaki crosses the room in a few, long strides. It’s impressive given his short stature. “You’ve been acting like a dick since the night you said you’re visiting her.” He stops in front of him and raises an eyebrow, eyes glaring daggers at Hanma’s now bare but bruised fingers.

The leader still shoves a beer in Hanma’s hand who stands there, dumbfounded. Obviously, a man as smart and as calculating as Kisaki would be able to read through his bullshit. However, Hanma didn’t know how to approach the situation, nor did he know if he would be able to say it how it is. He didn’t have that kind of relationship with Kisaki, and he wasn’t going to spill his worries to the same man whom he pointed a gun at only a few moments prior.

Silence drapes over the two like a dense fog. It fills the room, suffocates it while obscuring the path of conversation and leaving the two men uncertain of what to do or say next.

“I have to go.”

“I know.”

No questions asked, Kisaki allows his right hand to grab his belongings and rush out of the office, creating loud footsteps in his wake. Hanma’s big already big stature makes him look even more terrifying when he uses his physical prowess for his own benefit. He sloppily presses a button in the elevator and waits. Impatiently, the sound of his foot tapping against the sleek, reflective surface of dark granite, reaches his ears. He grows even more restless. The expensive watch strapped to his wrist seems to be mocking him, it refuses to go past 10:34PM and he wants to smack it against the walls.

Soon enough, he hears the loud chime of the elevator blaring through the speakers installed inside. Stepping out of the moving platform, he is greeted by the dimly lit, expansive space that exudes an air of both luxury and danger. The floor is polished black marble, reflecting the faint lighting that runs along the edges of the ceiling. The lights cast eerie shadows on the floor, creating a sense of unease as if the space itself is alive.

Hanma doesn’t come here often anyway, and he is only here so that he could grab one of his cars. He isn’t sure if the one he drove to get here is still outside or if Kisaki got rid of it–he can’t risk wasting precious time.

—

It’s cold outside.

There was something indescribable about staying inside your dimly lit apartment on a rainy night. The soft, rhythmic pitter-patter of rain taps against your windows, it soothes your nerves. You can barely hear the world outside, but in the background, a podcast plays softly—one of your favorites to wind down after a long day.

You catch snippets of phrases: “... and that’s when they discovered...” and “...the investigators came across...” The sound of the host’s voice is soothing despite the contents of the episode, like a soft caress, barely registering in your full attention.

Sitting on the carpet near your couch, you’re half-distracted. Having already tidied up the kitchen counter, you were now folding a blanket on the couch. Your movements are slow, almost methodical, you make note of not waking up your sleeping cat. It’s been a rough past two weeks. Being able to pick yourself up after going through something as challenging as that night was a miracle.

However, you weren’t one to back down or let something consume you. You couldn’t deny that your chest burned still, that the tears would coat your lash line every now then, as you tried to go on about your day. Whilst filling out paperworks, making dinner, feeding your cat–when you went to bed.

You stare at the pile of laundry sitting next to the couch, thrown carelessly and half-forgotten as you busied yourself in the kitchen a few hours prior. Your eyes catch a glimpse of the familiar fabric of your nightgown. Uneasy, you avert your gaze.

The rain continues its gentle tapping rhythm, mingling with the murmur of the podcast. You glance towards the windows, and reluctantly stand up to close the curtains. It was a bit past your bedtime, and waking up in the morning is going to be difficult given the relaxing setting that the rain was creating.

The tapping gets a bit louder, and you pause your movements to look outside. It doesn’t look like sleet, or maybe your vision was worsening?

You flinch when the tapping turns into full blown knocking. It certainly wasn’t coming from the living room where you were.

“What the fuck,” you whisper shakily, a hand flying to your chest as you feel your heart squeeze in anxiety. This has never happened to you before.

Warily, you reach for your phone and the knife you washed only moments prior–you turn to the hallway, and the knocking gets louder.

“Who’s there?” you yell out. You don’t sound confident.

The wooden floor beneath your feet creaks as you approach your room. You always keep the door open, but the window isn’t visible from where you were standing. You can barely hear the podcast anymore, your ears are ringing and the only thing you were aware of was how tight your chest felt. The burn in your stomach comes back as you push the door open.

“I said who’s–”

Your words are cut short when you spot the same black suit. But the one thing that makes you hold your breath is its disheveled and bloody appearance, as well as the way he was leaning against the fire escape.

Drenched from the downpour, Hanma seems to have given up on covering himself and lets it soak his clothes further. His elbow rests on the metal railing, the cigarette between his pointer and middle finger long extinguished from the rain. You don’t realize how long you stood there, frozen and unresponsive–until Hanma tries again.

“Open the window.”

You snap out of your thoughts, hand clenching the knife’s handle as your face turns sour.

“Leave.”

You’re not sure if he can ever hear you from outside. He leans into the window, pressing his ear against the glass when he sees your lips moving then shakes his head.

“Can’t hear you, doll–”

“Don’t call me that. Leave.”

Despite his worrying appearance, the cuts and bruises on his pretty face and the way the rain was making his clothes stick to his body, you don’t want him to win. The ongoing war inside your head, one that he had created and ran away from like the coward that he was–you can’t just forget that.

“We have to talk.”

“There is nothing to talk about. Goodnight.” You pretend to leave the room. You were ready to sacrifice sleeping on your comfortable, warm bed tonight if it meant getting him to leave. But alas, Hanma was a stubborn man.

The loud knocking starts again, and you angrily stomp back inside your room.

“Stop that! I have neighbors and you’re causing a scene!”

“Then open the window, doll.”

“I will call the police.” You show him your phone, hand visibly shaking from your heightened emotions. Everything was happening so fast. So unexpectedly. You were growing weary of the tall man appearing just when you were beginning to come to terms with his hurtful actions.

“The police, huh?” You see him wipe his face, but it’s useless given how strong the rain was. “Didn’t take you for such a scaredy cat.”

“I’m not scared,” your high pitched voice would say otherwise. “You’re disturbing my night. I don’t want you here.”

Neither of you say a word after. The rain seems to slow down and the harsh sound of droplets tapping against your window is replaced with a soft pitter patter. Your breathing slows down, but the burn in your stomach is still there. The longer you stare into his golden eyes, the harder it gets to approach that damn window and let him inside.

I can’t forgive you. You hurt me.

You avert your gaze, afraid that your face will give away the hurt that was eating you up from the inside.

“I freaked out.” Now that the downpour has subsided, Hanma’s deep voice was loud and clear. You look up, he was no longer leaning against the railing, bracing himself on the brick walls and leaning into the window. “It was too much.”

“Us having sex was… too much?” You make no attempt to read between the lines. You don’t think he deserves the benefit of the doubt, not after the stunt he pulled.

“..Yeah.”

“Oh fuck you.” Hanma watches as you angrily stomp towards the window to pull the curtains.

“Wait wait–!”

“I waited long enough. For two weeks, I waited for you to send a text message–give me a call–nothing!” Heat rises to your cheeks and Hanma sees that your eyes are now glossed over. “You used me.”

“So did you–”

“You fucking left me without bothering to clean me up!” The hurt in your tone makes him flinch. He squeezes his eyes shut, furrowing his eyebrows.

He can feel a headache coming in.

“Do you always expect boyfriend treatment from your one night stands?” This man knew how to make your blood boil.

“Boyfriend treatment? I feel bad for the women you’ve slept with.” You scoff.

“This is why I fucking freaked out.” He was loud but you didn’t care about disturbing the neighbors anymore. “You’re taking is so fucking seriously like we’re dating or some shit.”

“I wasn’t waiting for you to act like a boyfriend. You’re a coward when it comes to love,” your words drip like venom. “I just thought that as my friend, you’d be decent enough and clean me up.”

It’s never been this bad with you. Hanma can’t recall the last time your words sounded as spiteful and bitter as they do now. A side of you he never thought he would see after losing you for a decade—but it can’t be helped when he’s adding fuel to the fire.

Clearly, neither of you is ready to back down from the argument and Hanma was starting to shiver from the cold. He can’t even light a cigarette. He punches the wall lightly before straightening his back, staring to the side.

Hanma came here to talk about what happened— He already knew you would be disappointed, slightly hurt–(ended up being more than slightly)--but he thought it would be over soon. That you’d listen.

“I want–” Just as your jaw was starting to relax, Hanma breaks the silence. “I’m good at striking deals.”

“Huh?”

“Did you like it?” you feel heat rush to your face and you’re staring at him dumbfounded.

“What?!”

“That night. Lack of aftercare aside, was I good?” Hanma knows the answer and you were aware of that. You didn’t want to stroke his ego, let him know that it was the best sex you had in a while. It would overshadow the hurt you were feeling, and you didn’t want to give him the impression that he was free to walk all over you.

“I felt good.”

“So did I.”

The rain had stopped. The man’s voice was loud and clear as he confessed to you that having sex with you felt good.

(That you made him feel good).

“I’m a busy man. I can’t be around all the time,” a tattooed hand wipes his face before staring at you. “But if either of us is feeling horny–”

“For fuck’s sake–” you are flustered as you scramble to unlock the window. Pushing it open, you refuse to meet his gaze as you step to the side. “Come inside.”

Chuckling to himself, a lazy grin adorns his lips as he steps inside your room. The set up is familiar to him, but he still can’t help but stare at your bed. Your mattress and pillows.

He is reminded that the comfort he felt in your space is only temporary, golden eyes glancing towards your arms crossed over your chest. The gesture brings attention the necklace adorning your chest, your fingers holding onto the pendent tightly.

Huh?

The tall man brushes off the foreign feeling in his stomach, focusing on the way you seem to be wary of him even whilst letting him in your bedroom.

"You're a busy man, but can become available for sex?"

"I am not always free"

"Right."

"Just every now and then."

"Sure."

"When it's really necessary"

"Mhm,"

The dynamic is entirely different compared to last time, and Hanma only has himself to blame. He watches as you silently retreat from your bedroom, disappearing into the hallway. You don't bother to check on him. There was no need to act like your apartment was a foreign territory to the tall man.

Stepping into the hallway, a loud "oof" bounces against the walls as a towel lands on his face. Removing it from his head, sun gilded eyes follow your figure as you sit on the couch, busying yourself with the remote control.

(He doesn't remember you ever liking TV).

"You'll catch a cold," you say in between skimming through channels, aimlessly.

The soft fabric ruffles his hair, but it's futile given how soaked he was. Hanma doesn't say a word. He places the towel on the kitchen counter, brown leathed shoes carrying him across the wooden floor towards the entrance.

Grabbing the door knob, the tall man speaks up.

"I'm...I have to go."

Golden eyes bore into your side, burning shapes and promises into your soul so intensely that you are forced to pull your eyes away from your big screen and towards the same disheveled man. Soaked and bloodied, you pull your eyes away.

"I know."

༉‧₊˚. interested in commissioning me? if not, leave a ko-fi!

2024 © all works belong to @slttygeto. do not repost, translate or steal any of my works.

#moon's works #tokyo revengers #tokyo revengers x reader #hanma x reader #hanma shuji #hanma #hanma shuuji x reader #hanma shuuji x you #hanma shuji smut #hanma shuji angst #tokyo revengers angst #tokyo revengers fanfic #tokyo rev x reader #tokyo rev x you #tokyo rev fanfic #hanma shuji fanfic

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matan4il · 10 months ago

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Daily update post:

I don't have an online source yet other than a tweet in Hebrew, but I heard a report about at least two Hamas divers who tried to invade Israel through the sea. The threat has been neutralized, but this shows once again, that as long as Hamas exists, the civilians in southern Israel are NOT safe. That's along with Hamas still firing rockets at Israeli civilians whenever they can.

This morning also saw another independent Palestinian terrorist attack, this time on one of the major roads leading into Jerusalem. Two Israelis have been stabbed and injured, a 25 years old man, and a 19 or 20 years old woman (I heard contradicting reports, so I'm citing both options). The terrorist was 15 years old, and has been neutralized. He reached the scene of the attack riding on electric bicycles. Just a reminder, inciting and recruiting a teenager to carry out a terrorist attack is morally wrong, if not downright criminal, and it should be where everyone's ire is directed.

The IDF has confirmed that it has killed a Hamas leader in Lebanon, Mustafa Hadi. He was in charge, among other things, of promoting terrorist attacks against Israeli and Jewish targets outside of Israel.

I've heard a journalist saying that there are enough aid trucks entering Gaza, the issue is that Hamas is confiscating about 60% of the humanitarian aid brought in. The info is confirmed in this article, about a new pilot the IDF is trying, to try and bypass Hamas. If the last attempt (which backfired) was to bring aid in from the south, and the IDF would secure it as it's transferred to the north (instead of handing it to local elements for the transfer), now they're going to check the trucks in the south, but bring them into Gaza directly in its northern part.

I've already expressed my POV about what is probably the worst speech given at the Oscars this year, maybe ever. Now, the Holocaust Survivors' Foundation has denounced the Holocaust-hijacking, anti-Israel speech at the Oscars as "factually incorrect and morally indefensible." The ADL sent out the same message.

I've already pointed out that the absolute majority of survivors were and are Zionist (as were many of the Jews murdered in the Holocaust), but I think it really matters that the survivors who are still around are using their own voices to speak out against this distorted narrative. Will this director and others like him, who have hijacked the Holocaust for their political messages, actually listen and apologize? I kind of doubt it. Holocaust survivors are to be listened to! ...But only if they're one of the 5 or so who hate Israel.

And while we're at it, it should also be mentioned that the red hand pin that many stars wore at awards ceremonies this year stems from a symbol featured in many anti-Israel protests, leading back to the 2000 brutal lynching and murder of two Israelis who took a wrong turn into the Palestinian city of Ramallah. I think it says a lot in itself, that Arabs in general and Palestinians in particular SAFELY walk around Jewish majority Israeli cities every day, or live in them, but Jews have to fear for their lives when they enter, even accidentally, Arab areas that have been ethnically cleansed of Jews. Regarding the red hand symbol, I'm not saying that every person using it fully understands its origin, that it became a feature of anti-Israel demonstrations only after the lynching, it was never spotted at them before that, it became a prominent feature of the Second Intifada (2000-2005), I'm also not saying this is the only use of a red hand as a protest symbol ever, so people who saw the pin would have easily been unaware of its origin in this context. But it feels like another sign of the same problem: people are ignorant about this conflict, yet they allow themselves the freedom to talk about it, or use its symbols and terms, without truly understanding them, and without seeming to care about the consequences. It's a bit like someone who might have watched Dukes of Hazard, and started wearing a pin of the Confederate flag, initially not knowing (but later also not showing any care for) why this would hurt the feelings of many African Americans.

Here's another reminder from November 2023, that informed people knowing about the origin of this symbol pre-dates the Oscars:

BTW, I should probably mention that the Italian press crew, which documented the lynching and the proudly presented bloodied hands of one murderer, shared the footage despite threats to their lives from Palestinians (while another Italian film crew threw that one under the bus, promising that their TV station abides by the rules of the Palestinian Authority, implying they comply with the PA's censorship of Palestinian-committed violence). An American news team from ABC, was attacked and prevented from documenting the lynching. A British photojournalist, Mark Seager, who tried to document the lynching as well, was attacked by Palestinians, his equipment was destroyed, and he said he would have nightmares for the rest of his life. Back in 2009, Fatah (the ruling party of the PA) used the lynching to claim they were more deadly towards Israelis than Hamas. ANYONE who lived through this, as many Israelis and Jews did, or even just heard about it growing up, would not easily forget the symbolism of the red hand in this context.

This is 13 years old Mai Zuheir abu Subeich.

She was an Israeli Arab Muslim Bedouine. She excelled as a student, and dreamed of being an English teacher. Family members say she was even already teaching her siblings and cousins. On Oct 7, she was killed when a Palestinian rocket from Gaza hit her home, in the Negev desert. This Ramadan, as IDF soldiers continue to fight in Gaza, Jews, Christians, Muslims, Bedouins and Druze, please remember they're fighting to keep the Muslim citizens of Israel safe from Hamas, too.

(for all of my updates and ask replies regarding Israel, click here)

#israel #antisemitism #israeli #israel news #israel under attack #israel under fire #terrorism #anti terrorism #hamas #antisemitic #antisemites #jews #jew #judaism #jumblr #frumblr #jewish #israelunderattack

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seat-safety-switch · 2 years ago

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Now that we’ve added a single bike lane, the city folks are all crowing about how they’re clever and are supporting alternative modes of transportation. That might be so, but that bike lane is right next to a major highway. It’s not very convenient to get to, and it’s very far away from taco-based sustenance. Sure, you can ride that bikeway most of the way downtown – and then get off your bike to cross eight blocks of intersections, pay Old Salty Harold a couple coins so you can use his floating barge to cross the river, and end up at the eighteen-dollar taco restaurant that doesn’t have running water.

Into this, a solution is formed. You see, my municipality has very loose restrictions on what qualifies as “a bicycle.” So as not to frighten the car owners like myself too much, they’ve allowed a virtually unlimited amount of electric horsepower in the vague shape of a moped. All I have to do is keep the land speed under about 30 kilometers an hour, and the completely-absent bike lane cops won’t write me an unenforceable ticket for speeding on the bike lane they have a philosophical objection to the very existence of. Doing this is much easier when I’ve poorly welded a steel cooler full of microwave burritos to the front of an old Norco.

Not only is the front section pretty draggy: so is the chain! You can hear that bastard slap and struggle as it passes the couple of missing teeth on every gear. Why is the geartrain missing so many teeth? Well, they were either stripped off from the torque of the half-kilowatt electric motor I stole out of an abandoned Tesla, or rotted away in the river before the fateful summer afternoon when the aforementioned boatman, Old Salty Harold, helped me pull it out of the river. Don’t worry, I can still book it to all the popular break spots along the bikeway (a defective bus bench, a flickering light pole, a frequently-flooding unlit tunnel into downtown) and hand out some fresh battery-warmed imitation Mexican food to all the commuters.

I’ve made like twelve dollars this week alone, which doesn’t exactly pay for all the tires I keep melting (this vehicle should perhaps be reclassified as ”some emissions,”) but it’s about giving back to society. And you never know what’ll happen next. Well, not efficient and timely public transit, that’s not coming for sure.

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thevoicefromanotherworld · 2 months ago

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"ANYTHING WORTH SEEING, SISTER?"

youtube

No soy creyente, pero para él, soy lo que él quiera que sea.

I hope you like the story!

Sister Megan hurried through the halls of her home with the pages of the newspaper in her hand. Before each publication, Father Charlie had asked her to bring him each and every article so that he could review them before they came to light.

At first, the city police did not look kindly on the fact that a nun, a daughter of God and sanctified in her faith, would write in a gruesome manner about the supposedly ritual murders that were taking place in those days.

Father Charlie was morbidly curious about everything related to murder and death, which is why he felt a strong connection with Sister Megan from the first moment.

Charlie was not a conventional priest. According to him, as he had explained to the bishop and the mother superior at the meeting last month, if they did not do something to modernize the church in some way, it would end up dying. Of course, none of them were interested in that happening, given the amount of money that thanks to the parishioners they put in their pockets at the end of each month.

So they decided to listen to Charlie. That's how he ended up giving online classes of what he called "Christian spinning." Basically it consisted of videos of him riding an electric bicycle pedaling while Christian music played in the background. From time to time he recited a psalm from the Bible.

Megan knew she was in the middle of class when she heard the sound of the bicycle pedals. Instead of leaving, she chose to hide behind the corner of the door, so that he wouldn't see her. Her gaze shifted to his strong back.

Well, to tell the truth, she didn't know where to look first.

His chest was covered by a red tank top, which made his back look more powerful and muscular than usual. Her hands gripped tightly on either side of the handlebars, making the veins on them stand out even more against her skin.

"You're saving your souls with every pedal stroke," she assured, pushing her hair back with her hand. "Come on!" she encouraged, exhaling air through her mouth before inhaling again through her nose.

Megan knew she shouldn't be looking at him like that. It was wrong and she knew it, but she couldn't stop looking. Father Charlie was like a drug she was addicted to.

She felt a strong pressure between her legs when she saw how several drops of sweat slid down his broad back to get lost under the waistband of his shorts. Lost in her thoughts as she was, she didn't realize that her class had ended. She stopped the recording, and before he turned around and caught her red-handed, she got out of there as fast as her short legs would allow.

She came back a while later hoping he could give the article his thumbs up. She walked into the bathroom, where the steam from the shower was rising. She stood in front of the door, just as he was putting on his towel with his back to her. Of course he knew she was there. He tilted his head to look at her, before cracking a lopsided smile.

"I'm sorry, father," she murmured, putting the article over her eyes shyly, before handing it to him without looking at him. "I just wanted you to look over today's article."

He nodded and took it. She took a couple of steps absentmindedly as she read it before announcing her verdict.

-No -he whispered- I don't approve

-It is what it is- she answered quietly-

-We can't publish a story that says the police are blocked and that because of that they have no new leads, it's… -he thought of a way to describe it as his gaze connected with hers through the mirror- boring -he paused- mediocre -he added under her attentive gaze-

He handed her the paper again before turning to the mirror to comb his hair.

-Hey, I'm sorry -he said- I know you know that I think you're a talented writer -he explained- but this seems like you want to keep a low profile, perhaps -he explained- I think we can expect more from your journalistic efforts than that, because… -he laughed, waving his hands in the air in front of him- sorry, but where's the bloodbath? The fear? because it's not in that story

He stepped away from the sink and left the brush on the counter. He slowly turned to her, looking at her with feigned calm. Megan had never felt a gaze reflecting so many indeterminate things on her.

He approached her so that he was in front of her, so close that she thought he was going to kiss her. Instead he said:

"Don't worry," he whispered before bringing his lips to her ear. "It's all part of the process," he said with a hoarse voice. "The wait," he added before starting to walk down the hall. "You're very observant," he said as he walked. "That's what makes you such a good journalist." He put his hand on the wall for a few seconds to look at her. "You like to observe."

The way he said it made her legs tremble, among other things.

Megan managed to come out of her lethargy a few moments later to follow his steps.

"Maybe I'm stuck," she murmured hastily. "Maybe I need to try harder," she said. "You're right, there's always something worth seeing," she claimed, "if you look close enough."

"You were watching me," she pointed at her with her head, "earlier in the training room." She took the ring off her finger and left it on a small wooden cabinet in the hallway. Megan followed the movement with her eyes. "Anything worth seeing?"

-It was… -she swallowed hard thinking of the right words- the exaltation of the glory of God through physical progress- she explained sitting down in one of the chairs, he did the same in the one in front of her, separated by a few meters-

-It has become a kind of secondary job- he intervened with an amused smile- the Pedaling Priest -he let out a hoarse laugh- I could become a trainer, set up my own academy

Megan preferred to save herself the comment that it was what she could set up.

And it was not exactly a fucking spinning academy.

-Some of the older Bishops ridicule all kinds of excessive exercise as a form of Vanity -he nodded, looking at her for a few moments- they see it as a way of worshipping oneself -he whispered- a sin of the flesh, I think…

-"Or do you not know that your body is the temple of the Holy Spirit, who is in you?"-Megan recited- "Therefore, honor God with your bodies"

-Yes -he whispered- exactly

Father Charlie's gaze fell on hers intensely. He rose from his chair to close the door that connected to the other part of the hallway, leaving them both completely alone and isolated.

Megan's gaze followed his movements, until he slowly returned to stand in front of her.

-They're talking about this right now in the Vatican, he said, - they've convened an Ecumenical Council to negotiate a radical change that would completely ruin all the archaic interpretations that figure in the scriptures concerning sex and lifestyle.

-And perhaps, possibly… - he whispered, holding her chin between his thumb and forefinger so that she would look up at him - potentially - he murmured, strengthening his grip - celibacy for those who belong to the clergy.

-Oh - Megan stammered - that's hard to imagine.

-Do you think so? -she whispered, tangling her fingers in the gold chain with the cross she wore around her neck- the parishioners are losing faith -she said, beginning to unbutton the buttons of her novice vest with exasperating slowness- and young people are not being called to serve in the way it was done before

-Mhm -she murmured, trying to pay attention to what she was saying despite the situation-

-The Church is dying, and both the Bishops and the Pope know it- she said, finishing unbuttoning the last button, drawing a sigh from Megan's lips- change is coming

Silence took over the room, Megan's gaze then shifted to the towel that covered her and she removed it with a quick movement. She observed him for a few moments before raising her gaze to his dark eyes.

-It is still a sin -she said firmly-

He crouched down until he was at her height. He took her hand in his and kissed the inside of her wrist, where her pulse was beating fast.

"We are…" he began as she rose from the chair to be at his height.

He grabbed her arm and spun her around, as if they were dancing.

"And we will always be," he continued, resting his hands on her shoulders, pushing her against the wall.

"Sinners," she finished in a sigh that resembled a low moan.

"So, fuck it," he murmured, removing her vest and unbuttoning the buttons on her white blouse.

He bent down to kiss her neck, making her tilt her neck to give him better access. His lips left soft kisses from her collarbone to the area where her pulse was beating on the side of her neck. Then he moved down to the area above her breasts, leaving increasingly messy kisses and the occasional bite that made her squirm against him.

She tried to put her arms around his back, to feel his flexed muscles. But he wouldn't let her. He gently took her arms and separated them, leaving one on each side of her head, so that she was open for him.

Megan realized then that she hadn't kissed him on the lips. How was it possible that she was so excited then? She decided not to think about it anymore and focus on him. His hungry gaze lowered to her skirt for a few moments. He lifted her by the hips to sit her on the desk. He slid his hand inside her and pulled her panties off.

Megan felt the cold, smooth surface of the wood behind her at the bottom of her legs.

A moan escaped her lips as he entered her without warning. She dug her nails into his back, while he continued to thrust hard into her. The desk resonated with each one.

It was then that Megan felt the presence of God closer than ever before.

#father charlie mayhew #grotesquerie #Youtube

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mariacallous · 7 months ago

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On Wednesday, New York governor Kathy Hochul shocked the state and the country when she announced she would indefinitely shelve New York City’s long-in-development congestion pricing scheme. The policy, in the works since 2007 and set to begin in just three weeks, was designed to relieve car traffic, curb road deaths, and send a billion dollars in annual funding to the city’s transit system by charging drivers up to $15 a day to enter the busiest parts of Manhattan, with rates highest at “peak hours.” (Truck drivers and some bus drivers could have paid more than $36 daily.) At heart, the idea is straightforward, if controversial: Make people pay for the roads they use.

But congestion pricing was also set to become one of the most ambitious American climate projects, maybe ever. It was meant to coax people out of their gas-guzzling vehicles, which are alone responsible for some 22 percent of US greenhouse gas emissions, and onto subways, buses, bicycles, and their feet. Policymakers, researchers, and environment nerds the world over have concluded that, even if the transition to electric vehicles were to happen at lightning speed, avoiding the worst of climate change is going to require fewer cars overall.

Now, the movement has seen a serious setback, in a country where decades of car-centric planning decisions mean many can only imagine getting around in one very specific way. Just a few years ago, cities from Los Angeles to San Francisco to Chicago began to study what pricing roads might look like. “Cities were watching to see what would happen in New York,” says Sarah Kaufman, who directs the NYU Rudin Center for Transportation. “Now they can call it a ‘failure’ because it didn't go through.”

On Wednesday, Hochul said her about-face had to do with concerns about the city’s post-pandemic recovery. The congestion pricing plan faced lawsuits from New Jersey, where commuters argue they would face unfair financial burdens. Cameras and gantries, acquired and positioned to charge drivers while entering the zone, have already been installed in Manhattan, to the tune of some $500 million.

Kaufman, who says she was “flabbergasted” by Governor Hochul’s sudden announcement, says she is not sure where the policy goes from here. “If we can’t make courageous, and potentially less popular, moves in a city that has transit readily accessible, then I’m wondering where this can happen,” she says.

Other global cities have seen success with congestion schemes. London’s program, implemented in 2003, is still controversial among residents, but the government reports it has cut traffic in the targeted zone by a third. One 2020 study suggests the program has reduced pollutants, though exemptions for diesel buses have blunted its emissions effects. Stockholm’s program, launched in 2006, upped the city’s transit ridership, reduced the number of total miles locals traveled by car, and decreased emissions between 10 and 14 percent.

But in New York, the future of the program is unclear, and local politicians are currently scrambling to figure out how to cover the transit budget hole that would result from a last-minute nixing of the fee scheme. The city’s transit system is huge and sprawling: Five million people ride the Metropolitan Transportation Authority’s buses and subways, almost double the number that fly every day in the US.

In New York, drivers entering the zone below Manhattan’s 60th Street would have been charged peak pricing of $15, but would have only faced the charge once a day. They would have paid $3.75 for off-peak hours. Taxi and ride-hail trips in the zone would have seen extra fees. After years of controversy and public debate, the state had carved out some congestion charge exemptions: some vehicles carrying people with disabilities would not have been charged, lower-income residents of the zone would have received a tax credit for their tolls; and low-income drivers would have been eligible for a 50 percent discount.

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zemkzone · 11 months ago

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I don't normally vent, but... TLDR: I was mugged in a city, a country, where I am a foreigner and the supposed friends who were helping me told another friend I was acting "entitled" to their help. It was heavily implied I had to APOLOGIZE to them. AITA or not AITA? I now have much bigger trust issues than I had last week.

Long version:

I've been living in the UK for almost 2 years, and I went down to London on Friday for a break from a stressful work-week. The first night went well, dinner and a show, and I fell asleep at a decent enough time to wake up early on Saturday for 9:30AM yoga with, for lack of a better term, friends of a friend. It was a relatively nice morning, so I decided to take one of the buses instead of schlepping my way down to the Tube (which I still call the subway most days coz, can you blame the proverbial Yankee visiting King Charles' Court?). I got off the bus in the City, what they call the business area in London as a whole, I have been made to understand. Google Maps told me it was an easy walk from the bus stop to the hotel where the yoga class was, but there were several alley/side road closures where the app wanted me to go. I was still on a nice, wide sidewalk, with few cars on the street and few people around me too. I paused at what felt like a safe intersection on that wide sidewalk, right by a modern glass building with CCTV hanging off it and CCTVs on the crosswalk traffic lights a few meters away. I was as far from the roadside as possible, and out of precautionary habit, I had my back turned to the road a little to protect the phone I had out in my hand. I was texting those sort-of friends that I was a few minutes out, and trying to get Google Maps to reroute me.

Suddenly, a black glove appeared in front of my face and my phone was snatched away by what looked like a man in an electric blue puffer hoodie, riding a bicycle on the sidewalk. I tried to chase him, but between the coffee I had to let go of and the duffle bag on my shoulder, it was hopeless. He disappeared around the corner I had been considering walking along myself, and I was left to ask for help from the four passersby at the crosswalk. Two of them happened to be a father and daughter (Brits, but also just visitors in London). The father wrote down my exact location and the time so I could report it to the police. When I said I had friends at a nearby hotel, he and his daughter helped me find my way to it. They didn't have to walk me in, but they did. "We'll wait here," he said at the top of an escalator, "and wait for you to give us a thumbs up if the receptionist has located your friends". The receptionist did, I signaled the two perfect strangers that all was well, and we waved goodbye as they headed off to continue their day.

What followed should have been an exercise in practicality. The boyfriend of one of those sort-of friends (let's call him M) and a hotel staffer helped me contact the police and cancel my debit card (which had been in my snatched cellphone's case). Two officers came to the hotel so I could give them my statement, etc. All the while, M sat with me, updating his girlfriend and the others who still continued on with their yoga session. The police asked me to take them to the spot where the crime occurred. M was still with me, and as we walked out of the hotel, his girlfriend (T) and more people than I expected (I'd only though I was meeting T and another friend I'll call W) came out to join us. I hadn't realized that a whole hour had passed since I'd arrived at the hotel. Their yoga session was over.

At that point, I was torn between (1) feeling marginally better because I had company who knew the city and (2) trying to keep it together in the face of everything that losing a smartphone in 2024 implies. After the police took down the added details at the incident site, T and co. asked me if I wanted to still go to brunch. I agreed since I needed to sit, was shaken, and, though I didn't feel it at the time, did need more than half a cup of coffee in my stomach. At the restaurant, I tried to stay in good spirits. Aside from T, M, and W, there were two people in the group I had never met before, and we were joined by yet another person. I managed to shovel down most of an avocado toast and an Irish coffee (I effing needed the boost). T and her friends had moved on from the usual "sorry that happened to you" and were playing catch up while I asked M where I could find my phone carrier and a place I could get a new phone. I'd come to the UK with the phone that had been snatched, and had only gotten a SIM-only plan with the carrier. I thought the practical thing, since I don't know how many more months/years I'd be in the UK, would be to buy a new phone, then have my carrier block the stolen phone's SIM and issue me a new one. M and I Google Mapped my options, added in my own hotel location so I could grab my passport on the way. I admitted that, considering everything, I (1) needed help getting navigating to those places from where we were and that (2) I didn't feel good enough to be alone just yet. We paid (I still thankfully have working credit cards) for our food and finally left the restaurant.

This is where, to my mind, the uncomfortable part started. Two of the extra 3 people (remember, I was only supposed to have been with T, W, and M, but they had a total of 3 other friends there too), and somehow what should have been a quick 20-30 minutes to get my passport from my hotel and then drop me off on the street with the phone and carrier store became 6 nerve-wracking hours with a too-large group. I said nothing when they started doing "for the gram" picture stops along the way. M went up to my hotel room with me when I got my passport. He took a photo of some passwords on my laptop that I might need when the phone or carrier store staff helped me with my phone. (In hindsight, we should have used pen and paper.) Then our group of 5 all went in what I assume was the direction of the two stores. W was navigating, and at that point, the streets were so crowded and I was getting very tense that I just trusted she knew what she was doing. In my mind, I kept replaying the mugging over and over, what I could have done differently, etc, etc. (I know what happened wasn't my fault, but at the time, I couldn't help it) and listing what I'd have to do first when I got the replacement phone and SIM. I didn't know T and co. well enough to tell them I was internally seeing red and trying not to spiral. Then, suddenly, we stopped walking... at a bubble tea place. I'd only vaguely heard what the group had been talking about as we walked along, since it seemed to be more Instagram/YOLO, etc stuff and no one was asking my input anyway. I smiled tightly and declined an offer for them to buy my bubble tea, opting to stand outside the store to work on staying calm. I didn't realize (hadn't been told) they wanted a break or anything, but I couldnt complain since I was literally dependent on them until I could get a new phone. We eventually got to the phone store, the last remaining extra person left, and I had to pay full price for a phone because as a foreigner I couldn't get on the monthly payment plans. T, M, and W, instead of just pointing me to the carrier store three shops down, came in with me and waited while I talked to the staff. At some point, W or T asked if I wanted coffee, and, while I thanked them for still being there, I declined the drink again. I thought they'd go off to a nearby café or something since I had paperwork, etc to fill. They and M never left. By the time I got the new SIM in the phone and the staff had advised me to go back to the store where I'd bought the phone to get help setting it up, M, T, and W were still there. They went back to the phone store with me, and T told me to stop being so anxious and sit down while we waited in the queue for assistance.

By then, it was almost 5 in the afternoon. The tech assistant helped as much as he could, since I was basically setting up my phone from scratch, but said I could do the rest with my tablet back at my hotel... or come back to the store with it before closing time so he could walk me through that part. T gave me a card with some of the friend-group's phone numbers, and she, M, and W still walked me to my hotel (I'm pretty sure it was unpromted, but my head was so foggy at that point from all I had done and still had to do). It turned out the hotel was a 10-min walk in a straight line from the phone shop. We got to the entrance to my hotel, I said thanks to them for being there the whole time, and they left. I handled grabbing my tablet and walking right back (in 5 min) to the phone shop to finish setup alone. The day ended with me exhausted, having a semi-functional phone that I'd have to wait to fully fix still when I got to my apartment (in a place I jokingly nickname the Shire) after the weekend, and crying to friends back in the States in a call over a lousy room-service dinner. I told them what happened, including my misgivings over all the YOLO stops, and they calmed me down and helped me a little more with fixing my phone.

I got at most two hours of sleep by the time the sun rose on Sunday morning... and then made myself presentable enough to meet A, the original London friend who had introduced me to T, W, and M where I first arrived in the country. I told him that while I was grateful for his friends' help the previous day, I didn't think I could go through that again. (I didn't exactly want to say "they're good-time people, but I don't know if I'd want the...awkward stops all over the place again if I were ever in another crisis around them.") What A said... upset me. T, M, and W had apparently complained to him that, while they still thought I was a lovely person (ah, Britishisms!) I acted "entitled" to their company the whole afternoon and was scowling too much. They didn't regret canceling plans for me, but I seemed "ungrateful in my human interactions with them". A all but said I had to APOLOGIZE to his friends.

I'm in my early 30s, with a no-nonsense, get-shit-done North American mentality and I'm aware my default expression, especially when I'm too tired, is RBF (resting bitch face, for those too young to know), and I feel terrible if I need to drag anyone at all into my messes. They're energetic and bubbly Brits in their late 20s. But they really could have left me at any point, just given me directions and left, and I would not at all have held it against them. Just like I was grateful and held nothing against that father with the kid who initially helped me after the mugging. Is this an AITA situation? Did I miss anything? Is this a subtle cultural/age/millennial-GenZ divide?

I'm still tired as FUCK, trying to get used to this new phone, and have a LOT of life admin to do suddenly after this whole weekend. If you have any thoughts or comments, whoever and wherever you are, feel free to say something.

#real life woes #american vs british mess #aita #not aita #i am just so tired

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