#I mean we still have basic ass paper money

[thewitchinthecherrytree]

For people asking: Yes $2 bills are real, Yea they are still issued. They are not commonly issued, but you can special request them at almost any bank.

i forgot how fake usd looks. movie prop ass currency, they dont even have polymer banknotes like the rest of us

[kremlin]

i figure most human behaviour that, not only doesn’t occur in other animals but has zero connection to animal behavior is basically distantly rooted in the known fear of inevitable death. let me be clear. cats and shit don’t know they’re gonna die. we do. we have thoughts. we know it’s coming. we think we’re gonna be rich, bullshit like that, most humans believe in magic and most humans doubt that math is a universal or consistent thing. total nonsense right. but everyone knows their ass is gonna die. before you write me off as some dumbass reciting basic 101 level university lectures just Trust Me I’m An Engineer. anyways. being human and dying are somewhat one in the same.

“if i do nonhuman things i can cheat the reaper.” short and sweet. if i can beat zelda faster than anyone i can outrun the reaper. and you know what, fuck it, i’m scared shitless of dying. it’s gonna hurt really bad no doubt. what if the brain destroyal process makes time slow down in my perception and it’s not just like five seconds of bleeding out or fire ant bites or however you go. Scary. so i’ll play along:

i am an average american man and i enjoy bad game runescape. it’s a computer game. MMO. kill monster get loot. sell what i don’t want to other players for gold. spamming chat with “SELLING BOWSTRINGS 200gp” for an hour “sucks” so the devs add a grand exchange where you can post buy/sell orders for a given item+price to maximize gameplay efficiency and minimize social interaction.

like any other MMO you can pay some sketchy website real money for ingame gold farmer by chinese gold farmers. totally against the rules. remember this

so the first thing that comes to any male aged 23-27 mind is “buy low sell high” basic bitch shit. no good. there’s a 5% tax that’ll wipe out your profit margin intended to eliminate this behavior (you’re supposed to friggen kill monsters). but everyone thinks they’re a genius and can beat the system and that there is a secret george soros style illuminati group that is holding the secrets, blah blah blah, whatever, and this comes as a coping mechanism after losing your shirt after trying to beat the market (success rate of 0%).

here is where people mostly quit thinking: if you do the math, which takes about ten minutes and can be done on one side of a sheet of paper with the most basic calculator, it’s easy to figure out that the amount of gold you’d need to play dirty (buy out all the available Feathers or Fire Runes or whatever) in order to corner the market would be so high that there is no possible way for a character to hold that much without having spent IRL money for gold. you’d get autobanned.

SO..finally, go on the ol’ www.reddit.com, and make a really really professional-to-professional sounding post advertising a “service”. Saturate the fuck out of it with dense but very real financial jargon. the “service” (which needs to be obscured enough with plausible and relevant language) is a hedging service aimed at make-believe market players who are buying and selling such huge amounts of items and gold (usually in anticipation of a game update that will speculatively introduce a sudden, dramatic, and capitalizable price change for some item). you need it to be as alien-sounding and foreign as possible but with enough believability and clarity that a handful of reddit jackasses will figure out what the fuck your post is about. whenever pressed further, act totally puzzled and make it very clear that this is not a service relevant to “individual entertainment-motivated” players or some shit. no matter what amount of gold anyone quotes at you, just act puzzled and if that amount is 1/1000th the amount one of your “normal” clients deal with. you need to do all of this extremely artfully. and by “you”, i’ve been meaning to write “me”. really lay it on thick that whatever you’re “doing” is totally unavailable to them and that you want zero to do with them.

so now theyre still mostly totally confused but enough is made clear that their interest is piqued. got my hook in em. some guy will copy/paste wikipedia shit in an obnoxiously long and pseudointellectual, contemptible but characteristically reddit guy style what you’re “selling” actually is in the most exhausting, hand-holdingest way to his fellow reddit gamers. with complete tone of authority.

inevitably one of them will put on their sherlock holmes hat and go deep undercover, emailing me posing as an interested party. bingo. now i get to really lay on the WTF and go off the rails asking about vouchers from One Of The Big Seven, but oh no, you can’t get one of them to vouch for you, that’s fine, it makes sense, we’re the only firm that deals with unvouched, that’s our market, well, one of them at least. Just give me a rough rundown of your entry criteria, dwell time, risk tolerance, fuckin “Gamma Ratio”, you know, all the basic stuff, and i’ll have the team generate a .xlsx for you to plug your data into to get a rough feel for what the final contract might be like.

(lololol) But REMEMBER, that excel sheet is seeded, output is fuzzed and salted and if you share it or try and sell it to our competitors, it will be fuzzy enough to be worthless to them but obvious to us who leaked what. this is the only way we’re able to integrate unvouched clients without untenable premiums and while managing our risk levels

blah blah blah blah, i go on and on and on and the guy on the other end is developing a scab from constant head-scratching. and that’s about the maximum real-world harm i’m willing to inflict. i know this sounds like an elaborate as fuck confidence scam but it isn’t. that shit makes me sick. i’d literally slam my arms in a car door before taking a cent from all this. hell, i’ll go out of my way to guarantee i don’t even piss anyone off or offend them or anything.

your guess is as good as mine but i do stuff like this constantly for anything i know well enough and the example i gave above is just a pretty low quality one i made up on the spot. this is a public blog after all.

anyways, cheers, hoping this saves me from dying or whatever the hell i was talking about before that could have probably been cut out. Namaste. Mahala.

[salarta]

Polaris is the Moment

On a drive today, I was thinking more about Polaris/Lorna Dane and where we are as a society. When you get down to it, Lorna would be the perfect character for exploring modern issues. The problem she has is people working at Marvel who are too up their own asses with their toxic nostalgia to recognize and respect this.

Trauma

Literally no matter your view of Lorna, trauma has been a major element of her usage throughout her entire existence.

The biggest and most important case, of course, is surviving the Genoshan genocide. She witnessed the horror of a modern genocide firsthand. Magneto, her father, has genocide background too, but his is from the Holocaust. Being that happened almost a century ago, a lot of younger readers will of course respect that, but there are changes to society since then.

Of course, there's the genocide that Israel (mainly Netanyahu) is carrying out toward Palestine, and now is starting to do it to Lebanon. If Marvel today were less corporate and more responsive to the moment, the comics would reflect this matter and address it. It's been a year already.

But even setting aside the genocide (which feels wrong to say, and Marvel should feel even worse for pretending never happened with her), she's had several traumas. She's been mind controlled and possessed multiple times. She's had her body itself forcibly changed twice (Zaladane and Apocalypse), with changes that caused her to indirectly hurt people (the stupid ass hate aura type power via Zaladane, and diseases as Pestilence). Many people around her have died, which isn't unique to her, but ball it all together with all else she's endured and it's a hell of a lot.

Lorna isn't new to trauma. So as we live in a moment where we're putting real thought into our traumas, Lorna offers a far better window into that reality than most Marvel characters, let alone X-Men characters.

Technology

When Lorna was created in 1968, we had TV, radio, phones, and the infancy of computers. But that's it. Back then, if you didn't live in a city, you could probably still get by. And your communications and social circles were entirely local, aside from perhaps pen pals. You still used paper and coin money, and checks, for transactions. Credit cards as we know them were extremely new.

Cut to today. Basically everything is tied in with technology and the internet. Most money transactions are done online. We often do more social interaction online than off. We rely on computers for just about everything critical to how society functions. Most people would be fucked if we lost all of that. And the internet is the core way for misinformation and disinformation to spread and get made now.

Lorna's powers are electromagnetism. Not just flinging cars around because they're made of metal. A woman like that, powers like that, at her age in the comics? Why the fuck isn't she being used in relation to technology more? Why isn't she accessing the internet with her mind? Why isn't she tricking her enemies by sending them fake messages imitating the voices of the enemies' allies? Why isn't she kicking ass in both the physical and virtual worlds?

Because toxic nostalgia held by people like Brevoort says she needs to alternately cry into Havok's lap and suck his dick while getting captured cause all she can supposedly do is fling cars around. That's why.

Geoscience and Climate Change

Lorna was going for a geoscience degree back in the 70s. At the time, it happened only cause of a stupid excuse to write her out of the comics by having her leave the X-Men with Havok and do the same degree as him.

We can do better now. And while the 2020s X-Factor pissed me off in most ways, one of its few positives was establishing that Lorna has a PhD now.

That her powers involve electromagnetism means she should be able to directly tap into and sense the Earth and its electromagnetic field. She's already done it in Giant-Size X-Men when she threw the island Krakoa at the time into space. This connection SHOULD mean she has a sense of things going wrong with the planet.

Now, I want to very heavily stress something. I do think there are other characters for whom this topic is better suited, like Storm within X-Men and Marvel because of her weather powers, or Poison Ivy in DC because of climate change's impact on plant life. If the story is heavily focused on these things, I do think those characters take higher priority than Lorna for tackling them. Same as I would find it wrong for Storm to tackle the Genoshan genocide when she didn't experience it, or acting like she's a greater authority on electromagnetism than a character (Lorna) whose entire power set is electromagnetism.

But in a world where all's fair and done well, Lorna can definitely be a voice in the overall story of addressing climate change. She can address it in academic ways and specific to the electromagnetic side of things. Limited scope that suits the character's background.

You would think that a woman with this background would care about this issue. At least, that would be the case if Marvel actually reflected the moment.

Identity and Self-Expression

This topic is SUPPOSED to be the bread and butter of X-Men. The entire concept of X-Men came out of the civil rights era. So, technically, all characters in the franchise can address this issue.

But Lorna has background that makes her better for addressing it than most X-Men characters.

Her very first issue, way back in 1968, introduced her as a woman who had naturally green hair but always dyed it brown to avoid attracting attention.

Why?

Even before she realized consciously that she was a mutant, she was very concerned about her identity in the world and how people perceive it. She was hiding her own features, hiding her uniqueness and true self, to fit in. So you have to ask why. Did her foster parents push her into it? Was she getting bullied? Did she have stalkers obsessing over her? Was she simply worried about not being able to function in society and make connections with others if she stood out too much?

There has to be some kind of reason. And this hiding of a natural feature of who she is in order to fit in fits with how we're approaching identity and self-expression in the modern age.

Yet, she's existed since 1968. Which is another strong part of Lorna with this topic. The issues we're discussing when we delve into identity and self-expression aren't new. They're just finally being acknowledged and explored more broadly. Addressing this kind of thing with Lorna has advantages over doing it with a brand new character because doing so reiterates how these matters are not new. They've been around forever. Using a newer character, especially creating one specifically for this purpose, would miss the mark in a big way because doing so implies these issues didn't exist until recently. When that's just not the case.

Aside from hair, there's also the gold and red costume she briefly wore in the 90s. The point of it at the time was Lorna becoming more comfortable with her body, being more willing and eager to show it off. Then there was a ton of backlash to her wearing it, and she was put in a team costume.

I'm not advocating for going back to that costume, to be clear. She needs something that suits history, personality and powers, and that costume only handled a single facet of her personality. My point is, she has additional background with self-expression matters.

In closing, if Marvel weren't stupid levels of regressive and up their own asses with sexist nostalgia, Lorna would be a lynchpin character in this moment. We've seen repeatedly now how readers actually want more of Lorna, the real Lorna, not the toxic nostalgia for sexism take on her, and aren't getting nearly enough.

She broke out on Gifted for a reason.

She won the X-Men vote for a reason.

Marvel acts like she has nothing to offer, deliberately ignoring the evidence of their own eyes. Here, I've highlighted four elements of who she is that should make her essential for Marvel to use meaningfully, as a major X-Men character.

That Lorna's potential like this is not only ignored but deliberately undermined tells you much of what their real interests and desires are when they think they can get away with it.

[flamingo-writes]

Hi flamingo how are you? How are you with your leg pain since the move? Have you been resting? I hope so!

Well as always I leave you a mini request before starting the week ;)

What do you think that, reader is a not so well known singer ,who is starting out in the world of music and meets Hobie in one of their own performances when they are singing on stage.

hope you have a wonderful week tysm <3!

I’m not going to lie to you, I’ve had a bit of a writer’s block. I powered through it though. I thought of a million ways this could’ve played out and went for the one I liked the most. I hope you like it too, and I’m sorry for the late reply 😢 I rewrote this like three times help 😭 whenever I wanted to sit and write I ended up doing a lot of other things.

With A Little Help — Hobie x Reader

Title inspired by the song by the Beatles With A Little Help From My Friends. The bicycle thing is inspired after a real accident I had once, except I don’t play the guitar and but I did get hit on a freshly made tattoo 🥲

Warnings: cursing,

The moment you decided to start a band with your friends, you knew from the beginning it would go one of two ways.

You could either sign with a producer and basically sell yourself like whores. Somehow gaining a debt just by signing a piece of paper, and working an ungodly amount of hours just to pay your debt, and hope the fame you’ve gained actually helps you make money after the percentage the producing house gets. Becoming puppets for the producer to move around the way they want.

Or you could do everything yourself working with what you had. Recording wherever you found available –sometimes that place being your own room–, asking friends if you could borrow equipment or instruments. Asking for favours. Gathering coins your couch has been swallowing and hoarding for years to print a few hundred copies of posters announcing your next gig.

And out of the two, you knew perfectly well which one you wanted. One of them helped you maintain your freedom, which was exactly what your music spoke about. Gathering a small and loyal fanbase was relatively easy in the low underground bars. The punk scene, the alternatives, and the rock fans soon spread the word around their friends. Eventually, these same people started offering their help with equipment, a few bills for copies, even instruments. It was still a small fanbase, but it was more than enough and they were all somehow more helpful than most people

One day in particular, your guitar player gave you a call. To your nerves, you picked up your phone, furious.

“Where the hell are you?! You’re so late! We’re supposed to start playing in ten minutes!” You barked.

“Ye-yeah…About that…” Your guitar player said with an awkward chuckle. “You see, it’s a funny story…”

“Oh god, no…” You groaned.

“Listen. First of all I’m fine–”

“What the fuck does that even mean? Wait, shit, bruv, did something happen to you?”

“You see, this is where the story gets funny…” They said with an awkward giggle. “I was minding my own business, on my way to the bar. I was on my bike. Riding it, you know. When an old lady and a tiny ass dog appeared out of nowhere, from the corner. In an attempt to not run over either of them, I turned and there was a tree–”

“You can’t be serious…” You gasped, “you alright?”

“In the greater scheme of things, yes I am…But…I kinda hurt my wrist very badly…”

“God, I’m scared to ask…how badly…?”

“Uh, I don’t think my skin is supposed to look purple…And the lady I almost ran over is offering to drive me to the emergency room?”

“Shit. What do we do? Do we cancel—“

“No! Don’t! I don’t know. Improvise?”

“How? You’re our guitar player!”

“Go wild on the bass?”

“Fuck off!” You groaned, annoyed.

Hobie Brown was not far from there, hearing to actually both sides of the conversation through his enhanced hearing. Helping your drummer setting everything up.

“I think something happened to your guitar player, mate?”

“Yeah, that’s what I’m hearing…” Your drummer said nervously.

“If you guys need help, I know how to play the guitar…I can sight read too, but if you give me a couple of minutes to look through your songs, it would be better…” Hobie said as your drummer’s face widened in surprise.

“Dude, seriously?”

“Yeah,” Hobie said, smirking confidently.

“The motherfucker broke–”

“We found a guitar player!” Your drummer interrupted, raising both arms in the air happily.

Hobie giggled and looked over at you. Your eyes remained wide and confused, wondering when the roller coaster of emotions was going to end. You knew him. You didn’t really, but you’d seen him around enough to recognize his face.

“Seriously?”

“Sure, why not?” He said, shrugging.

“Oh god, thank you! Thank you so much, mate!” You said happily, running your hands through your hair in relief, making Hobie chuckle.

“Call me Hobie,” He said with a cheeky smirk.

You introduced yourself, as well the rest of your band. As you discussed what t do for the set list, you insisted Hobie didn’t improve and sight read all of your songs, and instead settled for a set list made out of mostly covers from famous songs, and just leaving a few of your original songs distributed for Hobie to take a break from a hyper concentrated state.

As the anxiety was rising in your belly, about to make you puke a minute away from starting your gig, Hobie grabbed your shoulder, catching your attention.

“Hey, it’s going to be alright,” He said, trying to comfort you. “And if it blows, then what the hell? It’s not going to be the last time you play. That way you could always make a dramatic comeback and look even cooler,”

His words while making you feel less scared about it all, it did nothing for your nerves.

Although as soon as you started playing, the music consumed you. Playing with Hobie instead of your guitar player was simply different. Not that any of them was better or worse than the other, but the dynamics changed drastically. Despite not really knowing Hobie that well, the interactions on stage were fun, spontaneous, even comfortable, like you’d known him for way longer than just the last hour.

Hobie not only exchanged glances with you and walked over to you while playing his guitar, he also went over to your drummer. Sometimes jointing you for the choruses of the covers, or adding spontaneous riffs to guitar solos.

By the end of the gig, people were crazy, screaming, jumping around. As you grabbed the mic, covered in sweat and breathless you thanked them.

“We’d love to stay, but we actually have to go check out on our friend…” You chuckled. “Our guitar player had Ana vidente earlier today, and couldn’t play. We had the magnificent Hobie, here, helping us out!” You sighed. “Let me hear it for Hobie for being a real one!” The crown screamed and clapped, as Hobie smiled at you.

“Thank you for letting me help,” Hobie said, walking over to the mic and grabbing it. “Thank you guys as well!”

“Oh yeah. You guys made this very fun!” You said going back to the mic, your face bearing Hobie’s as he glanced at you with a smirk, “Have a good night, everybody!”

As you walked behind the stage, you grabbed a towel you had nearby and dried your face and hair.

“Good job out there,” Hobie said walking behind you.

“Thank you! It was all possible thanks to you!” You said looking up from your towel. “I’d love to stay and talk but…”

“Yeah, go check on your friend. You can buy me a beer some other time to return the favour,” He said with a cheeky smirk.

“Just one? An entire gig for just one beer?” You joked.

“Well, at least three,”

“Sounds like a deal,” you sighed, meeting his stare and biting your lower lip softly. Seriously, thank you…”

“My pleasure,” He said confidently, meeting your stare, as you noticed something in them sparking.

“See you around?”

“I hang out here an awful lot so, yeah,” He shrugged, putting his hands in the pockets of his vest.

[berrypass-de-murdler]

2 - 33 Gambling and Murder Are Both Illegal

AGH MY BOOK WON'T COME TIL TOMORROW WHY

Obviously I haven't been posting them because that's kind of a waste of time, but I've digitized quite a few of the murdlers' official artworks!

They're not beautiful, but they are convenient when I need basic transparent pictures of them.

I mean.... yes!!!!!!!

DON'T READ THE EPISODES WITHOUT READING THE BOOKS!!

Logico looks through his mail. He finds a scrap of paper with an invitation to an underground gambling ring written in blood! He and Tino laugh their asses off for a while.

IRRATINO: So are we gonna go? LOGICO: I mean, I was cordially invited. IRRATINO: And I’ve devised a system for winning at poker! LOGICO: Yes, esoteric gambling. IRRATINO: I swear it works!!

They enter through a manhole in the alley. The tables are set up in the sewers! Silverton the Legend and Boss Charcoal were also invited. (They left Drakonia as soon as the Lady Violet news got out.) And, of course, the twins.

BLUES: [with a ridiculous fake mustache] Welcome, welcome. It’s time for gambling time. Come get your cards and lose money. (Let’s get a beer.) Yeahh.

Irratino gleefully plays some rounds with the gang, and loses so much money. But he seems to be having fun, so it’s fine. 

LOGICO: Except that’s MY money too…

He’s more interested in the fact that there’s a human pinned to the wall (good god!!). That’d scar any sane person for life!

LOGICO: Um, hello! IRRATINO: Huh? [goat scream]

They have to solve this extremely gruesome murder! Who would have thought there’d be shifty figures in a sewer gambling operation? 

IRRATINO: All right, Logico. First things first, you need to FULLY learn numerological code. LOGICO: NO I DON’T! IRRATINO: Really? Then how else are you going to decode this clue? 

It’s made out of numbers. Clearly he wrote it, and is just trying to taunt Logico. 

LOGICO: JUST TELL ME THE CLUE YOU IDIOT IRRATINO: This is a learning opportunity!

Logico has no choice but to sit down and let Irratino teach him the way, when there are far more important things he could be doing. In the example, Tino uses a short name for reference: ���Red’. Logico grows deeply uncomfortable once again. He wants to forget that awful trip ever happened!

LOGICO: I get it now. Please stop.

Irratino is distressed by the sudden change in mood, and decides to take statements for him. Charcoal is walking very funny, for one.

IRRATINO: Say, um… what’s… what’s up? CHARCOAL: N-Nothing!

Tino notices that it’s his left arm that’s hindering him, and that he’s wearing a jacket when he usually doesn’t. He brings out a pipe from under his sleeve!

IRRATINO: Aha!

Charcoal falls over.

CHARCOAL: NOOO!! I HAD TO HAVE THAT ‘CUZ I BROKE MY ARM!!!  IRRATINO: OH MY GOD! OH NO, I’M SO SORRY

Charcoal sobs in pain. Irratino tries to put it back but makes it worse.

SILVERTON: Real charming guy you bagged there, Logico.

Logico tries to whack him, but there’s not much use against the glob of slime. He turns to the Blues instead.

BLUES: We, I mean I, know this: a shoe knife was at the cashier! LOGICO: A… ‘shoe knife’? BLUES: Yuh-huh. LOGICO: And what, may I ask, is a shoe knife. BLUES: Wha- duh!! It’s a shoe knife! You’re not a real adult so you don’t understand, short man! LOGICO: I am not short! I am just very compact.

Logico just has to wait out the answer for this one - as the Blues struggle to stand straight, a knife pops out of one of their giant boots!

BLUES: (I told you the boots were a terrible idea!!) LOGICO: I think you’re too young to gamble. BLUES: NO I’M NOT! I’m a grown man!

Logico opens their coat.

BLUES: I’m STILL a grown man! This is just my mistress! (Your WHAT?!) Shut up and carry me! [Pink throws her to the ground] [Blue screams] I want my mom! (She’s not coming! Dad MURDERED her!)

Logico and Irratino wince at the turn this is taking. 

LOGICO: Why not we take you home.

Logico carries one kid piggyback and Irratino holds the other as they head back into town where they belong.

The end! 

This gets really really bad when you remember that their dad is Mayor Honey

The power of Goat Lord compels you!

See you next time murdlers!

[milomaxxy]

Unfortunately, I'm going to have to put this put there for basically the foreseeable future:

I don't have any money. Like, at all. It doesn't even matter that I just got money today, bc it's all already gone to the various necessities. What little bit of "extra" money I have goes to my toddler, bc I'm not depriving her of enjoying things when we can. I feel like it's not a sin for me to let my 4 year old spend $2 for the carousel or buy a little glow-in-the-dark dog, or get a treat once or twice a month, y'know?

With that being said, until my spouse and I are able to win the fight to prove to the SSA that we're both disabled, this is our permanent financial status. We barely scrape by month-to-month and some months we have to beg from friends or family for the last week. So we don't have spare funds, at all, and that means we're incapable of donating without putting our family at risk of not getting what we need. We need our medicine every month, or we get seriously sick (me especially, since I have long covid that agitated my already chronically ill ass). We need things like toilet paper, trash bags, toiletries, cleaning supplies, and the other necessities it takes to keep our home and ourselves clean and healthy. We very obviously need to cover our bills and rent, or we'd be on the streets (again, after JUST getting into our apartment at the end of October). Our cat obviously needs her food and litter every month, especially with her being an emotional support animal. As is we can't even afford to use the bus as often as we need, so we end up hurting ourselves walking further than we can to get groceries.

So, until we're able to win our disability benefits cases, we sadly are unable to help anyone else. We can't risk our toddler, or being homeless again. I'm sure I'll end up keeping updates about it, if only bc it's exciting to get anywhere with the SSA, but for now this is an official "I'm so broke we can't even really afford to eat in order to ensure our toddler gets to eat for the next few days until food stamps comes in; so please stop asking for money" post.

I'll still reblog donation links, mutual aid requests, and the like, but I can't handle the constant reminder that I have less than a dollar to last the rest of the month. I'm almost to the point of closing my ask box until my financial status changes, just bc my mental health has taken a considerably large dunk since getting bombarded with requests to donate even after stating I literally have nothing to donate. I have basically pennies to my name, to last 30 more days. But I'm gonna have to put my mental health on one of the burners, if only so I can still be active in my family, y'know?

[overflowchute]

having a job vs working

so yada yada alienation of labor but basically when you do a work like old ass trades and shit like people do in video games as an idealized older way of working it's a way of life, it's your identity - a dude makes baskets or is a merchant or something. they work. but when you have a job you just kinda *gestures vaguely* doing some role as part of an organization and it doesn't feel like anything. you have a job you're employed but it's not like anything. it's just sort of a challenge you deal with unsatisfyingly on a regular basis that mostly exists as a time sink upon your soul.

all of this came from the fact that even though i am, in fact, employed, i feel like i'm unemployed at heart. what i mean by this is that what i do to make money and what defines anything about me or anything about what i want to do are only tangentially related, there's no real connection between my work answering phone calls at a certain government institution and anything i feel any personal interest in at all, this is what gives rise to the worksona - a sort of roleplayed set of activities and tasks that we are made to dance as a puppet for the approval of other people, also roleplaying their dancing puppet selves, so that we may be given the ability to live and possibly allow the true self to be an actual human in our spare time

we talk about how no one really loves their job and this is interesting to me because i think obviously there must be people who do, for reasons relating to the ideals of being able to feel like you're meaningfully having an effect on the lives of people around you and creating something you can be proud of. but the jobs where you can truly do that are basically vanishingly small and rare and now almost every job is not defined by the social network of (me as an offerer of a service and another as a receiver of a service) but by the role of (me as an interchangeable part welded into a giant machine, where personality and individuality actively runs against the goal of converting money into service into money again), this is the core of the ideal of how work does not actually exist as true labor anymore

that is to say, the labor still exists, the same things are being done, these jobs in some way relate to actual services and creation and activities and so on, and yet somehow the goal is for the majority of labor to be transformed from a human activity into an automatic assembly of mechanical parts. thus does the rise of automation once again lead to the problem of people fearing their deletion, thus too do we recreate a sort of spiritual despair of time wasted in a meaningless existence

i think especially in office jobs and bureaucracy, where you advance beyond the world of specialized skill-sets that you learn how to do and can sort of gamify, you reach this nightmarish prison where you're being kept around to be a human that does a vague variety of office and computer and file related things, or perhaps just one thing, but it doesn't FEEL like you're learning some skill, it's just vaguely understanding the annals of a contrived and stupid system where trying to figure out who does anything is a pain in the ass and your job is just to shunt various comments and paper around in the hope it eventually gets processed out into something someone wants - this in particular distances you from the idea that you've really developed a true "skill", rather than just sort of the ability to live in a corporate space without attracting undue negative attention

hence the total separation of the employed self and the unemployed self, the negation of one's tradeness, and the desperation of having to spend a great amount of every day and structure one's waking and sleeping hours week after week around the gnawing negation of selfhood that makes up approximately 1/7th of our daily life

the madness of it all...

[reilleclan-blog]

I was really hoping I could leave my abusive mother but I'm still stuck here. I had lost hope with certain things until I got a call about an apartment and I thought it'd be this but the universe keeps taking opportunities away from me I don't understand what I'm supposed to do . I feel trapped and yeah I feel like I will never escape I don't make enough money for the apartment and it's possibly gone to someone else. I tried getting another client but they haven't reached out to me since last week. Literally posting on the internet and interacting with others is all I have most ppl in my life wouldn't care about anything I feel pride over. I don't want to argue I don't want to fight . I don't I just want to live but it's hard all the time.

At this point I'm gonna say a lot of stuff that is stressing me out and if that means "exposing" then I guess so. My mother began spam texting me to clean .. basically the entire house b/c I'm home or b/c "I don't work a real job" I work part time and with my adhd and autism I'm lucky I still have a job. But I don't understand why I'd ever have to clean this big ass house ON MY OWN when I've cleaned it MULTIPLE times on my own just for my mother to re dirty it not even trying to keep it clean how it was. It feels like if she wants to talk to me she talks to me just to boss me around and that's it. She doesn't have problems with other ppl's daughters helping them or FEEDING them. Cause btw when I moved back in with my mother she wouldn't feed me she'd go out not saying where or when she'd be back and have leftovers spoil or wouldn't let me have anything when she knew I wasn't working and knew I was barely eating.

So yeah the little money I had "saved" went to buying $100 worth of groceries or fast food cause I didn't have many options. And again I'm fucking disabled but nobody cares about that b/c I'm not "disabled on the outside". But back to cleaning this house MOST OF THE MESS is from my MOTHER everything is from my mother. I'm not perfect I have some clothes I haven't picked up a couple unwashed dishes but most of that is from my mother and her doing favors for ppl b/c she wants to be liked or whatever.

I don't have a problem helping my mom but when I'm being berated and told I'm lazy just for this lady to spam text me to clean up HER MESS. And for her to call our family to tell them I'm lazy.. and I'm just wasting oxygen in this stupid fucking house.. that's not a good feeling at all. And I hate that I care for my mother but if I don't do something her way or right away or (in this case cleaning an entire downstairs by myself when it has papers and arts and crafts and HER SHOES and she has a TON of clothes she's bought) I'm immediately "the bad guy" I'm so tired of these fucking ppl I'm so tired of family saying "we don't know what went on in that house" THATS RJFHT U DONT SO WHY THE FJCK DO YALL MAKE ME THE VILLIAN B/C U SEE ONE ASPECT OF OUR LIVES OR INTERACTIONS. I'm so fucking tired THIS IS LKKE EVERYDAY MESS.

Yes I'm not the cleanest but I KEEP MY MESS IN MY ROOM AND MY ROOM WOULD LOOK LIKE THE CLEANIEST IN THIS BITCH IF U SEEN THIS FUCKING HOUSE. IM TJRED I WANT TO LEAVE I WANT TO FUCKING EXPERIENCE THAT MAYBE SOMETHING CAN BE GOOD OUT THERE INSTEAD OF LIVING IN THIS FUCKING HOUSE. AND MIND U WHEN I WAS ASKING MY MOTHER FOR HELP WITH THE APARTMENT SHE TOLD ME SHE EOULD HELP THEN CHANGED HER MIND AND I BEGSN TK CRY MY EYES IUT BECAUSE JF IT WAS ANYONE ELSES KID SHE WOULD HELP THEM THEN LETTER SHE GAVE ME WHAT I NEEDED BUT WHY WHY DO I CONSTANTLY NEED TK BE HURT BY THESES "ADULTS" IM TOLD IM LOVED BUTNI HAVE NEVER DELT IT NEVER

MY DAD IS JUST S HUSK OF A DUDE I CALL DAD IM SO FUCKING TIRED IM TIRED . I THINK ABOUT SUICIDE ALMOST ALL THE TIME BECAUSE J FEEL BROKEN I FEEL ALONE THATS ALL I FEEL I FUCKING HATE THJS PLACE I actually sh and at this point it really just feels like only options. I feel trapped I try to embrace myself with hobbies I love but I constantly see stuff I don't have or what others have or what's happening around our world but I'm still stuck in this hell hole feeling trapped. I'd say I have become happier as a person but my mother just takes it away and finds any reason to hate me. Yes it feels like she hates me and my father and at this point I don't think anyone can convince me they don't. I want to forget everything and move on but my brain constantly brings up my trauma I don't want to remember it.

If u tell me to "just be positive" I might shoot someone in the face. I'm JOKING HAHAHA I'm just so lost I wish I felt like I was cared for I wish someone would even care as I type this out. Nobody cares not even my blood

I don't think anyone wouldn't care if i disappeared but it'd be too late for anyone to care. I'm sorry I can't hold on I don't know

[potionio]

I know this might shock some but trust me if disabled people could pick being financially stable and work we would? Like we really don’t think it’s fun to stress every month because we have to fill in 1000 papers or suddenly some form has changed and we risk losing our money. Or god forbid we suddenly fall one MILLIMETRE outside pf what is considered ‘disabled enough’ to some fucking healthy old political board. Because we still aren’t healthy enough to work but not sick enough to stay at home.

Like pull your heads our of your asses.

I’m so privileged to live in a country with free healthcare, and even so I’ve been continually let down by a system that was 100% not set up to help me. Like if I didn’t have people in my life to help me w 90% of the things I’ve had to ‘figure out on my own’ I’d be well and truly fucked.

Like god just get fucked. Ableism gets so fucking tiring to see.

Anyway I’m going to take my painkillers and pose hot women in the sims now bcs some of y’all don’t know how tf to act towards disabled people and have no interest in learning.

Edit: pls understand that not everyone wants to work-work, capitalism is a disgusting hell scape and nobody should be required to work themselves to the bone for basic necessities- what I mean is fully just the stability and safety that comes with full-time working is literally something I’ve yearned for so long.

[nvrcmplt]

Theo regards the younger with a hint of a smile, hands rubbing at the nape of his neck. How does one get back in touch with the real world and have a conversation ? He isn't quite sure but Lance looks capable and that's all he needs. ❝ ━ Hey, uh, I was wondering if you wanted to make some money ? Nothing too harsh. I need a little help every now and then, in my home since I can't always remember to do things and you look pretty capable of carrying things. We can negotiate pay, and I can give you home cooked meals ? ❞ A second later, he shakes his hands out with a sheepish laugh, ❝ ━ I hope that's not too presumptuous, it's basically just some house chores, nothing funny, I promise. I really need the help...❞

Lance was sceptical, if his face, scrunched with squinting glower was to say anything. He wasn't sure if this guy knew how to talk to people with invitations to jobs, but that was it chief. The way he swung about sounded more like a sex-scam more than anything, and it was lucky for Theo to clear his own actions up because the heat on Lance's tongue was ready to consume the man in his sudden ire and embarrassment of a proposal out of the fucking blue… "Christ man…" He snorted, almost looking like he was about to spit ash from the fire in his lungs before he laughed it off with them. "That was a terrible pickup line if I ever heard one, glad it ain't that ya after. I was about ta break ya kneecaps." He shook his head, looking down at the paper in his hands. A flyer for work, printed off at the agency and handed over to Lance a few hours ago.

He wasn't sure what he was coming down with now but the sight of this guy spoke a bit to him. Lance wasn't any much better, let's be real, these were the last of his clean clothes, they had holes in the thigh and pockets. His jacket was Darc's a borrow - the only thing that hadn't looked like it's in need of a wash. His shirt was threadbare but clean! Still, it wasn't a lie to say Lance was a man that needed cash quick to get himself somewhere else in life. "The agency said ya had somethin' in terms of like… needs?" He wasn't sure what that meant, he wasn't sure if he wanted to be wiping asses, but to be told it was just chores moments ago, he hoped it was like allergy based or whatever.

"I mean, chores are mad easy for me. I ain't shy to clean up, and I'm way stronger than ya think I am." He wasn't going to say anything about his height, he knew he was short as shit, fed his muscles with the wrath of being closer to hell. "I mean, I won't say no but like - can I bring my room-mate? Safety and all that, cause ya look like a good guy but a house visit for shit like this? That's how idiots get killed and I ain't about that life." Just saying it nice and clear… "And the name's Lance - I'm… willin' to work for ya? If ya want me to still."

[yuukei-yikes]

Here’s a Harutaka ask for you! Do you think they’d get married? If yes what do you think their wedding would be like? Also I hope you feel better soon!

HIII if it isnt the little guy i watched slowly get into kagepro. whatsup. how are u holding up being into kagepro. ALSO THANK U im already a lil better i ate 1 single boiled egg and now im laying in bed

yes haruka and takane 10000% get so married. i have this silly headcanon that haruka is begging her from day 1 to get married because IDK he's just excited about being alive and takane liking him💗💗💗 and maybe he is also terrified of her changing her mind abt liking him and for some reason thinks getting married will solve that feeling of feeling not good enough for her💗💗💗 wait who said that. but takane's all like No haruka we're only like 20 and he's like AUUUUGGGHHH!!! fine

honestly its a hc born from a bit in the novels (im not sure u read them) where haruka says man i wish takane stopped swearing so much she's gonna have a hard time finding a husband💔💔💔 ITS SO FUNNY TO ME idk likeeee since he knew he'd die, he never imagined being an adult at all. this is more in the territory of the early twenties crisis he apparently has post str i guess. which is also hilarious.

i think haruka's like... he thinks of marriage of this weird alien thing bc as a teen he wont even entertain the idea of dating or anything bc HES DYING like he literally shoots down the acknowledgement of his feelings for takane BECAUSE he is dying. he's like man whats the fucking point if im just gonna die this sucks ASS

so marriage. well it's an adult thing. and he turns out to be alive!! and takane REALLY LIKES HIM FOR SOME REASON!!! and he's like WELL WERE ADULTS ARENT WE WHY THE HELL SHOULDNT WE GET MARRIED???? takane's like because we're BARELY adults like BARELY. and also IN SO MUCH NEED OF THERAPY. and haruka's like i dont see how that's related🙄🙄🙄 whatever takane ur such a bore🙄🙄🙄 its just a silly argument they laugh and tease each other about *rips hair out* theyre so CUTE AUGGHHH

yeah they do eventually get married. not IMMEDIATELY though but still probably rly young. like before their mid twenties young. LOL!!! as for a wedding i dont think they'd actually care about one??? because haruka and takane are really introverted ppl and being the center of attention mortifies both. well takane's used to attention bc streamer slay but its not. the same. like that's different BASICALLY i dont think takane would care to throw money in something like this and haruka is also like whatever man just sign the paper so i can officially be ur boywife. they still probably have like a little get together with the dan though. maybe they dont even tell them they're like OH BY THE WAY WE DID SOMETHING FUNNY TODAY wjxnoefuoendoefundkc call shintaro&ayano on the phone like can u come with us to sign as our witnesses. and shintaro and ayano are like WITNESSES OF WHAT? erm. haruka&takane engaged for exactly 14 hours when haruka asks takane to marry him for the millionth time and this time she's like uhhh. yeah alright👍

thats my harutaka wedding hc. that theyre too lazy to have a wedding🫡 ayano mourns it so much she's been like wedding planning her whole life for her siblings. seto&mary get ultra married as soon as theyre 18 im not getting into those hcs i already did but ayano goes so crazy with it. and then haruka&takane are next (tho years later) and ayano's like WH?? BUT IM?? SUPPOSED TO PLAN ANOTHER WEDDING????? WHAT DO U MEAN U WONT MAKE ONE???? and theyre like 🤷‍♂️ maybe she forces them and she organizes it alone and forces them to kiss in front of everyone and only then stops being annoying. sorry i love crazed wedding planner ayano

[phlistopher]

Letters To Doless

I wrote a humor column in college for the Hofstra Chronicle under the pseudonym Silence Doless, a nod to Benjamin Franklin I didn't come up with.

I was very proud of this work at the time. It's all very Hofstra specific, and the mid 2000s. Against my better judgement, I've decided to republish the series here.

This is the eighth article, originally printed December 28th, 2007. Commentary at the end.

Well, it’s happened. I’ve finally decided to forego creating new material this week, and instead respond to letters from you, the readers. Unfortunately, I haven’t received any letters to respond to, so I will be forced to make them up. Here’s one from little Lucy Palmer of Columbus, Ohio.

Dear Silence Doless,

Why am I writing this letter? Was it really necessary to create fictional characters to fill up your humor column? Personally, I think it’s downright unethical. Don’t you have to follow some journalistic moral code, or something? You should be ashamed of yourself.

Sincerely, little Lucy Palmer.

P.S. How did you imagine the Chronicle getting all the way to Ohio?

Well Lucy, first off I’m a humor columnist, not a journalist, which basically frees me from any moral obligation whatsoever. I can pretty much make up anything I want to and get away with it. I don’t have to pay taxes, for example. As long as it falls under the category of satire, essentially meaning, “making fun of people”, it’s fine.

For another example, if I was a regular feature writer I couldn’t be having this conversation with you (at least not on paper). While that would be wonderful (that’s satire), I also couldn’t insult President Stuart Rabinowitz on a regular basis, which more than makes up for the drawbacks. As for if I find it necessary to have fictional people write me letters, the short answer is yes (as is the long answer). I’m going to write a letters column by God, and nobody, pretend or otherwise, is going to stop me.

Oh, and the Chronicle gets to Ohio via stork. Has anyone even seen a stork in real life? Exactly, they’re all busting their ass in my imagination delivering Chronicles to Ohio.

Next letter!

Dear Silence Doless,

This is President Stuart Rabinowitz, and it is my distinct pleasure of saying that your humor columns are disgraceful and slanderous. Never in my life have I read such rude and derogatory rubbish. You think I’m not “hip” to what goes on at this University? Did you honestly think you could just insult me right under my very nose? Think again Doless. It is high time you paid for your crimes. Not with a duel or even jail, but with money. That’s right, I’m raising your tuition. In fact, I might as well raise tuition for the entire school while I’m at it. Mwahaha, with the money I’ll buy a med school! How do you like them apples, Columbia?

Ah Rabinowitz, my old arch nemesis. The tighter you squeeze, the more students will slip through your fingers. The more you raise tuition less and less people will be able to afford Hofstra until one day the only people who can are spoiled Long Island kids. Great Rabinowitz, I really want some ugg-wearing snob with a hangover and a fake orange tan operating on my spine. Seriously, the only other people who will go are sick people who still think it’s the Nassau Community Hospital.

Ok, we have time for one more letter.

Dear Silence Doless,

Fred Doogleberry from Columbus, Ohio; get these storks out of my house. I don’t want your paper, and I don’t care about Long Island; get these birds off my patio, out of my chimney, and away from my kids! I’m also suing you three thousand dollars for damages. My sofa is torn to shreds and the varmints keep crapping on my wife. I want them out immediately.

Sincerely, Fred.

Fred, I would love to help you out, but solving your imaginary problem would involve creating some sort of new material, which I decided I wouldn’t at the beginning of this column.

Goodnight.

You know what? Not bad.

[planetconfession]

[c] I woke up and chose violence this morning, but instead of lashing out indiscriminately, I figured a controlled detonation in the form of ranting would be a little more palatable instead of taking my grievances and anger straight to their doorstep. Please excuse the unhinged anger & spite that’d make the Player Hater’s Ball, Katt Williams, or even K-DOT blush…

There’s this pick-me Jack Mormon that’s been a particular royal pain in my taint for quite some time now. “Jack” at first glance and face value seems friendly enough, but I assure you, it’s a well crafted façade. Whether due to indoctrination from growing up within the LDS community or being a vulnerable narcissist is still to be determined (biased opinion on my end, I think it’s both fr). My problem with this individual isn’t the fact that they come from a Jesus-fanfiction doomsday cult that from the ground up would love nothing more than to subjugate or decimate people of color because they “possess the mark of Cain”, but I can’t shake this gut feeling that they’re a proverbial Fox in the Henhouse with a “Hail, Hydra” complex. What I mean by this is, anybody that’s taken a high school level psychology class or even has a basic understanding of the DSM could tell you Jack is compensating for deep rooted issues (trust me, it takes a psycho to identify other psychos). Jack is a textbook Whiteboy that has unresolved angst and resentment towards their conservative father, so they’ve meticulously crafted a persona that at surface value would seem to be a form of rebellion, but in actuality is a desperate attempt for attention/validation. However, this persona also serves another purpose to lure in individuals that Jack’s attracted to and also fetishizes in an attempt to ease their quarry into a false sense of comfort, security, & trust. Case in point, for a good minute Jack gleefully jumped on board the whole “Eat the Rich” resurgence, which isn’t the problem… The issue is that Jack has lived in THREE of some of the Wealthiest (and Whitest) Area codes West of the Mississippi River, regularly goes to concerts that would cost a kidney for anyone else, and don’t even get me started on the trips/vacations that they’ve indulge in. Also, have you ever heard of anybody that’s poor or broke going snowboarding? Let alone having the money for martial arts training and football equipment when they were a kid? Didn’t think so. Circling back to their lustful proclivities, Jack has hella Christopher Columbus syndrome fantasies involving Latinx & Indigenous women (but truth be told he’s an equal opportunity scavenger when it comes to Alt-Girls). I have no hard-core proof, but to quote Laszlo from What We Do In The Shadows, “He’s got the Hair of Pedophile”.

Now to go full-bore, full-send, and unabashed petty vulgar sithlord… I hate that “I didn’t know they stack shit that high” twerp’s punchable face, I hate their parasitical culture vulture personality, & I fucking LOATHE that bugnutted inbred shrimp-dicked rotted-out douche canoes entire existence. Fuck, if it wasn’t for a Lady stepping in, I woulda’ve Forrest Gump walked my ass all the way to that Mormon infested shit-stained corner of our country just rip off their head to use their skull as codpiece just so my nuts’d Tea-Bag their brain pan. Also, I hope the next time that you go down on somebody, you get toilet paper dandruff in your mouth and they fart in your face resulting in you getting pink eye.

I’m so sorry about this for anyone who reads this. Yes, I am painfully aware I have MAJOR issues myself. I’m hoping whoever reads this that also has major sources of internal rage can find some comfort or catharsis in this rant or better yet if you’re just having a shitty day, maybe it’ll provide a good laugh. And to answer your question… Yes, I listened to all of Kendrick’s diss tracks about Drake while writing this. 

And “Jack”, if you see this, buddy, ol’ pal… Up yours & go 69 a Cactus. (P.S: don’t push it, because the trick to having a super weapon… is to always build two)

.

[lessthanpure]

A Love Supreme Seems Far Removed Chapter 1

Fandom: Elementary

Relationships: Tommy Gregson/Sherlock Holmes

Tags: female Sherlock Holmes, Western AU

Summary: Thomas Gregson is a man in want of a wife. Sherlock Holmes is a woman in want of getting out. Can they help each other?

Rating: Explicit (not yet, but it will be)

Wordcount: 5360

Notes: Ok so I was stuck on titling this until i found a fantastic generator that spits out hozier song lyrics. Perfect. I might have chosen a basic-ass one, but it seemed to fit. Other possible options were: reasons wretched and divine, Found me just in time, and Only blue or black days. If y'all want to use one of those, OR the generator yourselves! Here it is.

AO3 Link

Sherlock Holmes is a woman of means. So her father expressly forbade her sending the letter to the mail-order bride company. But she had been on a ship to America before he realized she was even gone. 

Sherlock hopes that any man who puts in an order for her is at least kind. She sighs and leans herself on the railing of the ship. She also hopes that America is drier and more free than England, though she’s read many novels and newspapers detailing the culture. 

Tommy Gregson just wants some companionship. After Cheryl…he needs a change. So when his deputies had dropped the small bound pamphlet in front of him, he had read it in curiosity. He had stilled when he realized what exactly the pages detailed. Brides, ready for men to just…marry. He still gives the papers a thorough read, just to get his deputies off his back, but none catch his eye until the very last page three weeks later. Sherlock Holmes. An odd first name, for sure. But he finds himself reading her description. 5’9, tall for a woman. And slight, as well. 28 years old, black hair, blue eyes, fair skin…he can picture her. So he looks through the pages detailing the process for such a thing. There are ways to talk before he decides. Letters. He nods to himself, alone in his room, and writes to the company, asking for her address. 

Sherlock checks the post every day, looking for any letters from possible…’suitors’ isn't the best word…’potential husbands’ is more accurate. But it’s weeks before she gets one. She takes it to her room and opens it eagerly. She examines the handwriting first- neat penmanship, which pleases her. That means the man takes care in everything he does. She reads the letter.

Ms. Holmes, the greeting says, which makes her even more pleased- not overly familiar. The house she’s in, with other mail-order brides, the women had said that the men that write often use the woman's first name or even a nickname like they know each other. There are the rare ones that write something sappy like ‘to my dearest love’ or what have you. She reads the letter.

I am writing to you to see if we would be a good match. My name is Thomas Gregson and I’m the Sheriff in Silver Road, New Mexico. I admit, I’ve never done something like this before. But I’m willing to give this a try because some companionship would be nice. 

Since I have an idea of what you look like, I guess it’s only fair for you to have an idea of what I look like. I’m thirty-two, six feet tall, and going gray. I’ve spent my whole life in Silver Road. The town has a sheriff’s office, a saloon, a jail, a courthouse, and several houses. I live outside of town, in a house with a bedroom, a kitchen, a bathroom, and a front porch. 

Let me know if you'd like to correspond,

Thomas Gregson

Sherlock hums, pleased. This Thomas Gregson, he seems both polite and honest. He also didn't force the issue, he asked for her permission for them to write each other. She picks up a pen and paper, and starts to write a reply. She goes through a draft, crossing out words that don’t seem to fit, before she’s happy with the result.

Gregson opens the envelope when he gets home. The penmanship is gorgeous and he raises an eyebrow at it. It almost looks like she comes from money, or at least was schooled like she was. He reads the letter. 

Mr. Gregson.

As you might expect, my name is Sherlock Holmes, and I’m from London England. There’s really so much to explain to a person that just one letter, especially an introductory one, comes nowhere close to touching what they are truly like. 

As far as myself, I am also looking for companionship. It’s the reason I wrote to the company- I was not driven by desperation, like some of the poor women at the home I am currently staying in. There’s no bad past behind me. Just an open future.

I appreciate that you asked for permission for us to write one another- it shows that you’re a good man. Consider this to be a formal invitation for us to continue to correspond. 

Silver Road- and you- sound incredibly interesting, and I look forward to learning more about both.

I look forward to receiving your next letter,

Sherlock Holmes

Gregson hums. It’s a brief letter, and she hadn’t revealed much about herself. But Sherlock is right- one letter isn’t enough. He’s looking forward to more.

There’s several weeks of correspondence between the two before she agrees to come to him. She’s antsy on the train, looking out the windows as the somewhat familiar city disappears in favor of empty land. 

When she arrives in Silver Road, she disembarks the train. Tommy- as he had insisted she called him- had said he would wear his uniform so he’s easily recognizable, and she looks for a star pinned to a brown shirt. 

She soon finds it and looks at him from afar, hidden among the other passengers. Tommy is looking at every female passenger, probably wondering which one she is. He’s a handsome man, prematurely going gray as he described. It’s dashing. He’s tall and well-built, but not overly wide. He has a sinewy strength to him she quite likes. Before she takes a stride towards him, they meet eyes. She walks to him, her luggage in hand. He meets her. “Tommy,” she asks.

He nods. “Sherlock?” He has an accent, of course (everyone does), but it’s light and he uses it gently.

“Yes.”

“Mind if I take those,” he points at her suitcases. 

“They’re light,” she says. He nods and doesn’t push. 

“I didn’t expect the train to be late,” he says. “I apologize for that.”

“You don't control that. It was an interesting wait,” she replies. “Plenty of people to talk to, but most just wanted me to pronounce different things,” she rolls her eyes.

Tommy chuckles. “We don’t get many people from England ‘round here.” 

“So I gathered.” 

“Please, follow me,” he says, standing aside. She does. “Unfortunately, our judge doesn’t marry anyone after three in the afternoon," he starts as he walks beside her. "So you’re welcome to stay with me until the morning when we can be wed.”

“An unmarried woman staying with a man,” she questions.

“I won’t-” he stops himself. “I don’t expect you to have sex with me,” he says. “I just thought it would be nice to have somewhere safe to rest your head.”

“Is there a hotel in town?”

“Not much of one,” he admits. “It’s a few rooms above the saloon.” He snorts. “Most of them are rented by the hour.”

“It pulls double duty as a brothel,” she asks, surprised. He nods. She hums. “Does it have a flat rate for a night?”

“Yes.”

“Then there I shall stay.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

He nods again. “I’ll show you the way.”

Tommy brings her outside the train station and to a carriage. He steps up and offers his hand, and she takes it to let him help her up. He settles into the seat and picks up the reins, urging the horse into movement. “No one would think less of you for staying with me,” he assures her, looking at her. “We are to be married, after all.”

“I doubt that,” Sherlock says, voice dry. 

“The West is not a savage land.”

Sherlock doesn’t reply. The rest of the ride is silent until they pull up to a two-story building. Music is flowing out of the doors, even though they’re shut. After Tommy helps her out, the doors open and two men come flying out. Sherlock quickly side-steps the brawling men. 

“Knock that off,” Tommy demands. He waits for his moment and seizes one of the men, hauling him up with ease. Sherlock feels a shudder run through her at his easy strength. Tommy shoves the man away and gets between the irate men. “Go home, cool off,” he says, and one man grumbles and walks away. Tommy turns when he’s away and looks at the second man. “You too, Horace.”

Horace walks off. 

“Still want to spend the night here,” Tommy asks. 

“Yes.”

Tommy nods. He pushes the doors open and holds one open for her, and she steps inside. The building doesn’t offer much relief from the hot sun. There are several games of cards being played, a bar with plenty of alcohol, and women walking around, putting glasses in front of various men and some even sitting on laps. She follows Tommy to the bar. 

“John,” Tommy calls, and the bartender turns. 

“Sheriff,” John says, approaching him. “What can I do for you?”

“I need a room for the night,” he says. John glances behind him, to Sherlock.

“This your soon-to-be bride?”

“Yes,” Sherlock says. 

“I’ll have Charlie send you up,” John nods. “Charlie!”

A woman soon appears. “Yes, John?”

“This lady needs a room for the night. Give her 4.”

“Sure thing.”

“What’s the cost for the night,” Sherlock asks.

“I’ll pay,” Tommy says.

“That’s not what I asked.”

“Sherlock, you’re to be my wife. You don’t have to pay.”

“How much for the night?”

John says the cost. Tommy glares at him. 

Sherlock nods and sets her luggage down, drawing out her purse. 

“Sherlock-”

“I’ll pay, Tommy.”

She hands over the money and John accepts it. 

There’s a crash and Tommy steps to Sherlock, putting his back to her. Protecting her. It warms her.

“Sheriff,” the man in front of a small group of men says, smiling. The men behind him look rough. Every one of them is carrying a pistol. 

“Moriarty,” Tommy greets cooly. 

“I thought you were an ‘honorable man,’” Moriarty mocks the last two words. “Never figured you’d buy a loose woman.”

Sherlock scowls at Tommy’s back. 

“What do you care what I do,” Tommy asks. Moriarty comes closer with two men while the other four go to tables. 

Moriarty steps to his right and looks at Sherlock as best as he can. Tommy steps in front of her again, but not enough to completely block her from view. Moriarty drags his eyes down her body. “God damn, Sheriff. This one wasn’t here when I was last,” he says, cocking his head. “I might just have to buy a few nights with her myself.”

“Moriarty,” Tommy says warningly.

“What? Is she your personal whore,” Moriarty laughs. His eyes light up after a second. “Hold up,” he says. “She’s got suitcases. Did you send off for a bride, Sheriff?”

“Sherlock, go upstairs,” Tommy says without looking at her. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Tommy-”

“Go.”

Charlie stands next to Sherlock and she looks at her. The woman looks frightened. Sherlock nods and follows her. 

“Who is Moriarty,” Sherlock asks when they’re in her room for the night.

“A bounty hunter,” the woman replies quietly. “One that always brings his bounties dead rather than alive.” Sherlock nods. “Stay in here tonight, lock the door. Don’t go out until the morning.”

“Alright,” Sherlock says. She knows she can hold her own, but it’s always good to meet people who don’t fight in the first place. Men who don’t turn sour when the bottle runs out or when they lose a hand of cards. "Thank you. Goodnight." Charlie leaves, politely closing the door behind her. Sherlock walks to it and locks it. She gets ready for bed and goes to sleep. 

The next morning, Sherlock wakes early and gets dressed. She packs everything up so she's ready whenever Tommy comes. She walks downstairs and goes to John, who's oddly still tending bar. She thought there would be a fresh bartender. 

"Morning," John says once she's close enough. 

"Good morning."

"The Sheriff hasn't come by yet."

Sherlock nods. "I thought as much."

There are fewer men in the establishment than there had been last night, but still over a dozen. She looks around. Most of them drunks, some of them gamblers, some whoremongers. She can pick out exactly who is who, of course. She turns back to John. "May I stay down here so I can see the Sheriff when he comes?"

"Do whatever you want." Sherlock nods and settles at a table. "Want breakfast," he calls.

"Please." 

A woman with a low cut dress is soon there. "What can I get you," she asks. 

"What do most people get?"

"Grits and eggs."

"That's fine." The woman nods and walks off.

There’s a stampede of footsteps and Sherlock looks up. Moriarty and his men are coming down the stairs. John appears at her table, sitting in the available chair. 

“Look who I found,” Moriarty crows. “The Sheriff’s mail-order bride,” he says. He stops near her table a few paces back. “Are you one of them virgin ones,” he asks. Sherlock glares at him. “Aw, come on sweetheart. I’m just asking a polite question.”

“No, you’re asking an invasive one.”

“Well, well, well. You ain’t from around here.”

“What tipped you off,” she cocks her head. Moriarty glares and takes a step forward. A black man in a brown shirt appears in front of her with his back to her. He has a pistol in his belt.

“Deputy,” Moriarty greets. 

“Moriarty. I believe you’ve been told to leave this lady alone.”

“It’s just a friendly conversation, Deputy.”

A woman comes out and puts a plate in front of Sherlock. She looks at it, seeing eggs and a truly strange pile of…something. These must be the grits. She looks up again, not wanting to look away from Moriarty for very long. He’s a dangerous man. Sherlock can hold her own with her hands, the pistol at her ankle, and the knife in her boot, but she’d rather not risk it. 

“Enjoy your meal, darlin’,” Moriarty says. He has the same accent as Tommy, but his is much harsher. He turns and walks to a nearby table, joined by a few of his men. The deputy doesn’t move. Neither does John. Sherlock eats her breakfast, enjoying the eggs and tolerating the grits. Food is fuel, nothing else, but there’s better fuel available. Perhaps not in Silver Road, though. 

She hasn’t been done two minutes when Tommy appears at her side. “Ready,” he asks. Sherlock nods and stands. “I’ll help you with your things.” He offers his arm and Sherlock takes it, leading him to her room. He grabs her suitcases and brings her downstairs without a word. He keeps himself between her and the room. 

“Have a nice day with your bride, Sheriff,” Moriarty calls loudly. “I’ll be seeing you.”

“Goodbye, Moriarty.”

Tommy brings Sherlock outside and into a carriage. He helps her in like he had before and they go to a building. He helps her down and they walk inside. He relaxes once in, which makes Sherlock relax. 

“The judge will marry us here,” he says.

She nods. The judge soon appears and performs the ceremony.

Sherlock walks out of the courthouse a married woman with her husband beside her. He helps her in. “My deputies insisted they give me the day off today,” Tommy says as they get into the carriage. “So I’ll bring you home.”

“Alright.”

Tommy brings her outside town to a modest house and they go inside, Tommy holding her suitcase. “One is light,” he notes once he opens the door for her. She walks inside. “What did you bring? More specifically, what did you leave behind?”

“Is that important,” she asks. 

“I guess not,” he says. “Follow me.”

She does, and he brings her to his room. He sets the suitcases on the bed. “Get settled in,” he nods. “Did you eat?”

“Yes. Eggs and grits.”

“Ah, I don’t like grits myself.”

“Me neither.” Tommy chuckles and Sherlock likes the sound.

“I’ll be sure not to make you any, then.”

“Make me any,” she repeats.

“I’ve been alone for some time, Sherlock. I do know how to cook.”

“And you don’t expect your wife to do that?”

“If you want to, you can, but no I don’t expect it.”

“You’re a strange man, Tommy.”

“I choose to take that as a compliment.” He smiles gently. “That one’s your dresser,” he points. She nods. He leaves and closes the door behind him. She unpacks her meager belongings and puts them away. She’ll get more here. She can sew well enough with the machine she brought, so fabric will do just fine. She often has to get clothes tailored to fit her tall frame anyway. Sherlock steps out of the room and finds Tommy in the main area, sitting on a couch. He stands when he sees her. “All good,” he asks.

“Yes.”

“Good.” He pauses, unsure for the first time. “I gotta be honest. I don’t have many days off, so I’m not sure what I’m gonna do today. Especially with a new wife,” he laughs. Sherlock finds her mind filled with just exactly what Tommy can do with a new wife. She feels her face warm and Tommy must see it. “I’ll wait until you’re ready, Sherlock,” he says, walking to her. “I’m not an impatient man.”

She smiles. “Thank you.”

“Sheriff,” a desperate voice calls outside, and Tommy runs out, Sherlock following him. There’s a man outside, eyes wide with fear. “There’s a fire in town!”

“Where,” Tommy demands.

“Watson’s house!”

“Fuck! Sherlock, stay here,” Tommy demands. 

“I can help!”

“I want you safe! Stay. Here.”

“What if Moriarty comes by,” she challenges.

Tommy glares and grits his teeth. “Do you know how to ride a horse?”

“Yes.”

“Follow me.”

She does, finding two horses hitched to a fence. On the fence are two saddles, one normal and one side. He hefts the side saddle in his arms (again warming her with his strength) and quickly does the buckles. Sherlock steps forward and does the side facing her. Tommy gets his own horse ready with the help of the man, and they all get on their horses. The men turn theirs towards town, and Sherlock follows. Tommy urges his horse quickly, and she races after him. Soon, they’re in town and there are people yelling at each other as they carry buckets. Tommy stops his horse outside a building and gets down, running. Sherlock hops off and follows him, hitching her dress up so she can move quickly. They get to a building engulfed in flames. “Is Watson inside,” Tommy demands of the closest man. 

“No!”

“Good.” He turns. “Sherlock, this is Brad. He’ll show you where the well is. Go.”

Sherlock nods and follows Brad. They both get two buckets and bring them back. Sherlock looks at the house, quickly assessing where exactly she needs to throw the water. She takes her buckets and goes around the side, putting one on the ground. She uses the other and precisely throws it on the source of the fire. It goes out. She brings the second bucket around and uses it at another source. She helps the townsfolk put out the fire and Tommy is soon next to her. He sighs. “Never seen a fire that big. But we put it out fast.”

“There were multiple spots of origin.”

“How do you know that,” he asks, looking at her. 

“Someone set that fire.”

“But why?”

“Haven’t the foggiest idea. Who’s Watson,” Sherlock asks, turning to face him. He has soot on his cheek so she takes out her handkerchief and wipes it away. He stills. She cleans him up and folds the cloth again. 

“My right hand deputy,” Tommy replies. He offers his arm and she accepts. They walk together and Tommy brings her to the jail. They walk inside and Sherlock sees a Chinese woman inside, fingers steepled in front of her face. There are a few men around, silent. 

“Watson,” Tommy says, walking to the woman. Sherlock is surprised and follows him. 

“Sheriff,” she stands. “You were supposed to have a day off.”

“Fuck that, your house was on fire.”

“I wasn’t inside,” Watson says. She looks at Sherlock. “This your new wife,” she asks, a smile playing at her lips. 

“Yes. Meet Sherlock,” he introduces. “Sherlock, this is Joan Watson.”

“Pleasure,” Sherlock says. “I’m sorry about your home.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Gregson.” Sherlock startles- of course, her name is different now. 

“Just Sherlock, please.” 

Joan looks at Tommy, who nods. “Sherlock says that the fire was started in multiple places.”

“How do you know,” she asks Sherlock.

“I read a lot,” she shrugs. 

“Where was the fire started,” Joan asks.

“The east side of your home, right in the middle of the base of the wall, the west side the same, the north side on either side of the door and in the center of your house,” she replies. 

“Five,” Tommy demands. She nods. “How do you know, Sherlock?”

“Simple deduction, really,” she says. Tommy listens to Sherlock explain. She’s smart, and he doesn’t know how she saw what she did. 

“Impressive,” he nods. She smiles a little. She doesn’t get told that enough, Gregson realizes. I’ll tell her that every day. “Did you see anything else? Something that would tell us who set it, maybe?”

Sherlock shakes her head. “No, the fire and water must have burned and washed away everything I could have used.”

“Sheriff,” Watson says, and he looks at her. “I think we all know who probably set it.”

“Moriarty,” Tommy says. “But you know we can’t just arrest him, even though Lord knows I want to. He has too many friends in high places.” Tommy sighs and Sherlock moves immediately, dropping his arm and gently rubbing his upper back. He relaxes under her fingers. 

Sherlock sees his deputies looking at her, but she ignores them for now. Right now, Tommy needs some reassurance. “You’ll get him,” she says. “From what I’ve seen so far, I know you will.” Tommy looks at her and smiles a little. He huffs a laugh. He straightens and Sherlock stills her hand and slowly removes it even though she doesn’t really want to. His back is muscled and she wants to keep touching him. She warms and looks away from him. She still puts her hand in his offered arm.

“Alright,” Tommy says, and his deputies look at him. “Keep an eye on Moriarty, and keep your wits about you. We don’t know what he might do next. Watson, you can stay with me,” he says. 

“No thanks, Sheriff. Bell already offered his guest room,” Watson says. 

“Thanks, Bell,” Tommy says as he looks at a short black man. He was the one guarding her at the saloon that morning. Bell nods. “Sherlock, do you mind if I work today,” he asks.

“Sheriff,” Watson complains. “We have this covered. Spend time with your wife.”

“Watson, someone destroyed your home. I’m not taking a day off until Moriarty is taken care of.”

“Sheriff-”

“Watson,” Tommy cuts her off. “Sherlock and I have time,” he says. “I want him either in cuffs or out of town. I won’t rest until one happens.”

Watson looks at Sherlock briefly. “It’s alright, Deputy,” Sherlock assures her. “Like Tommy said, we have time,” she smiles gently. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Tommy smiles in her periphery and touches her hand. 

“Thanks, Sheriff,” Watson says. 

“Good. Now I want to go ask Moriarty some hard questions. Bell, with me. Watson, if you would stay here and make sure Sherlock’s alright.”

“You’re making me sit out,” Watson asks, incredulous.

“You need time to process,” Tommy says gently. “I promise, when the time comes you get to put the cuffs on him.” Watson pauses and nods. “Good. O’Malley, go see if you can round up the men Moriarty brought. Take Grell with you. Fulton, Hobbs, Wells. Once they’re found, separate them. Let me be clear- no one goes alone. Twos and threes. Got it?”

“Yes, Sheriff,” Watson nods. 

“And Ripley,” he says, looking at a woman with no badge. “Stay with Watson and Sherlock.”

“Yes, Sheriff.”

“Alright.” Tommy looks at Sherlock. 

“Be safe,” Sherlock says, taking her hand out of his arm. He catches it and presses a kiss to the back of her fingers. 

“I will.”

He walks out with most of his deputies, leaving Sherlock and the other two women alone. Sherlock looks at them. “Nice to meet you,” Watson extends her hand. 

“You as well. Do you prefer I call you Joan or Watson,” she asks as she shakes it.

“Joan,” she nods.

“Then Joan it shall be.” She turns to the other woman. “And is Ripley your given or surname,” she asks.

“My first,” Ripley replies. "So you can call me Ripley." Sherlock nods and smiles. 

"Please, call me Sherlock."

"Odd, isn't it," Ripley asks. Sherlock furrows her eyebrows. "Being called by a different last name," she clarifies. 

"I'll get used to it," Sherlock says. And she does hope she does. 

"You do," Ripley smiles. 

"So what do you do here, Ripley," Sherlock asks. 

"I work the front desk," she explains. "But don't you worry, I can handle a shotgun as well as any deputy."

"I'm not worried," Sherlock replies. She isn't, surprisingly. She trusts Tommy to protect her. 

"Where are you from," Joan asks. 

"London, England." 

"You're a long way from home."

"I haven't considered London home in quite some time," Sherlock admits. 

"Why not," Ripley asks. 

"Ever since my mother passed thirteen years ago, my father has been quite distant."

"How long were they together," Joan asks.

“Forty years,” Sherlock says. The women nod and look sympathetic. 

“I’m sorry,” Joan says.

“It isn't your fault,” Sherlock smiles. “But thank you.” She looks out the door. “Should we get my horse,” she asks. “Unburden it?”

“I’ll come with you,” Joan says and stands. Sherlock nods, knowing that they won’t accept any of her protests. The women walk out and Sherlock takes the reins of her horse. The horse nickers and pushes her nose into her cheek. Sherlock smiles and strokes down her forehead. She leads the horse to the hitching post in front of the jail and ties her to it. She unbuckles the saddle and Joan helps her put it on the rail. Sherlock pats the animal fondly and walks inside with Joan. Joan stands behind a chair and gestures at it, offering it to Sherlock. 

“I’m alright, but thank you.”

“So what made you choose the Sheriff,” Ripley asks. 

“Truthfully, he was the first one to write to me. But as we wrote more to each other,” Sherlock trails off. “I’m not sure, it felt like…we understood each other.” She smiles and looks at her boots. “That must not make much sense. We’re strangers.”

“There are some people you just bond with,” Joan says. Sherlock looks up and smiles softly when there’s no judgment in her voice. “And it feels like you’ve known each other for years.”

“Exactly.” Sherlock wants to ask, but Ripley and Joan are hardly impartial.

“What is it, Sherlock,” Joan asks.

“Nothing.”

“Sherlock.”

She pauses. “The Sheriff…is he a good man?”

“The best,” Joan nods. “He’s the only Sheriff for miles who’s an honest man and keeps women and black men on his staff.”

“And behind closed doors?”

“He’s never done anything untoward,” Ripley promises her. “Not towards me, Joan, or any other woman in town.”

“Then,” Sherlock starts. She holds her tongue. 

“Then why hasn’t he found a wife,” Joan asks, smiling. Sherlock nods. “He’s committed to his work. He hasn’t had the time. But everyone needs companionship. So a few deputies kept dropping catalogs on his desk,” she laughs. “He would read them, but quickly. Until he saw your name.” Sherlock’s cheeks warm. “I think he thinks you understand him, too,” Joan continues. “He’s been nervous since you told him you’d come.” She warms further, and Joan smiles reassuringly. “You’ll see,” she promises. Sherlock nods. 

The day draws on and Sherlock gets to know the women. When the sun has almost set, Tommy walks in with a few men. Sherlock looks up, concerned. “No luck,” he says. “Sherlock, let’s go home." She nods and stands.

“It was nice meeting and getting to know you both,” Sherlock says. “You too, Sherlock,” Joan says, and Ripley nods, smiling. Sherlock goes to Tommy and takes his offered arm. He leads her outside and her horse is ready. She gets on and he gets on his own horse. Two men escort them home, and then Tommy sends them off once they’ve arrived. 

Sherlock and Tommy look at each other for a moment. “Do you want a bath,” Tommy offers. “I can draw you one.”

Sherlock pauses. “A bath sounds lovely, thank you.”

Tommy nods and walks. Sherlock pauses and then goes to his- their- room, picking out some sleeping clothes. She drapes them over her arm and goes towards the sound of Tommy preparing a bath for her. He’s sitting on the edge of the tub, pouring hot water in. He looks up at her approach. “Check the temperature,” Tommy says, standing. “Make sure it’s alright.”

Sherlock nods and puts her clothes on a stool, going to him. She checks the water and nods. “Perfect, Tommy. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

He leaves the room, closing the door behind himself. Sherlock undresses and gets in the bath, washing up. It’s nice having time to do this, instead of on the train when she could only freshen up. She can get clean, wash away the grime of travel. She washes every part of her and her hair, and then dries herself and gets dressed. She braids her hair, walking to their room. She pauses outside the door and finishes the braid before tying it and knocking on the door. “Come in.”

Sherlock opens the door and Tommy is still dressed. “I could draw you another bath,” she offers. “The hot water will help you relax.”

“I’ll do it.”

“Tommy. You’ve done so much for me, just let me help.”

“Sherlock, you don’t have to.”

“I want to.”

“Alright.” Tommy helps her empty the tub and Sherlock draws a fresh one for him, standing aside to let him check the temperature. “Perfect, thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Sherlock pauses, unsure, but leaves the room, closing the door behind herself. 

Tommy undresses, thinking. He has a wife now. A beautiful one, too. He had read her description, but it didn’t come close to actually describing her. He gets in the tub, sighing. He closes his eyes and puts his head back. Sherlock’s right- the hot water helps. Fucking Moriarty. He causes nothing but trouble, but he’s never done something like this. Assaults, yes. Harassing, yes. But never setting fires, and certainly nothing to any deputy. He scrubs himself clean and then dries off, belatedly realizing he didn’t bring any clothes with him. I’m a fucking idiot. He wraps the towel around his hips and walks to the bedroom door, knocking.

“Come in.”

Tommy does, and Sherlock is already lying in bed. Her eyes dart down his chest to the towel, and then she looks away from him completely. “You don’t have to knock,” she says.

“You did.”

“Force of habit.”

He nods and goes to his dresser, pulling on pants. He puts the towel in the laundry and goes back, emptying the tub. He steels himself outside for a moment before he heads back in. He opens the bedroom door without knocking and Sherlock looks up. “Tomorrow we can get you whatever you need,” he promises as he stands beside the bed. He pauses and Sherlock flicks the blanket back. He gets in. 

“That sounds nice,” she replies. “I can sew well enough, so just fabric is fine. I always had to alter my clothes anyway,” she continues as Tommy settles in. She looks at him. “Do you want to sleep right now?”

“Don’t go to sleep on my account.”

“No, I’m tired.” Sherlock reaches and turns off her lamp. Tommy turns and does the same. “Goodnight, Tommy.”

“Goodnight, Sherlock.”

[cerebricarchives]

🦾: What the hell are you doing here?

🍍: heard the news bud. =in Trump's voice= you're fired.

🦾: The hell tell you that? I wasn't fired.

🍍: hmmm, no i read that post on Stampd. Surprise long-term vacation means corporate spits out another wad back into society. Hey man you got sriracha here?

🦾: still though why are you here, I mean should we keep a low profile about this or?

🍍: my guy you call me up after so many years for one thing that I don't know how the hell I'm supposed to pull off, and you don't want to at least hook up after that come on man I got some chips and drinks let's just chill for the night.

🦾: Well mind the mess, uh some of this is important so I'll just

*Kevin picks up the paper and blue prints of mechanical limbs and high tech weapons onto a computer desk, caked with dust. On the way kicking his feet against small plastic take out containers and empty beer cans, almost like hes about to trip. As he does, Everdread drops his goodie bag of candy and dorito-like chips and cracks open a tall can of beer, sitting his fat ass on the futon facing to a tv set up, with one TV playing general news to another TV plugged from a computer, with a desktop wallpaper of I don't know metal anime yeah that that would be something that Kevin would have"

🦾: well you're already treating like you live here. Besides how the hell did you find me?

🍍: the very scary thing about the internet. Just type in your name and you find everything. Stampd, Steam, Yelp review account, looking at the local places that you drop your one stars on and boom found you.

🦾: to clear things up Larson just thought I was just super stressed or whatever from working on the weapons project.

🍍: super stressed out?! You basically helped him with that company from square one, at this rate you're dead stressed.

🦾: well to be honest I never really took an actual vacation.. I suppose he's right that I should at least take it easy for how much the salary was worth me. $5,000. 2 months rent basically covers it if I don't spend it on dumb shit. Thing is the deadline for the weapons to be presented to the president himself apparently is less than that.

🍍: really makes you think 🤔

🦾: God shut up dude. =I don't know like he just like plays a random stream on the background= so listen... But maybe I pushed a little bit too hard about the whole money thing I could drop it for real.

🍍: I'm still mulling it over. I got ways in connections all across the board, after all I still owe you something. Not going to let that favor go. =Takes a deep swing of the local brew= still don't know why you want to go through with this.. you're making some bang money up in that security tech, making weapons for the army, that's got to be a good bonus or two. I mean shit you basically found the company. could be a millionaire by now, so what makes you think you need 29 more?

🦾: even if I was still chipping away with two jobs if I had the spine, to get to my own budget it's going to take years to get there. But the technology we got today I could spend on this for months if I could. And Metalix isn't going to push forward with this risk, Larson keeps pushing it back meanwhile the shiny new weapons get to be on the front lines.

🍍: I mean honestly at the end of the day it sounds like you just need some third party funding.

🦾: and if I show up at 30 million to Larson he's going to go ahead and really think about the cybernetic divisions.

🍍: yeah well, work shit is work shit okay man. If you're going to go ahead and take this vacation I say take it.

🦾: let's take it. 🍻

[muggycuphead]

weird flex but ok i guess pt.35

34

War…Hold up, do we really need a warning for this one? Dunno, but however, watch out for slightly disturbing and kinda…disgusting imagery, trypophobic patterns, as well as ‘necrotic’ (and dark themed) designs I made while having funky fever bc o h m y g o d do I get a little crazier every new quarantine day (and at this point it’s coming to be an usual thing for me, big sad). However, most are made no other than for the sole sake of satire, so y’know, no need to get your underwear in a twist

Friday Night Funkin’ BoyFriend’s Hood – AU fanconcept sketches [XXX]

A break from the main lore, have some secondary characters made for side stories woo

1. Addel Duchahut

Remember Lezor, the guy I made inspired on the Dadaist movement aesthetic-sorta? Well, have a character based off an ACTUAL artist from the movement, one of my favorites of such if that

The sir this fellow is made after is Marcel Duchamp, one of the most influential Dadaist since 1914, way before the movement was even a thing (talk about advanced to ur time ayo).  Nonetheless, the outfit I drew Addel in here not only implicitly references the pieces Marcel had made and the styles he had involved himself into, but also the “alter ego” he had made for himself and was also known for back then: Rrose Selavy (1920) who he also used as an “author name” for some of his dada art pieces. The outfit is mostly based on a photography he got taken by Man Ray, one of the first ones if I’m not wrong.

But hey, don’t get the wrong idea –Addel does have his own independent set of self on the setting he’s on (the current century, lol); he’s more of a “successor” kind of guy, but he’s mostly an eccentric folk that’s just as fascinated of experimental and cinetic composition. Just saying so you guys don’t take him as a historical replica of Duchamp, because he’s not and I don’t pretend to have him as such.

As for why he’s a rodent...I honestly have no clue exactly. I’d say because of going after a not-so-aesthetic kind of animal for the sake of taking the contrary, of maybe I was slightly influenced by Ratatouille. Either way, it was for a metaphoric regarding rebelliousness... and maybe also out of satire.

Also case you wonder, his surname means “of the shouting” by a rough translation from French (and yes he’s French btw)

His appearance is on a really further part of the story, though it isn’t much deep important…but still

Truth be told, he was a ride to draw, I luv him <3

2. Pipsqueak

A random idea I had, probably based off the sport that’s most popular on this side of the land –baseball ye

TL;DR, it’s a vegetal golem that’s a baseball player aspirant, no specifics if it’s a she or a he though

I enjoyed doing the directions of the leaves, they look funny

3. Kleevin BredPitz

ANDREW TATE CANON IN BF’SH????? Q0Q

JK, he’s one of the references for this silly ass though

If you guessed this dude is a “alpha male” ideology advicant, you’re right on the money. For short, in one of the events of BF’sH Hollow Present, BF has to take down this mofo, and well…you can guess this bulky ass got quite the derrogatives for BF in more than one sense...his sexuality included (but we’ll talk about it later dw :) //hhhhh)

He’s a overdeveloped leech by the way…which is ironic in a lot of ways, you’ll see way once we get there C: (and if u know enough of biology, well….hehehehehehehe-)

4. Gus Schmillers

Another Dadaist artist based character? Sure why not

This time it’s Kurt Schwitters I took for this, who was a German Dadaist, his most known pieces being his “Merz”, which consisted on collages of things he found meddling around in the trash, from paper-based things to little trinkets and just anything that could fit in a canvas, this under the philosophy of “building a new world from the shards of the one he was living in” (keep in mind, Dada happened during the World War as an anti-belicism/anti-war protest, hence the metaphor), and also his “Merzbau” –basically the same thing but instead of stuff in a small canvas it was ROOMS filled with stuff, they looked really surreal and neat despite how chaotic they were…most of those got destroyed in the war by orders of the Nazi regime sadly :(

Anyway, just like with Addel, Gus is a character on his own, and basically does similar things as Kurt, though he’s a little more into mechanics when building his interpretations of Merzbaus… I’ll leave that to y’all’s imaginations :) (?)

As for why he’s a ferret, probably because of how I interpreted him as an energetic kind of guy (I refer to Gus, not Kurt himself, but maybe a bit on that too).

He’s Addel’s “roommate” and mildly personal friend. He’s also German jic you wonder so.

5. Gus’ icon

Gus’ icon, idk why I numbered it but there you have it

6. Lynx Adamont’s icon

A character I created out of spite, TL;DR she’s a walking art person stereotype. Once I post her design I’ll explain further on what she’s like, but for now we’ll stick with her icon thingy

7. them

someone

I can’t say who they are yet, this was to have an idea of their design

but still

8. Casual Addel miniature

Him on his casual attire

It’s kinda rough but it was for the sake of the essential idea

9. Kleevin lose icon

>cobra potato when his shit takes actually backfire on his ass

10-15. Funky calligraphy practice

Subtitle says it

10.- Addel

11.- Gus

12.- Kleevin

13.- Pip

14.- Lynx

15.- S’UP?!