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[manasastuff-blog]

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[townpostin]

Jamshedpur Flying School License Suspended After Fatal Crash

DGCA halts Alchemist Aviation operations following audit; two lives lost in accident The DGCA suspended Alchemist Aviation’s license after a fatal crash and subsequent audit revealed serious safety issues at the Jamshedpur-based flying school. JAMSHEDPUR – Following a tragic aircraft crash and safety audit, the DGCA has suspended the operational approval of Alchemist Aviation, a flying training…

[mitskicain]

navi | m.list

. ⁺ . ✦ the doghouse — ken sato x reader

© mitskicain all rights reserved. the modification, translation, and plagiarism of my work is strictly prohibited.

synopsis: date night; you talk about dealbreakers and what you want out of life, and each other.

content warning: cursing and profanity, suggestive, innuendos

word count: 1.4K

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003: play date

He arrives fifteen minutes early, with Indian, Chinese, Italian and Japanese takeout.

“I didn’t know what you liked,” he says, letting himself in and kicking his shoes off by the door, setting the bags on the counter. “So I got a little bit of everything.”

You stare at the food with a bewildered look in your eyes. This would last you the whole week. What the hell is this guy—made of money? Well, okay, granted his apartment and how he didn’t even ask you for the 400 bucks back suggests maybe, but christ, doesn’t he have other things he should be spending this on, like supercars or thousand dollar clothing?

Your train of thought is interrupted by him shoving you a greasy tub of butter chicken, alongside some garlic naan with a side of udon noodles. Interesting combo. You take your seat on the floor, setting the food on the shallow coffee table that’s littered with unopened mail and receipts.

“Do a lot of shopping?” He asks, mouth full of lasagna—he’s already chowing down on the food without as much as waiting for you to have taken your first bite. What a gentleman.

“No, well, not for me,” you reply, pushing around the food on your plate, “it’s for them.” You point towards your two dogs that are eyeing him keenly from behind the screen door, their eyes a flash of light in the dark. From a stranger's perspective, they must look absolutely vicious, but to you they were just Lassie and Strauber—from childhood, from the old days.

“Mm,” he hums, taking a sip of his Diet Coke. “Not much of a dog person, I’m afraid.”

You make a face.

“Date’s over, eugh,” you say, “dealbreaker.”

The both of you laugh, faces cracking up and all teeth—a flash of canines, again—something in your stomach churns.

“Seriously?” You ask, looking over at Ken who’s still hunched over, trying to stifle his laugh. “How could you say no to dogs?”

“I got chased by one as a kid, I guess it stuck.” he says, scooping up another mouthful of lasagna. He motions over to the two, “they bite?”

“Hard,” you grin, reminded of the time you asked him the same question. “When they bite, they don’t let go.”

He grimaces a bit, imagining the bloody, messy scene. You dip the naan in the curry, mopping up all its goodness. Ken devours his plate, and reaches for more—it’s a disgusting sight, like he’s been starved for days—but there’s something fulfilling about it too, like watching Strauber absolutely demolish a serving after you run an extra mile with her.

“You’re a mess,” you say, leaning forward and wiping a sauce streak away from the edge of his lip. You see the surprise on his face when your finger meets his skin, like he doesn’t expect it—didn’t know you were capable of being tender. Part of you didn’t expect it either.

Silence for a moment; the atmosphere still. The two of you realize you barely know anything about the other. You were just two strangers sharing a meal in your apartment.

“I read some of your stuff from the dayplanner,” he says, clearing his throat, hand on the back of his head. “It’s really good, I mean—you’re a writer?”

You give him an incredulous look, and laugh, shaking your head.

“No, not me, well—” you set the plate on the table and reach for your drink, some Indian rose milk he picked up that actually tasted really good, “not yet, at least. I’m hoping to make my big break soon.”

Silence, again—just for a second.

“You’ll make it,” he says, voice soft, looking over at him. His head is resting on the cushion of the couch, hair messy and cheeks slightly warm. Did he run on the way here? From restaurant to restaurant, trying to figure out what you would like before deciding: fuck it, and getting everything? You feel his fingers twitch slightly, inching towards yours. You turn away and wrap your arms around yourself.

“Don’t do that,” you struggled to pinpoint the feeling—the twisting, the churning—it made you feel sick, like you wanted to puke. The world seemed to spin. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you believe in me,” your voice falters. “It’s cruel, you know—giving false hope.”

He presses his lips into a thin line. He reaches for your hand again, this time you turn to look at him.

“I do mean it.” He says.

God.

You tear your gaze away from him—it’s too much, all of this. You can’t possibly comprehend it. His fingers tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. You reach for his hand and look up at him—his eyebrows furrowed, gray irises shimmering in the low light, mouth slightly open.

“Hey,” he breathes, voice just barely above a whisper.

“Hey,” you reply.

“Am I still just a one night stand?” He asks, and your stomach sinks. You frown a little.

“What does it matter?” You ask.

“Because I want to be more than just that,” he says, quick and easy. He sucks in a breath, as if preparing himself. “I want you.”

Your shoulders fall, and you lean forward into him, his lips finding the sensitive skin on your neck; nibbling and sucking. You squirm underneath his touch.

“Please,” he sighs in between kisses, his breath hot against your ear. “Please.”

His teeth sink into your flesh, followed quickly by his tongue rubbing soothing circles, then a kiss—like apologizing. He does this throughout the entirety of your neck, from underneath your jaw all the way along your collarbone. Your skin is slick with saliva and sweat, face red from the heat. Your hands find their way up his neck, when they grab a handful of his hair—you hear him moan.

God, the way he sounded.

“Please,” he says again, begging. Breathlessly. Desperately. “Please, I’ll be good.”

You whine, and push him away, trying to catch your breath. He falls back but catches himself by his arms, biceps flexed and straining underneath the black shirt he wore. It’s tight enough that you can make out the rouse of muscles underneath. His face is flushed, eyes half lidded, mouth open—breathing shallow. What a sight.

God.

He’s about to lean forward to reach for you again when he knocks over the half full cup of rose milk all over you, splattering all across your legs and the floor. His face twists into a look of panic, and he frantically grabs a fistful of tissues, trying to dab away at the mess before you change your mind or yell at him.

“Stop,” you say, and he freezes in his tracks, looking up at you. You tilt your head, gauging his reaction—the way he looks up at you with wide curious eyes, arms still frozen in position, so eager to please—like a dog.

“You said you’d be good, right?” You murmur, leaning back, “then clean this up.”

He tries to wipe at the mess but you stop him again, making a sharp ‘tsk’ sound with your tongue. He stops, perplexed gaze fixed on you, trying to figure out what you mean. You smile at the sight and raise a pointed foot, his hands instinctively reaching for the flesh of your calves.

“Lick,” you command, a glint in your eye. He stays still for a moment—breath hitched in his throat—before leaning down, eyes still fixed on you, and kisses the skin of your legs. His tongue is warm, gliding over you in slow strokes, sending shivers up and down your spine. You can feel the soft, velvety texture of him as he moves upwards, savoring every inch of you. The sensation is both soothing and electrifying. A mix of gentle pressure and lingering heat.

You lean forward, and push him back again, his back against the couch. He’s surprisingly lenient, not struggling when you climb onto his lap and straddle his hips. You trail your hands on his chest and you feel his heart, thundering against his ribcage. His hands feel up the milky skin of your thighs, resting on your waist.

“Please,” he says again, so close you can feel his breath on your lips. “Please, I want you.”

You grab his hands off your thigh and pin them by his side, a gasp escaping his lips. Your other hand grabs his face roughly, forcing him to look at you before you turn his head to press a wet trail of kisses up his jaw. He shivers and moans underneath your grasp.

“Mmm,” you hum into his skin, pulling away to whisper in his ear. “I love it when good boys beg.”

prev | next

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author’s note: Lassie and Strauber watching you make out with him from out the backyard be like 👁️👄👁️ HAHAHAHAH i love men when they beg and yearn like 💥💥 need him crawling, sobbing on his knees 🫡🫡‼️‼️‼️ my favorite genre of men is when they’re a little bit pathetic HEHEHEH🤭🤭🤭🤭 BUT ALSO‼️‼️ I wanted to ask: do you guys have any specific dealbreakers when it comes to dating? Like for me I absolutely can’t stand when they’re rude to staff like waiters or salespeople 😭😭🙏 or when they’re messy eaters—what about you guys?? feel free to share them in the comments, and as always, thank you for supporting my work ‼️‼️‼️‼️ MUAH MAUHHH👩‍❤️‍💋‍👩👩‍❤️‍💋‍👩👩‍❤️‍💋‍👩

taglist: @luneariaa @moonjellyfishie @sweetcheeksbby-deactivated20240 @shittingonyourgrave @shauu @witcwitchy @fcklxnaa @despacito-uwu16 @mqshido @miffysoo @ybbayk @hore4ken @mochminnie @femmefqtqle @miratastic @lovingyeet @mythicalmo @yourfellowmarzipan @softdumplingposts @shinebright2000

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Where Will All The Martyrs Go [Chapter 4: Read Between The Lines]

Series summary: In the midst of the zombie apocalypse, both you and Aemond (and your respective travel companions) find yourselves headed for the West Coast. It’s the 2024 version of the Oregon Trail, but with less dysentery and more undead antagonists. Watch out for snakes! 😉🐍

Series warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, med school Aemond, character deaths, nature, drinking, smoking, drugs, Adventures With Aegon, pregnancy and childbirth, the U.S. Navy, road trip vibes, Jace is here unfortunately.

Series title is a lyric from: “Letterbomb” by Green Day.

Chapter title is a lyric from: “Boulevard Of Broken Dreams” by Green Day.

Word count: 5.6k

💜 All my writing can be found HERE! 💜

Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist 🥰

It is your first week of basic training at Great Lakes on the north side of Chicago, and as you lie in the top bunk of your assigned bed you wonder what the hell you’ve done. You enlisted right out of high school, eighteen, no driver’s license, no work history, never been more than fifty miles outside of Soft Shell, Kentucky. The drill sergeants are always yelling and you’re bad at push-ups; you can’t understand the recruits from big cities like Los Angeles, Miami, Las Vegas, Detroit, Houston, and they don’t seem to get you either, and aren’t interested enough to try. Sometimes you wish you hadn’t signed that five-year contract, but where would you be if you weren’t here? Home is not words but textures, colors, fumes that still burn in your sinuses: cigarette ash on rose pink carpets, red embers glowing in the wood stove, Hamburger Helper and Mountain Dew, coffee creamer in Hungry Jack potatoes, laughter and heavy footsteps and slamming doors, scratch-off games, dogs barking, collecting coins from couch cushions for gas money, scrubbing clothes in the bathtub when the washer quits, Mama taking gulps from her favorite cup—plastic, Virginia Beach, filled with equal parts Hawaiian Punch and vodka—when she thinks no one is looking, blue shows flickering on the television, Family Feud, Maury, Good Morning America, WWE SmackDown. For as long as you can remember you’ve known you couldn’t stay. Now you’re getting out, but nothing in life is free.

You are at Class A Technical School in Gulfport, Mississippi, and even though it’s hotter than some noxious, volcanic hellscape—Mercury, Venus, Io—you are beginning to like it. You taste the salt of sweat when you lick your lips, sugar in the sweet tea they serve in the chow hall. There’s a magic in building something where there was only empty space before, in patching roofs and painting walls. Here being quiet and watchful is exactly what they want from you: head down, hammer striking nails, measurements and angles and long hours under the sun with no complaints. You’re not just running away anymore. You are creating something new.

You are sitting beneath swaying palm trees and a full moon on Diego Garcia, draining cans of Guinness with Rio, and he’s telling you things he shouldn’t, too personal, too honest: Sophie wants to try for a baby next time he’s home on leave, and part of him wants that too but he’s terrified. As thunder rumbles in the distance and raindrops begin to patter on the waves of the Indian Ocean, you tell Rio you think he’d be a good father. He wonders how you figure that, and you say because he’s not like any of the men from home. He gives you one of his crooked smiles—a flash of teeth, knowing dark eyes—and doesn’t ask what you mean.

But of course, when you swim up from the inky currents of sleep you are in none of these places. You are curled up on the floor of a bowling alley in Shenandoah, Ohio, cheap worn black carpet peppered with stars and swirls in neon green, pink, blue. You stretch out with a yawn. Someone has left a Lemon Tea Snapple within reach; you twist it open and guzzle it, hoping to extinguish the pounding in your skull, a rhythmic thudding of warm maroon, half Captain Morgan and half misery. The music isn’t helping. From the green Toshiba CD player, a man is singing in Spanish. Aegon and Rio are sitting at the nearest table and playing Uno.

Aegon says as he ponders his cards: “You know Enrique Iglesias, right Rio?”

“You are so racist.” Rio puts down a wild. “And the new color is red. Racist.”

“So what’s he saying?”

“Aegon, buddy, I told you, I was born here. My grandparents came over in the 60s. I don’t speak Spanish.”

“You can’t understand any of it?” Aegon is skeptical. He plays a skip, a reverse, and a seven. “My dad never taught me a word of Greek but I can recognize plenty of phrases. Vlákas means idiot. Spatáli chórou is a waste of space.”

Rio sighs, relenting. He puts down a two. “The song is called Súbeme La Radio, Turn Up The Radio For Me. Bring me the alcohol that numbs the pain… I don’t care about anything anymore…You’ve left me in the shadows…”

“Damn, now I’m sad. Draw four, bitch.”

“When the night comes and you don’t answer, I swear to you I’ll stay waiting at your door…” Rio studies his cards. “What’s the new color?”

“Green.”

“Yes!” Rio slams down a skip. “Fleeing from the past in every dawn, I can’t find any way to erase our history…”

Everyone else is awake already. As muted late-morning daylight streams in through the small tinted windows, Aemond is weaving between tables, pointedly checking on each person. He glances at you, says nothing, turns around and walks the other way.

“That’s tough,” Rio says sympathetically, popping open the tab on a can of Chef Boyardee and shoveling ravioli into his mouth with a plastic fork.

Aegon gives you a smirk. “You want to fake date now?”

“I’ll think about it.” No you won’t.

Helaena appears, a prairie girl vision in a modest blue sundress and with her hair tied back with a matching scarf. She reaches into her burlap messenger bag and offers you a choice between a ranch-flavored tuna pouch or a silvery pack of Pop-Tarts. “Strawberry,” she tells you.

“I’ll take the Pop-Tarts.”

Helaena gives them to you and then shakes a bottle of Advil. You’re so groggy it takes you a few seconds to figure out what she wants, then you obediently hold out a hand. Helaena lays two tablets in the center of your palm and moves on, soundlessly like a rabbit or a spider.

You wash the pills down with Snapple. As you nibble half-heartedly on a Pop-Tart—trying not to look at Aemond, multicolored sprinkles falling down onto the carpet—your eyes drift to the tattoo on the underside of Aegon’s forearm. It’s not over ‘til you’re underground. You’ve spotted it before. Only now do you remember where you recognize the lyric from. “Is that Green Day?”

“Yeah,” Aegon says, enthused that you noticed. “Letterbomb.”

“I love that whole album.”

“Me too. I could sing it front to back if you asked me to.”

“I’m not asking.”

Aegon cackles and resumes his Uno game with Rio. Baela is wearing denim shorts and a crop top, slathering her belly with Palmer’s cocoa butter from Walmart as she chats with Rhaena and eats Teddy Grahams. Daeron is waxing the string of his compound bow. Jace is gnawing on a Twizzler as he scrutinizes Aegon’s map, annotated with Xs and circles and arrows in sparkling gel pen green.

“I’m going to be a thousand years old by the time we get there,” Jace mutters.

Aegon hits the table with his fist. The discard pile collapses and cascades, an avalanche of Uno cards. Rio, undisturbed, continues contemplating his next move. “You know what, Jace? The cities are full of zombies, the interstates are blocked by fifty-car pileups, if we bump into anyone else who’s still alive they’re just as likely to rob and murder us as want to be friends, and on top of all that I’m trying to do you the favor of preventing you from getting so irradiated you turn into Spider-Man. If you have a better route in mind, I’d love to hear it.”

“Spider-Man…? You’re such a dumbass, what are you talking about?!”

Luke says from where he stands by a window: “Aemond, someone’s outside.”

“What?” Aemond stares at him. “Zombies?”

“No. People.”

Aemond bolts to the doors, the rest of you close behind him. Rhaena turns off the CD player. You, Rio, and Aegon squeeze together to peer out of one of the windows. There are men—three of them, no, four, all appearing to be in their forties—passing by on the main road through town. They are armed with what are either AR-15s or M16s, you can’t tell which.

Rio whistles. “If you get shot by one of those, the exit wound will be the size of an orange.” Everyone looks at him. This was not an encouraging thing to say.

You elaborate: “Thirty-round magazines. Semiautomatic, assuming they’re AR-15s for civilian use. I guess they could have gotten ahold of M16s somehow. Those have a fully automatic setting.”

“So regardless, we’re out-gunned,” Jace says.

“If they know how to use them. Some men think guns are wall decorations, like deer heads or fish.”

Aegon recoils. “Fish?! What the fuck. I’m glad the colonies left.”

“Maybe they’ll keep walking,” Daeron says hopefully. One of the men stops and points at the bowling alley, saying something to his companions. They laugh and begin crossing the small parking lot. They are less than two minutes from the door. “Oh, great…”

“There’s an emergency exit in the back,” Baela says.

Aegon snorts. “Yeah, that we stacked about twenty boxes of bowling pins in front of to zombie-proof.”

“We won’t be able to get out before they hear us,” Aemond says. Then he abruptly orders: “Grab your guns, let’s go. Helaena, Baela, Rhaena, you’re staying here.” Aemond’s remaining eye—briefly, reluctantly—skates over you as Rio, Aegon, Jace, Luke, and Daeron scatter to obey him. “You too.”

“But I’m the best shot.”

“I don’t want them to know we have women with us.”

“I’m of more use to you outside.”

Aemond rips his Glock out of its holster, pointing it at the floor. His frustration is palpable, an electric shock, heat that refracts light rays until they become mirages on the horizon. “You’re going to stay here, and if a stranger comes through those doors you’re going to kill them. Okay?”

His urgency stuns you; his eye is blue-white summer storm lightning. “Okay.”

“Now get back.”

You soar to the nearest table, duck under it, reach for your Beretta M9 and double-check the clip, fully loaded. You click off the safety.

“Aemond, wait, let me go first,” Aegon is saying by the door. “I’m better at de-escalation, I’m less…uh…intimidating.”

“Less socially incompetent, you mean,” Jace quips.

“I’ll lead,” Aemond insists. “Aegon can talk. Rio, you’re up front with me.”

Rio pumps his Remington 12 gauge. “I’d be delighted.”

Jace is amused. “I’ve been demoted, huh?”

“He’s bigger,” Aemond replies simply, then opens the door and vanishes through a blinding curtain of daylight. The others follow closely; Daeron, the last one out—his compound bow in hand, the strap of his Marlin .22 slung over his shoulder—shuts the door behind him.

Very faintly, you can hear Aegon: “Hey, guys! What’s happening? How’s the apocalypse treating you…?”

Baela, Rhaena, and Helaena are under the table with you. They deserve to have options. You tell them: “If you want to go hide behind the lanes or try to get out the back door, now’s your chance.”

Helaena shakes her head, clutching your t-shirt: black, Star Wars, pawed off a shelf at the Walmart. “I want to stay with you.”

“Same,” Baela says determinedly, gripping her Ruger. She barely knows how to use it, but she’ll try. Rhaena is shaking, her eyes filling up her face, small fragile bones like a bird’s.

You can’t hear voices from outside anymore, but there are no gunshots either. You keep your M9 aimed at the doors, your breathing slow and deep, your heart rate low. Your hands are steady. Your eyes hunt for the slightest movement, for the momentary shadow of someone passing by a window. Against your will, your thoughts wander to Aemond. I hope Aegon is on his left side. Aemond can’t see there.

“Rhaena, get your gun out,” Baela says sharply. “Come on. Turn the safety off. What if you were alone right now? What if we weren’t here to protect you?”

Rhaena nods, fumbling to free her revolver from its holster. “I’m sorry…I’m trying…”

Now there is a stranger’s voice, gruff and deep. He must be just beyond the door, the farthest one to the right. There is a creak of hinges, a sliver of sunlight. “That’s just too damn bad, fellas. You got a nice little hideout here, and you’re gonna have to share it—”

The door opens. Two unfamiliar faces, too shellshocked to raise their rifles in time. You close an eye, line up your sights, fire twice, and that’s all it takes: one headshot, one in the throat, blood like a fountain, spurting scarlet ruin, thuds against the carpet strewn with neon stars, gurgling and spasms as their brains send out those final electrical impulses: danger, catastrophe, apocalypse. Rhaena is screaming. Helaena is covering her ears with both hands.

You run to the doorway; there are more booms of gunfire out in the parking lot. You cross into the late-morning light to see the other two men on the pavement: one with an arrow through the eye, the other with a gaping, hemorrhaging hole where his heart once was. Rio is admiring his work, holding his shotgun aloft. He scoops a handful of Cheddar Whales out of his shorts pocket and shovels them into his mouth.

“Goddamn, I love Remington Arms Company.”

“Oh, that was awesome,” Aegon says, wan and panting, hands on his waist. “Yeah, that was…that was…” He bends over and vomits Snapple and Cool Ranch Doritos onto the asphalt.

“Everyone okay in there?” Rio asks you.

“Yeah.” Behind you, Baela, Rhaena, and Helaena are stepping through the doorway. Your thoughts are whirling sickly: I killed someone. I killed someone. “They wouldn’t leave?”

“We told them the bowling alley was ours,” Aemond says, not looking at you. “We asked them very politely to keep moving. They chose to try to intimidate us into letting them stay. They weren’t good people, and these are the consequences.”

You click on the safety and re-holster your M9. You’re wearing Rio’s on your other hip. They seem to weigh so much more than they did ten minutes ago. I’m not supposed to be a killer. I’m a builder.

“Aegon, are you okay?” Daeron asks, a palm on his brother’s back.

Aegon retches again. “Shut up. You can’t even buy fireworks.”

“Zombies.” Luke is peering through his binoculars. “Not many, just two. Way up the road.”

“There will be more.” Baela’s cradling her belly; you don’t even think she’s aware of it. “They heard the gunshots, the sound carries for miles.”

“We’re leaving,” Aemond says. “Right now. Everyone get your things.”

As backpacks are hastily zipped and Daeron and Aegon stand guard in the parking lot, you kneel down beside the men you murdered and check their rifles. They are M16s, either stolen or illegally purchased: there’s a little switch by the trigger to choose between semi-automatic or the so-called machine gun mode.

“They barely had any bullets left,” you tell Rio. Just like us when we were trapped on that transmission tower.

“Yeah, same story for the other two guys. Four bullets in one magazine, a half dozen in the other. But it only takes once. We don’t have any ammo that will work with M16s, do we?”

“No, we definitely don’t.”

“Fantastic. Well, we’ll throw them in a Walmart cart and take them with us just in case.”

You’re staring down at the man you shot through the head. His eternal resting place is a puddle of blood and brains in a bowling alley in rural Ohio; surely no one deserves that. “He was a real person,” you say, dazed. “Not a zombie. Just a person.”

“Hey.” Rio grabs your shoulders and spins you towards him. From where he is helping Luke gather up the remaining food, Aemond’s head snaps up to watch. “You hurt him before he could hurt us. You did the right thing.”

“Sure.”

“I killed a dude too. I blew his heart right out of his chest. You think I’m going to hell for that?”

“No,” you admit, smiling. “And if you’d be there with me, I guess I wouldn’t mind so much.”

Rio grins, wide and toothy. “Well alright then. Let’s finish packing.”

The ten of you depart from Shenandoah, Ohio heading northwest on Route 603 just like Aegon marked on his map, Jace chauffeuring Baela in one shopping cart, Rio pushing another loaded high with food and M16s.

“It looks like rain,” Helaena says.

Everyone else peers up into a clear, cerulean sky, wondering what she means.

~~~~~~~~~~

You’re a few miles north of Shiloh when the storm rolls in, cold rain and furious wind, daylight that vanishes behind dark churning thunderheads, jagged scars of lightning in an opaque sky. The road is only two lanes, surrounded by fields of wildflowers and ravaged crops and untilled earth; it would look like the patchwork of a quilt if you were gazing down from an airplane, but of course the FAA grounded all flights over a month ago when the world went mad: Revelations, Ragnarök, the fabric of the universe unweaving as death burned through families, cities, nations like a fever, like plague.

“Maybe we should cut across one of these fields,” Jace says, pointing. He is soaked with rain; it drips from his curls, runs into his eyes. Baela is in her cart again; each time she tries to get out and walk, she’s gasping and can’t keep up within half an hour. You’ve all taken turns pushing her, much to Baela’s dismay. She’d be humiliated if she wasn’t too exhausted to keep her eyes open.

“Here, let me do it,” you offer, and Jace gratefully relinquishes the cart. Baela gives you a frail wave of appreciation.

“We stay on the road,” Aemond insists, flinching as rain pelts his scarred face. “Farmhouses have driveways and mailboxes, we’ll pass one eventually. If we lose the road, we might not be able to find it again. We’ll end up wandering around in circles in the woods.”

“Just like the Blair Witch Project,” Aegon says glumly, his Sperry Bahama sneakers audibly soggy.

“There!” Luke announces, spotting something with his binoculars. “Up ahead on the left. Past the bridge.”

You can’t see what Luke does until there is an especially brilliant flash of lightning: a farmhouse, old but seemingly not derelict, and with a number of accompanying buildings, guest houses and stables and barns and towering silos.

“Home sweet home!” Rio says. “And I don’t care if I have to kill a hundred of those undead bastards to get in, it’s mine.”

“Well, hopefully not a hundred,” you reply, in better spirits now that a sanctuary has been found. Aemond keeps glancing back at you as you push Baela’s cart. If he wants to say something, he’s doing a good job of resisting the temptation. “We don’t have that much ammo.”

There is a concrete bridge over a river, probably unremarkable and only five or ten feet deep normally but now torrential with rain. Water rushes by beneath, a muddy incline on each side as the earth rises back up to meet the road. A reflective green sign proclaims that you are only two miles from Plymouth, which Aegon plans to skirt along the edges of. It’s a decent-sized town; he thinks you might be able to find a car to steal there, something with gas in the tank and keys on a hook just inside the house.

“I call the master bedroom,” Jace says craftily, rubbing his palms together. You’re near the center of the bridge now, another ten yards to go. “Nice big bed, warm cozy blankets, and I was up for half of last night keeping watch so tonight I am off duty, I am a free man, it’s going to just be me and my girl and eight glorious uninterrupted hours of sleep—”

Rhaena shrieks, and then you hear it over the noise of the storm, pounding rain and rumbling thunder: moans, growls, hisses like snakes. Not one zombie. A lot more than one. They’re crawling up from under the bridge, from the filthy quagmire at both ends. There was a hoard of them waiting, aimless, dormant, almost hibernating. But now they are awake. They are grasping for you with bony, dirt-covered claws. They are snapping with jaws that leak blood and pus and bile as their organs curdle to a putrid soup.

“Get off the bridge!” Aemond is shouting. He has his Glock in his right hand, a baseball bat in his left. He’ll shoot until he’s out of bullets, and then, and then…

Rio helps you get Baela out of the cart, then opens fire. His Remington doesn’t just pierce skulls, it vaporizes them. When he’s out of shells—there are more in his backpack, but no time to reload—he yanks the M16s out of the other Walmart cart and empties each of them, mowing down zombies as the rest of you scramble across the bridge. All around you are explosions of gunshots, thunder, lightning, zombie skulls crushed by bullets and blunt force trauma. Baela is firing her Ruger as you half-drag her, one arm hooked beneath hers and around her back. When the last M16 is empty, Rio starts clubbing zombies with the butt of it. You’ve all reached the north side of the bridge, except…

“Fuck off, you freaks!” Jace is screaming. They’ve backed him up against the guardrail, a swarm of ten or more. His Remington shotgun is out of ammo; he’s swinging it wildly, but he doesn’t even have enough room to maneuver. There are still more zombies emerging from under the bridge. You can hear them snarling and groaning. You swipe an M9 off your belt and put a bullet in the brain of a zombie as its fingers close around your ankle, then you start picking off the ones mobbing Jace. You aren’t fast enough. As they lean in to bite him, teeth gnashing at the delicious throbbing heat of his jugular, Jace throws himself over the barrier and into the surging water below.

“No!” Baela cries. She careens off the road and into the field, running parallel to the river as swiftly as she can. You are helping her, steadying her, firing at any zombies you have a clear line of sight on. The others are here too: slipping in the muck of the flooding earth, shouting for Jace. He surfaces through the frothing current, flails pitifully, disappears beneath the water again. You glimpse a white hand, a shadow of his dark hair, a kicking shoe. There are more zombies on the opposite side of the river, trailing after Jace, lurching and slobbering viscous, gory saliva. They cannot swim, but they can follow him until he washes ashore.

Jace bursts up through the waves, gasping. “Help! Aemond…Aemond, for the love of God, help me…” He blubbers and then is dragged under. Aemond and Luke are continuing frantically after him. Baela is hysterical, sobbing, trembling with adrenaline. Aegon is yowling as he swings at zombies with his bloodied golf club. Helaena is darting around almost invisibly, always cowering behind Daeron or Aegon or Rio.

You glance north towards the farmhouse, growing not closer but farther away. We can’t leave shelter. We can’t leave the road. You lock eyes with Rio. He’s thinking the same thing.

“Aemond, we have to go,” Rio says, but in the midst of the rain and the turmoil it barely registers.

“Jace, we’re coming to get you!” Aemond swears. The ground is increasingly sodden, deep, difficult to trudge through. Jace resurfaces, coughing and sputtering.

“Jace!” Aegon wails. He caves in the skull of a zombie who was once a registered nurse as Helaena crouches behind him. “Jace, I’m sorry! I’m gonna miss you, man!”

Jace splashes in the rising river, his arms flailing helplessly. He is being swept away far faster than any of you can move on foot. “Aegon, you dumb bitch!” Jace manages, then slips beneath the water and doesn’t reappear.

“Where is he?!” Baela is saying. “Aemond, where…?”

You are trying to soothe her, to bring her back to reality. She was always so pragmatic before; you have to wake her up. “Baela, listen, we can’t stay here, he would want you and the baby to be safe—”

“Aemond! Aemond, we have to go!” Rio catches him, wrenches him around, roars into his face as driving rain pummels them both: “We have to go, or we’re going to die here too!”

It hits Aemond all at once; he understands, horror and agony in his sole blue eye. “We have to go,” he agrees. And then louder, to everyone: “Get to the farmhouse!”

Baela collapses into the mud, howling, tears flooding down her face. “No, he’s still alive, he’s still alive, we can’t leave him!”

You and Rhaena are trying to haul Baela to her feet. Now Aemond is here, pulling you away from her—his fingers tight and urgent around your wrist—as he and Luke take your place. “Go,” he commands. “You run. Don’t wait for us. Rio?”

“I got her,” Rio replies, grabbing your free hand with an iron grip. Gales of wind rip at you; every millimeter of your skin is soaked with rain. As you flee across the fields towards the farmhouse, dozens of zombies pursue you. More are still staggering along the banks of the river, swept up in the hoards chasing Jace and the promise of his waterlogged corpse when it reaches its final destination. Daeron has run out of arrows and is shooting with his .22, which is very much not his preference. Aegon trips, getting covered in mud as he rolls, and Rio stops to help him. While he is distracted, you look back at Aemond. He, Luke, and Baela are moving quickly, but not quickly enough. A drove of zombies is closing in on them. You have a spare few seconds at last. You yank your backpack off, grab a box of ammo inside, and reload your M9.

“Chips?!” Rio calls over his shoulder.

“I’m fine.”

He knows you well enough to listen. The world goes quiet as your finger settles on the trigger. There’s a rhythm one slips into, an impassionate lethal efficiency. It’s easier to keep going than to stop and have to find it again. You fire over and over, dropping eight zombies. You sheath your M9 and whip Rio’s out of your other holster, the sights finding grotesque decaying faces illuminated by lightning. You pull the trigger: blood, bones, brains, corpses jerking and convulsing as they fall harmlessly to the mud. Aemond is here; when did he get here?

“I told you to run!” he’s shouting through the storm, furious. He’s shoving you towards the farmhouse. You resist him.

“Let me kill as many as I can—”

“Go! Now!” Aemond orders over the clashing thunder, and then sprints with you all the way to the front porch to make sure you listen. Everyone else is already there. Helaena has fetched a spare key from under the doormat and is turning it in the lock.

Daeron observes her anxiously. “We don’t know if it’s safe in there, Helaena.”

“Not in,” she says, insistent. “Through.” Through this building, and maybe through the next one too. The average zombie is not terribly clever. If they lose sight of you, without the benefit of the momentum of a hoard they are lost. Helaena opens the door. The living rush inside, and she locks it behind you. As you are bursting out the back door, you can hear zombies pounding their rotting palms against the front one. You soar through a stable full of dead horses and donkeys, leaving the doors open; this should keep the zombies distracted if they make it this far. Then you race to the farthest guest house. Luke, swiveling with his binoculars, spies no zombies approaching as you steal inside. There is no spare key this time; Rio punches out a first-floor window for you to climb through. Once everyone is inside, he and Aegon move a bookshelf to cover the opening.

You all stand in the living room, gasping and shivering, dripping rain down onto the rug and the hardwood floor. The air is dusty but clean of any trace of vile, swampy decay. Outside, thunder booms and lightning flashes bright enough to illuminate the lightless house. The sky is so dark it might as well be nightfall. Baela sinks to her knees, clamping both hands over her mouth so she won’t sob loudly enough for a zombie to hear. Rhaena and Luke are beside her, both weeping quiet rivulets of tears, trying to comfort her in whispers. Helaena is rummaging around searching for candles; she has already taken a lighter out of her soaked burlap messenger bag.

“Daeron, bro, come over here,” Aegon chokes out. He embraces Daeron, clutches him tightly and desperately, doesn’t let go. Rio is reloading his Remington 12 gauge.

Jace is dead. Jace is dead.

Aemond says to you, his voice low but seething: “What the fuck was that?”

You blink the raindrops out of your eyes as you stare at him, bewildered. “You needed help.”

“I told you to run.”

“I’m an asset, I have skills that can keep you alive, why am I here if I’m not going to be useful—?”

“You’re not in the fucking Navy anymore!” he hisses. “When I tell you to run, you run, you don’t stop, you don’t look back, because I can’t worry about you and take care of everyone else.”

“Nobody asked you to worry about me.”

“But I do.”

“Aemond,” Aegon pleads, waving him over. Aegon’s plump sunburned cheeks are glistening with rain and tears. “Man, it doesn’t matter. Nothing else matters now. Please come here.”

“I’m going to clear the house,” Aemond says instead.

Rio raises an eyebrow at you—this is one fucked up guy, Chips—and then pumps his shotgun. “Me too.” He sweeps with Aemond through the main floor and then vanishes up the staircase.

Helaena is lightning candles she found in the kitchen and arranging them around the living room. Daeron starts gathering food from the pantry. Rhaena and Baela are murmuring to each other softly, mournfully. It doesn’t feel like something you should intrude on. Luke is peeking out of a window with his binoculars, vigilant for threats. Aegon sniffles, wanders over to you with large, sad, shimmering eyes, pats your shoulder awkwardly.

“Hey, Chocolate Chip. You doing okay?”

“No,” you answer honestly.

“Yeah. Me either.” Then he flops down on the hideous burnt orange couch and lies there motionless until Daeron brings him a can of Dr. Pepper. Aegon pops the tab, slurps up foam, and then begins singing to himself very quietly, a song so old you can remember your grandfather saying it was one of his favorites as a boy: A Tombstone Every Mile.

When Rio comes back downstairs—heavy footsteps, he can’t help that—you meet him at the bottom of the steps. “The house is good,” Rio says. “And Aemond’s in the big bedroom on the right if you’d like to go up there and talk to him.”

“I don’t think he wants to see me right now.”

“I could not disagree more,” Rio says with a miserable, exhausted smile. Then he goes to the couch to check on Aegon.

You pick up one of the flickering candles, white and scentless, and ascend the staircase. You find Aemond in the master bedroom, the same accommodations that Jace laid claim to when he was still alive. He is sitting at the edge of the bed and staring at the wall, at nothing. Tentatively, you sit down beside him, placing the candle on the nightstand.

“Aemond…what happened to Jace…it wasn’t your fault.”

“Criston said I was in charge, that’s the very last thing he told me. They might be the last words I ever hear from him, and I just…” His voice breaks; he wipes the rain and tears from his face with open palms. “I really wanted to get everyone home.”

“I’m so sorry about what I said at the bowling alley,” you confess, like it’s a dire secret. “I don’t want to fight with you, Aemond, I…I want to help you. I can see what you’ve done for everyone here, me and Rio included, and I believe in you. I want to be a part of this.”

He nods, an acceptance of peace, but he still doesn’t look at you.

“Can we start over? I’ll never bring it up again, okay? I wasn’t trying to guilt you or upset you or anything. I should have just dropped it. I overreacted. And I understand why being with someone like me maybe wouldn’t be…super appealing.”

“It’s not about that.”

“Then what’s it about?”

Aemond wrings his hands, shakes his head, at last turns to you, golden candlelight reflected in his eye, his scar cloaked in shadows. His words are hushed, clandestine, soft powerless surrender. “I’m already so afraid of losing you.”

He cares, he hopes, he wants me too? “I’m here right now, Aemond. I don’t know what else I can say. I’d promise you more if I could.”

He reaches out to touch you, to ghost his thumb across your cheekbone, wet with rain. Then he kisses you, so gently you cannot help but imagine the wispy borders of calm white summer clouds, the rustle of leaves as wind blows down the Appalachian Mountains. You don’t have to ask him what he’s thinking, what it feels like. You can read it in the startled, firelit wonder on his face.

You taste like the beginning of something, here at the end of the world.

[darkmaga-returns]

Is this what America is going to do now when we have disasters? Bring in the bulldozers and the flame throwers? Light the trash and debris pyres, and once down to ashes, cover up and forget?

Dr. Peter and Ginger Breggin

Nov 22, 2024

“Outbreaks and natural disasters have shown that mismanagement of the dead can show distrust and undermine public health efforts to contain diseases and can also contribute to long-term trauma for survivors when the bodies of loved ones are not considered to have been treated with respect.”

Ethical and sociocultural challenges in managing dead bodies during epidemics and natural disasters

[Please click on the headline to read this complete article in Substack]

It does not take a public health study to tell us that disrespecting the remains of those lost in a storm or other disaster leads to grave distress among survivors. Respectful handling of the dead goes back into the misty records of human prehistory.

Yet, suddenly, these most fundamental, core traditions of human culture—how the dead are treated and disposed of—are being completely ignored by American federal and state agencies in southeastern Appalachia where more than 30 communities and an uncounted number of inhabitants have been wiped out by Hurricane Helene. Twenty-five North Carolina counties and the Eastern Band of Cherokee Indians have been identified for Federal major disaster declaration—this approaches one third of the state of North Carolina. Tennessee, too, has been massively impacted by that storm.

FEMA Disaster Declaration of 10.15.2024

The surviving residents of Western North Carolina and volunteers are struggling to locate their missing and dead family members and neighbors, often last seen as they or their houses were swept away in a record-high tide of water or mud and debris. Since the early hours and days after Hurricane Helene hit the mountains of southern Appalachia, there have been eyewitness reports on social media of bodies hung up in trees, tangled in brush piles, buried in mountains of muck and uprooted trees, crumpled vehicles, smashed buildings and a toxic mix of chemicals, and sewage. Residents often don’t hear about toxic releases until much time has passed, leading to chemical burns, asthma and other toxic exposure-related illnesses.

Volunteer Search and Rescue teams with trained cadaver dogs are still doing body recovery; they see the desperate need. United Cajun Navy and Mercury 1 Charity are two of the organized charities doing search and rescue and air drops for those whose entire lives have literally been washed away as evidenced by 911 recordings just released on the 19th of November.

[whencyclopedia]

The Armies of the East India Company

The East India Company (EIC) was first England's and then Britain's tool of colonial expansion in India and beyond. Revenue from trade and land taxes from territories it controlled allowed the EIC to build up its own private armies, collectively the largest armed force in South and South East Asia.

The EIC mixed British and Indian soldiers (sepoys), hired regular regiments of the British Army, and funded its own navy, the Bombay Marine. The vast resources of the company allowed it to eventually employ over 250,000 well-trained and well-equipped fighting men. This force expanded the EIC's domains, seeing off competition from Indian princely states, pirates, and other European trade companies.

From Trade to Imperialism

The East India Company was founded as a joint stock company by royal charter on 31 December 1600. Initially, the company limited itself to trade from centres or 'factories' it set up at already established ports belonging to the Mughal Empire (1526-1858) in India. From 1668, Bombay (Mumbai) became the EIC's main trade hub after it was acquired from the Portuguese Empire. By the end of the century, the EIC had a major presence at Madras, Calcutta (Kolkata), and Hughli in Bengal amongst others. These early arrangements were entirely peaceful, but the EIC wanted more control and more power that would give even greater returns to its private investors.

It was in the mid-18th century that the EIC gained the right through a royal charter to raise its own army, principally in order to protect its assets like warehouses and man its fortifications. From 1757, the EIC used this army in an aggressive campaign of conquest. The EIC thus began to control territory of its own, and in 1759, it took over the major port of Surat completely. Essentially, the EIC was now the "sharp end of the British imperial stick" (Faught, 6). A key step in this transformation from trader to imperialist was victory against Shah Alam II, the Mughal emperor, and Mir Qasim, Nawab of Awadh at the Battle of Buxar in 1764. In a 1765 peace treaty, Shah Alam II awarded the EIC the right to collect land revenue (dewani) in Bengal, Bihar, and Orissa. This was a major development and ensured the company now had vast resources to fund an army for further territorial expansion.

Men like Robert Clive (1725-1774) carved out an empire in the EIC's name. Clive of India, as he was popularly known, rose from clerk to Governor of Bengal and secured a famous victory in June 1757 at the Battle of Plassey against the forces of the Nawab of Bengal. Clive defeated a larger enemy force where the wealth of the EIC was seen in the disparity of artillery pieces: 50 against the EIC's 171. More territory came after the Four Anglo-Mysore Wars (1767-99) and the two Anglo-Sikh Wars (1845-49). These territories had to be protected against various Indian princely states, the Mughal Empire, the Marathas, the Mysores, and rivals such as the Dutch East India Company (VOC), founded in 1602, and the French East India Company, founded in 1664. These European bodies had armies as well-equipped as the EIC forces, and so the British expansion was not entirely a smooth one. For example, the French twice took possession of Madras and controlled large parts of southern India. It is no surprise then, given these challenges, that by the end of the 18th century, the EIC was spending half its income on military personnel and hardware.

Continue reading...

[the-whispers-of-death]

OC Information: "Python"

Full Name: Devaraj Kabir Roshan

Callsign(s): Python

Alias(es): Snake, Doctor Reaper, Bear-Whisperer, Doctor Shadow

Nationality: First-Generation American (Indian parents)

Affiliations: U.S. Navy, U.S. Fleet Marine Force, Task Force 141 (SAS)

Rank: E-7/Chief Hospital Corpsman (U.S. Navy)

Gender: Male (Trans)

Status: Alive

Birthday: January 25th, 1989 (35 as of 2024)

Build: Burly

Height: 6'6"

Marks: Facial scars (will be explained in more detail in a later post), pierced ears, full sleeve tattoo of two snakes intertwining on both arms and legs, large tattoo on the middle of the back of a snake swirling upwards until it reaches the shoulder blades, tattoo of the Rod of Asclepius on his left rib cage, tattoos of his late parents name on his ankles with one name on one ankle and the other name on the other ankle

Hair: Black

Eyes: Brown

Background: Devaraj is the only son of two Indian immigrants and grew up in Jersey City, New Jersey. His parents both died of a fatal bear attack when he was eleven and he was in the foster care system until he aged out at eighteen. He then enlisted in the U.S. Navy, soon going to train to be a Fleet Marine Corpsman.

Extra: He wears a black balaclava with a black hard-plated mask that has silver etchings of snakes coiling around the mask and he wears it to protect his identity. Despite being so big, he has nimble fingers.

Reblogs are welcomed & appreciated! Asks are open, feel free to pop in and request something! (Check the rules in "Rules for Requesting NSFW" before requesting.)

[dosesofcommonsense]

This is long, but it’s well worth your time.

This might piss some of you off. To that matter, I don’t care. This should make you angry, though it should make you angry at our government and not me. I’m just pointing out the truth and some relating history.

https://www.archives.gov/founding-docs/constitution-transcript

Article 1, Section 8

The Congress shall have Power To lay and collect Taxes, Duties, Imposts and Excises, to pay the Debts and provide for the common Defence and general Welfare of the United States; but all Duties, Imposts and Excises shall be uniform throughout the United States;

To borrow Money on the credit of the United States;

To regulate Commerce with foreign Nations, and among the several States, and with the Indian Tribes;

To establish an uniform Rule of Naturalization, and uniform Laws on the subject of Bankruptcies throughout the United States;

To coin Money, regulate the Value thereof, and of foreign Coin, and fix the Standard of Weights and Measures;

To provide for the Punishment of counterfeiting the Securities and current Coin of the United States;

To establish Post Offices and post Roads;

To promote the Progress of Science and useful Arts, by securing for limited Times to Authors and Inventors the exclusive Right to their respective Writings and Discoveries;

To constitute Tribunals inferior to the supreme Court;

To define and punish Piracies and Felonies committed on the high Seas, and Offences against the Law of Nations;

To declare War, grant Letters of Marque and Reprisal, and make Rules concerning Captures on Land and Water;

To raise and support Armies, but no Appropriation of Money to that Use shall be for a longer Term than two Years;

To provide and maintain a Navy;

To make Rules for the Government and Regulation of the land and naval Forces;

To provide for calling forth the Militia to execute the Laws of the Union, suppress Insurrections and repel Invasions;

To provide for organizing, arming, and disciplining, the Militia, and for governing such Part of them as may be employed in the Service of the United States, reserving to the States respectively, the Appointment of the Officers, and the Authority of training the Militia according to the discipline prescribed by Congress;

To exercise exclusive Legislation in all Cases whatsoever, over such District (not exceeding ten Miles square) as may, by Cession of particular States, and the Acceptance of Congress, become the Seat of the Government of the United States, and to exercise like Authority over all Places purchased by the Consent of the Legislature of the State in which the Same shall be, for the Erection of Forts, Magazines, Arsenals, dock-Yards, and other needful Buildings;—And

To make all Laws which shall be necessary and proper for carrying into Execution the foregoing Powers, and all other Powers vested by this Constitution in the Government of the United States, or in any Department or Officer thereof.

--

Note: The duties of Congress do not entail any gift giving or foreign donations.

--

Story Time

https://fee.org/resources/not-your-to-give/

[The following story about the famed American icon Davy Crockett was published in Harper’s Magazine in 1867, as written by James J. Bethune, a pseudonym used by Edward S. Ellis. The events that are recounted here are true, including Crockett’s opposition to the bill in question, though the precise rendering and some of the detail are fictional.]

One day in the House of Representatives, a bill was taken up appropriating money for the benefit of a widow of a distinguished naval officer. Several beautiful speeches had been made in its support. The Speaker was just about to put the question when Davy Crockett arose:

“Mr. Speaker–I have as much respect for the memory of the deceased, and as much sympathy for the sufferings of the living, if suffering there be, as any man in this House, but we must not permit our respect for the dead or our sympathy for a part of the living to lead us into an act of injustice to the balance of the living. I will not go into an argument to prove that Congress has no power to appropriate this money as an act of charity. Every member upon this floor knows it. We have the right, as individuals, to give away as much of our own money as we please in charity; but as members of Congress we have no right so to appropriate a dollar of the public money. Some eloquent appeals have been made to us upon the ground that it is a debt due the deceased. Mr. Speaker, the deceased lived long after the close of the war; he was in office to the day of his death, and I have never heard that the government was in arrears to him.

Every man in this House knows it is not a debt. We cannot, without the grossest corruption, appropriate this money as the payment of a debt. We have not the semblance of authority to appropriate it as a charity. Mr. Speaker, I have said we have the right to give as much money of our own as we please. I am the poorest man on this floor. I cannot vote for this bill, but I will give one week’s pay to the object, and if every member of Congress will do the same, it will amount to more than the bill asks.”

He took his seat. Nobody replied. The bill was put upon its passage, and, instead of passing unanimously, as was generally supposed, and as, no doubt, it would, but for that speech, it received but few votes, and, of course, was lost.

Later, when asked by a friend why he had opposed the appropriation, Crockett gave this explanation:

“Several years ago I was one evening standing on the steps of the Capitol with some other members of Congress, when our attention was attracted by a great light over in Georgetown . It was evidently a large fire. We jumped into a hack and drove over as fast as we could. In spite of all that could be done, many houses were burned and many families made homeless, and, besides, some of them had lost all but the clothes they had on. The weather was very cold, and when I saw so many women and children suffering, I felt that something ought to be done for them. The next morning a bill was introduced appropriating $20,000 for their relief. We put aside all other business and rushed it through as soon as it could be done.

“The next summer, when it began to be time to think about the election, I concluded I would take a scout around among the boys of my district. I had no opposition there, but, as the election was some time off, I did not know what might turn up. When riding one day in a part of my district in which I was more of a stranger than any other, I saw a man in a field plowing and coming toward the road. I gauged my gait so that we should meet as he came to the fence. As he came up, I spoke to the man. He replied politely, but, as I thought, rather coldly.

“I began: ‘Well, friend, I am one of those unfortunate beings called candidates, and–’

“‘Yes, I know you; you are Colonel Crockett, I have seen you once before, and voted for you the last time you were elected. I suppose you are out electioneering now, but you had better not waste your time or mine. I shall not vote for you again.’

“This was a sockdolager . . . I begged him to tell me what was the matter.

“‘Well, Colonel, it is hardly worth-while to waste time or words upon it. I do not see how it can be mended, but you gave a vote last winter which shows that either you have not capacity to understand the Constitution, or that you are wanting in the honesty and firmness to be guided by it. In either case you are not the man to represent me. But I beg your pardon for expressing it in that way. I did not intend to avail myself of the privilege of the constituent to speak plainly to a candidate for the purpose of insulting or wounding you. I intend by it only to say that your understanding of the Constitution is very different from mine; and I will say to you what, but for my rudeness, I should not have said, that I believe you to be honest. . . . But an understanding of the Constitution different from mine I cannot overlook, because the Constitution, to be worth anything, must be held sacred, and rigidly observed in all its provisions. The man who wields power and misinterprets it is the more dangerous the more honest he is.’

“‘I admit the truth of all you say, but there must be some mistake about it, for I do not remember that I gave any vote last winter upon any constitutional question.’

“‘No, Colonel, there’s no mistake. Though I live here in the backwoods and seldom go from home, I take the papers from Washington and read very carefully all the proceedings of Congress. My papers say that last winter you voted for a bill to appropriate $20,000 to some sufferers by a fire in Georgetown . Is that true?’

“‘Well, my friend; I may as well own up. You have got me there. But certainly nobody will complain that a great and rich country like ours should give the insignificant sum of $20,000 to relieve its suffering women and children, particularly with a full and overflowing Treasury, and I am sure, if you had been there, you would have done just as I did.’

“‘It is not the amount, Colonel, that I complain of; it is the principle. In the first place, the government ought to have in the Treasury no more than enough for its legitimate purposes. But that has nothing to do with the question. The power of collecting and disbursing money at pleasure is the most dangerous power that can be intrusted to man, particularly under our system of collecting revenue by a tariff, which reaches every man in the country, no matter how poor he may be, and the poorer he is the more he pays in proportion to his means. What is worse, it presses upon him without his knowledge where the weight centers, for there is not a man in the United States who can ever guess how much he pays to the government. So you see, that while you are contributing to relieve one, you are drawing it from thousands who are even worse off than he. If you had the right to give anything, the amount was simply a matter of discretion with you, and you had as much right to give $20,000,000 as $20,000. If you have the right to give to one, you have the right to give to all; and, as the Constitution neither defines charity nor stipulates the amount, you are at liberty to give to any and everything which you may believe, or profess to believe, is a charity, and to any amount you may think proper. You will very easily perceive what a wide door this would open for fraud and corruption and favoritism, on the one hand, and for robbing the people on the other. No, Colonel, Congress has no right to give charity. Individual members may give as much of their own money as they please, but they have no right to touch a dollar of the public money for that purpose. If twice as many houses had been burned in this county as in Georgetown , neither you nor any other member of Congress would have thought of appropriating a dollar for our relief. There are about two hundred and forty members of Congress. If they had shown their sympathy for the sufferers by contributing each one week’s pay, it would have made over $13,000. There are plenty of wealthy men in and around Washington who could have given $20,000 without depriving themselves of even a luxury of life. The congressmen chose to keep their own money, which, if reports be true, some of them spend not very creditably; and the people about Washington , no doubt, applauded you for relieving them from the necessity of giving by giving what was not yours to give. The people have delegated to Congress, by the Constitution, the power to do certain things. To do these, it is authorized to collect and pay moneys, and for nothing else. Everything beyond this is usurpation, and a violation of the Constitution.

“‘So you see, Colonel, you have violated the Constitution in what I consider a vital point. It is a precedent fraught with danger to the country, for when Congress once begins to stretch its power beyond the limits of the Constitution, there is no limit to it, and no security for the people. I have no doubt you acted honestly, but that does not make it any better, except as far as you are personally concerned, and you see that I cannot vote for you.’

“I tell you I felt streaked. I saw if I should have opposition, and this man should go to talking, he would set others to talking, and in that district I was a gone fawn-skin. I could not answer him, and the fact is, I was so fully convinced that he was right, I did not want to. But I must satisfy him, and I said to him:

“‘Well, my friend, you hit the nail upon the head when you said I had not sense enough to understand the Constitution. I intended to be guided by it, and thought I had studied it fully. I have heard many speeches in Congress about the powers of Congress, but what you have said here at your plow has got more hard, sound sense in it than all the fine speeches I ever heard. If I had ever taken the view of it that you have, I would have put my head into the fire before I would have given that vote; and if you will forgive me and vote for me again, if I ever vote for another unconstitutional law I wish I may be shot.’

“He laughingly replied: ‘Yes, Colonel, you have sworn to that once before, but I will trust you again upon one condition. You say that you are convinced that your vote was wrong. Your acknowledgment of it will do more good than beating you for it. If, as you go around the district, you will tell people about this vote, and that you are satisfied it was wrong, I will not only vote for you, but will do what I can to keep down opposition, and, perhaps, I may exert some little influence in that way.’

“‘If I don’t,’ said I, ‘I wish I may be shot; and to convince you that I am in earnest in what I say I will come back this way in a week or ten days, and if you will get up a gathering of the people, I will make a speech to them. Get up a barbecue, and I will pay for it.’

“‘No, Colonel, we are not rich people in this section, but we have plenty of provisions to contribute for a barbecue, and some to spare for those who have none. The push of crops will be over in a few days, and we can then afford a day for a barbecue. This is Thursday; I will see to getting it up on Saturday week. Come to my house on Friday, and we will go together, and I promise you a very respectable crowd to see and hear you.’

“‘Well, I will be here. But one thing more before I say good-by. I must know your name.’

“‘My name is Bunce.’

“‘Not Horatio Bunce?’

“‘Yes.’

“‘Well, Mr. Bunce, I never saw you before, though you say you have seen me, but I know you very well. I am glad I have met you, and very proud that I may hope to have you for my friend.’

“It was one of the luckiest hits of my life that I met him. He mingled but little with the public, but was widely known for his remarkable intelligence and incorruptible integrity, and for a heart brimful and running over with kindness and benevolence, which showed themselves not only in words but in acts. He was the oracle of the whole country around him, and his fame had extended far beyond the circle of his immediate acquaintance. Though I had never met him before, I had heard much of him, and but for this meeting it is very likely I should have had opposition, and had been beaten. One thing is very certain, no man could now stand up in that district under such a vote.

“At the appointed time I was at his house, having told our conversation to every crowd I had met, and to every man I stayed all night with, and I found that it gave the people an interest and a confidence in me stronger than I had every seen manifested before.

“Though I was considerably fatigued when I reached his house, and, under ordinary circumstances, should have gone early to bed, I kept him up until midnight, talking about the principles and affairs of government, and got more real, true knowledge of them than I had got all my life before.

“I have known and seen much of him since, for I respect him–no, that is not the word–I reverence and love him more than any living man, and I go to see him two or three times every year; and I will tell you, sir, if every one who professes to be a Christian lived and acted and enjoyed it as he does, the religion of Christ would take the world by storm.

“But to return to my story. The next morning we went to the barbecue, and, to my surprise, found about a thousand men there. I met a good many whom I had not known before, and they and my friend introduced me around until I had got pretty well acquainted–at least, they all knew me.

“In due time notice was given that I would speak to them. They gathered up around a stand that had been erected. I opened my speech by saying:

“‘Fellow-citizens–I present myself before you today feeling like a new man. My eyes have lately been opened to truths which ignorance or prejudice, or both, had heretofore hidden from my view. I feel that I can today offer you the ability to render you more valuable service than I have ever been able to render before. I am here today more for the purpose of acknowledging my error than to seek your votes. That I should make this acknowledgment is due to myself as well as to you. Whether you will vote for me is a matter for your consideration only.’

“I went on to tell them about the fire and my vote for the appropriation and then told them why I was satisfied it was wrong. I closed by saying:

“‘And now, fellow-citizens, it remains only for me to tell you that the most of the speech you have listened to with so much interest was simply a repetition of the arguments by which your neighbor, Mr. Bunce, convinced me of my error.

“‘It is the best speech I ever made in my life, but he is entitled to the credit for it. And now I hope he is satisfied with his convert and that he will get up here and tell you so.’

“He came upon the stand and said:

“‘Fellow-citizens–It affords me great pleasure to comply with the request of Colonel Crockett. I have always considered him a thoroughly honest man, and I am satisfied that he will faithfully perform all that he has promised you today.’

“He went down, and there went up from that crowd such a shout for Davy Crockett as his name never called forth before.

“I am not much given to tears, but I was taken with a choking then and felt some big drops rolling down my cheeks. And I tell you now that the remembrance of those few words spoken by such a man, and the honest, hearty shout they produced, is worth more to me than all the honors I have received and all the reputation I have ever made, or ever shall make, as a member of Congress.

“Now, sir,” concluded Crockett, “you know why I made that speech yesterday.

“There is one thing now to which I will call your attention. You remember that I proposed to give a week’s pay. There are in that House many very wealthy men–men who think nothing of spending a week’s pay, or a dozen of them, for a dinner or a wine party when they have something to accomplish by it. Some of those same men made beautiful speeches upon the great debt of gratitude which the country owed the deceased–a debt which could not be paid by money–and the insignificance and worthlessness of money, particularly so insignificant a sum as $10,000, when weighted against the honor of the nation. Yet not one of them responded to my proposition. Money with them is nothing but trash when it is to come out of the people. But it is the one great thing for which most of them are striving, and many of them sacrifice honor, integrity, and justice to obtain it.”

Holders of political office are but reflections of the dominant leadership–good or bad–among the electorate.

Horatio Bunce is a striking example of responsible citizenship. Were his kind to multiply, we would see many new faces in public office; or, as in the case of Davy Crockett, a new Crockett.

For either the new faces or the new Crocketts, we must look to the Horatio in ourselves!

--

Why does it matter?

https://foreignassistance.gov/

In 2024 alone, the US has “given” $23 BILLION in US Taxpayer money to 203 countries through 11,000+/- “activities”. The US Constitution does NOT allow for any of this money to be handed out.

Additionally, as much as this might chafe, Congress (and all the departmental budgets) are not supposed to dole out money to natural disaster areas. Those areas are supposed to be handled from a private money or private sector restoration perspective. The US government’s job is the infrastructure (roads, bridges, highways, power, etc) to those impacted areas.

--

If you’re mad as hell about the US government saying all these foreign aid projects are more important than anything related to the protection and safety of our country and its citizenry, then your anger is directed in the right direction. Congress’s job and loyalties are supposed to be directed inward; our country is supposed to be their priority. That our country isn’t their priority is treasonous and grounds for impeachment – the whole lot of them.

BUT, as much as we all want to help our fellow citizens in FL, NC, TN, and HI (Maui fires), that’s not the job of the federal government. They’re not doling out “fed funds”; they’re doling out our Taxes that should be going to any number of things including paying off our debts.

It might sound callous in lieu of the recent hurricane and the one coming, but there’s always a tragedy occurring somewhere whether it’s on the news or not. So, by those events, there’s never a good time. That makes now as good a time as any and maybe better than average since everyone is aware of how corrupt and treasonous our current ��leadership” has been. Knowing their allegiance is to anyone not an American, now is the opportune time to turn the light back on Constitutional truth and reeducate people regarding the stated duties of Congress.

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[townpostin]

Indian Navy to Aid Search for Missing Training Aircraft

Specialized team to join efforts at Chandil Dam for plane that vanished with two pilots A 15-member Indian Navy team will assist in locating a training aircraft that disappeared near Jamshedpur with two pilots aboard. JAMSHEDPUR – The Indian Navy is set to join the search operation for a missing training aircraft and its two pilots in Seraikela-Kharsawan district, Jharkhand. The Cessna 152…

[flagbridge]

Raoul de Chagny uniform inspiration, and general Raoul Navy musings

élève-officier ("elof") at the Borda in Brest, 1880s.

British Sub-Lieutenant (equivalent of an Ensign in the US or French Navies), approximately 1860 (by Ann Mary Newton)

Graduating students and faculty of L'Ecole Navale on board the Boarda, 1891

As some of you know, I love writing Raoul. My next projects after All Vows ends are mostly Raoul-centered, and I'm pretty deep in my research. I’ve tumbled absolutely headlong into researching La Baille (nickname for the French naval academy), and it’s amusing how across time and distance, so much of initial military training is unchanged. Even though I cosplay Christine, Raoul actually ends up being the character who I give most of my own life experience because I am, in fact, a Sailor. When I'm writing Raoul POV about being at sea, I sometimes use my own journal entries from past deployments when I was underway on the USS NEVERSAIL somewhere in the middle of the Indian Ocean.

I get a lot of questions about Raoul's uniform, so I'm sharing some of the above (hello talented artists, could we PLEASE get more Raoul Navy Phanart, I am BEGGING YOU)

élève-officier ("elof") at the Borda in Brest, 1880s.

This is exactly what Raoul's midshipman uniform would have looked like. As you can see from the photo from 1891, the uniform from that time and even a decade later is the same. Naval uniforms, especially dress uniforms change very infrequently. My dress uniform that I wear in 2024 is the same one that was designed by Mainbocher in 1941!

The term "élève-officier" translates literally to "student-officer", although most translate it as "officer candidate", which isn't inaccurate. They were then classified by year, so a first year student would be an élève-officier fourth class. However, the British and American term for a naval cadet is a "midshipman" which is often abbreviated to "mid". So "elof" is basically directly translated to "mid". However, there was an additional naval trainee rank, called "Aspirant". This was assigned to the naval cadets when they embarked for their tour du monde on actual warships. It's a unique rank that's basically a desgination that the individual is a senior at the academy--like a "Midshipman First Class", the term to describe seniors at the US Naval Academy.

2. British Sub-Lieutenant (equivalent of an Ensign in the US or French Navies), approximately 1860 (by Ann Mary Newton)

I couldn't find a good picture of a young/junior officer from this era in the French Navy but FUN FACT! The French Navy underwent a uniform shift in 1883. The officer uniform was largely unchanged, however, that short coat and triangular hat that we often associate with the end of the age of sail was phased out as a dress uniform. So it's possible that Raoul had a dress uniform very much like this around the time of Phantom of the Opera, but it was on its way out. The rank is accurate though! So if Raoul went to the opera in uniform in about 1881? This is what he would have looked like.

3. Graduating students and faculty of L'Ecole Navale on board the Borda, 1891

The uniforms were the same when Raoul would have graduated, and that is the Borda that is mentioned in the book. In my head this is Raoul's senior class photo (even though it's 10 years later), complete with a few guys who have no idea what's going on and aren't looking at the camera.

PotOmer Day 15: HEADCANON/Raoul Navy Uniform Musings

Between April 23 and June 11, I am posting 49 days of POTO content to mark the Omer, except on Shabbat. Previous days below the cut line.

Day 14: GIFSET-Ethan Freeman bows to the monkey.

DAY 13: LEROUX: HAPPY BIRTHDAY GASTON LEROUX (Ethan Freeman Reads Leroux)

Day 12: FANFIC: All Vows Chapter 38: my longfic that will be concluding at the end of May.

Day 11: (no post, Shabbat)

Day 10: FANFIC: All Vows Chapter 10 (Catch Up)

Day 9: ADAPTATION: Ghost of Zariya Hollow

Day 8: HEADCANON: Christine's Swedish Accent

Day 7: COSPLAY Hannibal Slave Girl Bodice Construction

Day 6: GIFSET: Raouls who make choices appreciation post

Day 5: PHIC UPDATE: All Vows Chapter 37! (And a bonus gif of Lily and Jon)

Day 4: (No post, Shabbat)

Day 3: GIFSET: Cape Twirl Comparison, Current West End Phantoms ('23-'24)

Day 2: BRAINWORM: "Ne Me Touchez Pas"

Day 1: GIFSET Robyns/Kerhoas: The Kiss

[newspatron]

Conquer the Battlefield: Your Ultimate Guide to NDA Exams

Unleash your inner warrior! Share your NDA exam dreams, questions, and tips in the comments below!

Step onto the Battlefield of Dreams: Cracking the NDA Exam with Confidence Ever dreamt of donning the olive green, of soaring amidst the clouds, or commanding the vast canvas of the ocean? The National Defence Academy ( NDA exam ) could be your gateway to transforming these dreams into reality. But conquering this coveted path demands not just unwavering ambition, but also a strategic roadmap…

[girlactionfigure]

*ISRAEL REALTIME* - "Connecting the World to Israel in Realtime"

▪️CORRECTION & UPDATE - MEITAR not MITAR, previous report on school vandalized was in Meitar, near Be’er Sheva, not Mitar, near Netanya.  Two women from Hora who work at the school are suspected and were arrested by police. 

▪️HOSTAGE BABY KFIR TURNS ONE.. where is he?  Is he alive?  Why are we delivering aid and medicines with no proof of life or return?

▪️JORDAN ATTACKS INTO SYRIA.. The Jordanian Air Force attacked targets identified with drug dealers and border smugglers again tonight in southern Syria.  According to reports from Syrian opposition sources, there are about 10 dead as a result of the Jordanian attacks in Syria. Most of them are women and children.

▪️IRAN TRAINED GAZA SNIPERS.. A Shabak investigation of a terrorist showed that Palestinian Islamic Jihad terrorists from Gaza were trained on Iranian soil to be snipers.

▪️HAMAS CONDEMNS U.S… The senior member Hamas, Abu Zohri, condemned the classification of the Houthi rebels in Yemen as a terrorist organization by the Biden administration.

🚨 RED SEA-Houthis Front 

 ▪️HOUTHIS CLAIM.. The military spokesman of the Houthis:  As part of the response to the American-British attack against us, we launched several missiles at the American ship Genco Picardy in the Gulf of Aden. Target hits were achieved.  An Indian Navy ship in the Gulf of Aden responded to a distress call from a ship flying the flag of the Marshall Islands that was attacked by a drone.​​​​ The ship that was attacked in the Gulf of Aden is the MV Ginko Picardi and it flies the flag of the Marshall Islands.

 ▪️US / UK ATTACK HOUTHIS.. fourth attack by the Americans and the British against the Houthis in Yemen, targets were attacked early in the morning in Sana'a, Tez, Bicha'a, Hudaydah, Damar and Zada.

🚨 REGIONAL War 

▪️PAKISTAN ATTACKS IRAN.. the Pakistani army attacked 7 targets, some of them near the bases of the Iranian Revolutionary Guards, in the Sawaran region of southeastern Iran.   According to its statement, Pakistan attacked "terrorist bases" of “terrorist organizations” in the Sistan region of Balochistan.  Pakistan: “We fully respect the sovereignty and territorial integrity of Iran.”

(( Noting that Pakistan has a very large military, is at constant conflict with India, has nuclear weapons, and buys and is trained on American weaponry including F-16’s. ))

▪️CONFLICTING REPORTS OF US EVACUATING OR REINFORCING SYRIA BASES.. one report states US moved an additional 1,500 troops to Syrian ‘anti-ISIS’ bases.  Another report (Arab media) says “US forces have evacuated the Hemo base in Syria, which is west of the city of Qamishli in Al-Hasakah countryside, after it came under multiple attacks by the Islamic Resistance in Iraq.  The forces have reportedly moved to the Tal Baydar base West of Al-Hasakah.  It is considered one of the US occupation forces' most vital bases, as it is close to Qamishli airport and contains a training camp for the Syrian Democratic Forces (SDF).”  

🔶 GAZA-HAMAS Front 

▪️Air and artillery strikes by our forces in the area of ​​Jabalia and Sheikh Radwan in the Gaza Strip.  The IDF left these areas, the residents began to return, and the terrorists along with them.

🔶 JUDEA-SAMARIA Front 

▪️NOOR-SHAMS, firefight, security forces are demolishing terrorist houses in the El Manashia neighborhood, for the 2nd day.  During the activity, terrorists throwing IED’s at the troops and using IED’s on vehicles.

[usafphantom2]

IMAGES: ROKAF performs last Elephant Walk with its F-4 Phantom

Fernando Valduga By Fernando Valduga 03/09/2024 - 18:21in Military

The Air Force of the Republic of Korea (RoKAF) conducted on March 8 an impressive "elephant walk" (Elephant Walk) involving 33 aircraft, including poacher fighters F-35A, KF-16, F-15K and the former F-4E that are scheduled for retirement in June.

The F-4E Phantoms, leading the formation equipped with AGM-142H 'Popeye' and AGM-65D 'Maverick' air-to-ground missiles, and MK-82 air-to-ground pump. A total of 25 newer fighters followed, including the F-15K, KF-16, F-16, FA-50, F-5 and F-35A. Among them, two F-35As flew low over the Elephant Walk formation and then landed and joined the formation.

This demonstration at Suwon Air Base coincided with the annual Freedom Shield exercise, reinforcing the deterrence against North Korea's nuclear and missile threats.

A RoKAF official said that "this is the first time that all types of fighters belonging to the South Korean Air Force have participated".

The term "elephant walk" dates back to World War II, when large fleets of Allied bombers gathered for missions containing up to 1,000 aircraft. It means a coordinated demonstration of power and military preparation.

The Chief of Staff of the Air Force, General Lee Young-su, emphasized the need of the South Korean Air Force to inspire confidence in the public and deter potential opponents. The "Elephant Walk" demonstrated RoKAF's readiness to respond decisively to any provocations.

"I give a warm applause to the Phantoms who protected the Republic of Korea for 55 years, and to the 'Ghost Men' who shared the ups and downs with the Phantoms," added Lee Young-soo.

The F-4 was first introduced in Korea in 1969. RoKAF explained that it was able to dominate the North Korean Air Force by introducing the F-4D, the new most powerful aircraft in the world at the time. Until the KF-16 entered service in 1994, the F-4 served as the main fighter representing the Air Force of the Republic of Korea, which even operated up to about 220 Phantoms, including the improved F-4E and the RF-4C reconnaissance aircraft.

Most Phantoms are retired and only about 10 F-4Es remain active. All of them will be retired in June of this year.

North Korea's recent calls for mobilization for combat highlight the ongoing tensions in the region, with Pyongyang often seeing negotiations for joint exercises between South Korea and the US as provocations.

Tags: Military AviationElephant WalkMcDonnell Douglas F-4 Phantom IIROKAF - Republic of Korea Air Force/South Korean Air Force

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Fernando Valduga

Fernando Valduga

Aviation photographer and pilot since 1992, he has participated in several events and air operations, such as Cruzex, AirVenture, Dayton Airshow and FIDAE. He has works published in specialized aviation magazines in Brazil and abroad. He uses Canon equipment during his photographic work in the world of aviation.

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