#Trucking Companies in Minnesota

[heavyhaultransport]

Heavy Haul Oversize Trucking

heavyhaultransporting.com

[octuscle]

Cholo Life

“First the damned Democrats stole the elections from us and now they are stealing our identity!” Manolo began to roll his eyes. He was familiar with this. When KJ worked himself into a rage, he sounded like a personal disciple of Trump. ‘I mean that they eat the cats in Springfield and the dogs, it's not just an isolated incident, they do it everywhere!’ ‘Kyle…’ Manuel began. KJ gave Manolo a friendly punch on the shoulder. He knew that when Manuel called him “Kyle,” Manolo was angry. “Of course I don't mean you,” said KJ. “You're an American through and through, you're American as peanut butter!” Of course that wasn't true. Manolo was born in Lima, went to school in Lima, and only came to Minnesota with his parents at the age of eight. But his parents had placed great importance on him learning the language quickly, and today Manolo speaks better English than his best friend from school days, KJ.

Kj, on the other hand, was a prime example of a junior at an American college: muscular, bright eyes, fair complexion, of course he played American football, and of course he parroted what Trump said without thinking. Yes, he was damn good-looking, but yes, he was also a real airhead. And even though olu secretly had a crush on KJ, KJ was out of reach for Manolo. You couldn't be more straighter than KJ.

KJ was studying business. With a bit of luck, he would at least get his bachelor's degree. Manolo had already graduated from high school two years before KJ and was about to get his bachelor's degree in biochemistry. He wanted to follow in his father's footsteps, who ran the research department of a seed company here. KJ, on the other hand, would join his father's trucking company and would alternate between driving trucks on the highways and struggling with the accounting in the office.

“Besides, you yourself admitted that you eat pets. You said that your grandmother serves guinea pigs.” ”Yes, but first of all, my grandmother doesn't steal the guinea pigs from some guys in Ohio, but has her cook buy and prepare them at the market, and secondly, guinea pigs are a delicacy where we come from. We find it rather absurd that you…” “All fake news!” KJ countered. ”Admit that the whole world would be in ruins without the USA. Our culture is simply superior!” There were situations in which Manolo was annoyed at being physically inferior to KJ. There were situations in which he just wanted to smash KJ's face in. It was really crazy that a guy who already classified cartoons as art wanted to lecture him on culture. His abuela had once given him a lucky charm that he always carried in his pocket. In situations like this, squeezing the stone firmly helped him. It drained the anger out of him. But this time was different. The stone became warm. The stone became hot! Manolo let go of it. He reached for the cold coke glass to cool his hand.

“Are you okay, hermano?” KJ asked. Manolo winced. That was the first time KJ had used a Spanish word correctly. ‘Would you order me another tequila? ¡Tengo que mear!’ Manolo looked after his friend. He had never drunk tequila before. KJ was also a feast for the eyes from behind. The torn jeans clung to his firm ass. His shoulders were broad. He was muscular. But not exaggerated. And his patriotic tattoos emphasized his masculinity. Manolo waved at the waitress and ordered two tequilas. He didn't usually drink. But maybe he could stand KJ better today if he was a little drunk.

The tequila arrived before KJ. And when KJ sat down, Manolo was playing with his cell phone. KJ took his tequila glass. “A nuestra salud y amistad, hermano” “A nuestra salud y amistad, KJ” Manolo replied distractedly, picked up the glass and was about to toast. He was frozen for a few seconds. What the hell had happened to Kyle? The smooth cheeks were covered by a hint of a beard. His tattoos had expanded. And now they had a lot more space too. Because KJ's muscles had almost exploded. His slender neck, with the Adam's apple whose movements always made Manolo so horny, had become a bull's neck tattooed all over. “Dude, you look like you've seen a ghost,” KJ said. His English had a slight Spanish accent. And there was a tear tattooed under his one eye. Manolo ordered two more tequilas… Their conversation turned into Spanglish gibberish. And at some point into Spanish. KJ got terribly worked up about the gringos. In doing so, he accidentally knocked his trucker cap off his head. He picked up a bandana and tied it around his head. KJ's gaze became somehow different. While they were talking, he played with his nipples more and more. He looked at Manolo more intensely. Somehow… lustfully? “Tengo que ir al baño otra vez. ¿Y no te gustaría venir conmigo?” KJ stood up. He was a muscleman. His tight-fitting tank top emphasized his muscles even more. With every twitch of the muscles, the tattoos moved, creating a real cartoon. His ass looked phenomenal in the pleated pants. If Manolo had to create a wank fantasy, this is what it would look like. And now the wank fantasy was telling him to follow him to the restrooms. Damn it! KJ looked like a real cholo. And he was a square college student in khakis and a button-down. Manolo hesitated for a moment. And then he followed KJ. KJ? Why “KJ”? I have no idea when the nickname developed. César Jesus should have been called CJ. But some stupid gringo hadn't understood that in elementary school. And so he had eventually become KJ. And the nickname stuck.

KJ was standing at the urinal. Manolo could see from behind that he was about to jerk off. Even though they had known each other since childhood, he had never seen KJ's cock. KJ's father had the typical conglomerate that enterprising wetbacks build. He had a few trucks that he used to transport goods or help with removals, he owned a few cafes, a laundry… And KJ was supposed to take over this small local empire at some point. His parents had always hoped that the friendship with the clever and ambitious Manolo would have a positive effect on KJ. But KJ had always been the type to hang out with the bad boys. And who could blame him? He looked just as brutal and manly as his father.

Manolo stood next to César at the urinal. César pretended not to notice Manolo. His tattooed hand jerked his cock, which was also covered in tattoos. It was a monster that offered almost as much surface area for artistic decoration as Manolo's thin forearm. César pushed up his tank top with his other hand, revealing his granite abs and finally his nipples. He played with his right nipple with his left hand. And Manolo, whose cock was almost as hard as César's muscles, couldn't help but suck on the left nipple. “Siempre supe que detrás de la fachada de empollón se escondía una zorrita,” César moaned. He let go of his nipple and pushed Manolo gently but firmly onto his knees. And Manolo greedily licked the precum from César's gleaming glans. This beast was not the first cock he sucked. But it was the biggest. And its owner was the one he wanted to satisfy more than anyone before. They had been like dissimilar brothers. Now he wanted to be this giant's whore. And César obviously wanted him to be his whore. He enjoyed the blow job and moaned loudly enough to signal to anyone who wanted to use the toilet that it was occupied. Manolo sucked César's cock and jerked his own. Both came almost simultaneously. It was impossible for Manolo to swallow all of César's cum. And his own cum splashed onto his shirt. Exhausted, he fell back. César was breathing heavily, too. “Necesitas una camisa nueva, hermanito,” he said. Manolo certainly couldn't go out like that. César took off Manolo's shirt and wiped his cum-smeared face with it. Then he took off his sweaty tank top. It was a bit difficult because it couldn't be easily pulled over his muscular body. He handed it to Manolo. Of course it was too big. But it felt good. And César would make sure that he would fill it out better soon. Today two men became real cholos.

Pics by @ki-kink

[the-soliloquies-of-sadists]

#380

“Boy, that took you long enough.  Did it come out clear three times in a row?...  Good.  I don’t want no fag mud on my hog.  I will beat the shit out of you if I go to fuck you and you ain’t clean.  And it won’t be the fun kind of beating the shit out of you.  It will be your responsibility to keep your hole clean.  You understand?

“…You seem to be taken aback by what I’m saying, or when I told you to go clean out not one hour after we first met.  Look, I’m 63 years old, I don’t have the patience for beating around the bush.  I’m blunt.

“When Leonard assigned you to train with me, he knew that I only train faggots.  I know him, and he would not have brought up my name as a seasoned trainer unless he told you that I’m a fag fucker.  For the next 11 weeks, you will be the fag I mostly fuck.

“What did he tell you about me?...  That I have been ‘A truck driver for forty years and that I’m a total top.’  Ok.  Did he also tell you I have a fat sausage?  He probably did; I use his cunt from time to time, and he loved to brag to the other fags that he can take me.

“Oh finally, that car is pulling out of here…. 

“Strip….  I said ‘Strip.’  Now listen here you little faggot.  I don’t know what you thought was going to happen between us, but that’s my rig.  My rig!  It’s not the company’s.  I create the rules.  They are not negotiable.  At the end of the eleven weeks, you will be a damned good truck driver and well trained cum dump.

“Look you can see a mile up the road.  Not much on the road right now, we have plenty of advanced notice if someone should approach let alone pull off.  Now strip.

“Faggot, you are going to learn very fast that I think about sex just about all the time….  Wait, let me guess, you don’t like being called a ‘faggot?’  For fuck’s sake.  OK, I won’t call you Faggot.  Does that make you feel better… Cunt?

“Cunt you will leave this pecker alone.  Now turn around and show me that cleaned out cunt.  Whew!  That hole sure is pretty.  That prettiness won’t last a minute.  Spread your legs and put your fingertips on the asphalt.  Your master is coming in.

“One thing you will learn is, I love to fuck.  When I’m waiting for a load to be unloaded, I fuck.  When I have to refuel, I fuck.  When I am driving, I’m thinking about fucking.  I always have a small bottle of lube in my pocket for times like this.  Now hold still.  I’m going right to the root, and I expect you to scream your fucking head off.

“I love fucking a naked cunt outside in the middle of the day, especially far from anyone to hear the screams.  Now scream!  Oh hell yes.  Scream motherfucker.  You don’t want to hurt, then accommodate me!  Your focus in on my cock, always.  Always.  When we are driving across the country and you are tied up to the bunk with your cunt facing the front, your focus is on my cock.  When I am asleep and you are driving naked with a large butt plug in your cunt, your focus is on my cock.  When I bring you to a cruise spot and have anonymous men use your cunt, your focus is on my cock.  When I am taking a belt to your ass, your focus is on my cock.  When I bring you back to my home in Minnesota and install you under my rimseat, your focus in on my shithole first and then on my cock.

“You got all that?...  Cunt!  I don’t give a shit how much pain my dick is inflicting.  If I did care, the answer would probably be ‘Not enough.’  Don’t worry, after a day or two, you will be stretched out enough so that this is not that much of a struggle.  Hell, I already feel your cunt relax to accept me now. 

“This is your life for the next eleven weeks.  This is why you will be douching out daily.  I’m also going to control what you eat, that’ll make the clean out process easier.  It’s going to be pretty much non-stop butt fucking for you, with some blow jobs and ass eating to break up the monotony. 

“…What was that?...  You don’t eat ass?  You don’t want to stick your tongue where another man shits?  Believe me, I understand.  That’s why I don’t do it.  And when you get your own rig, you won’t have to. 

“Don’t you dare try to stand up when I am fucking you in this position.  Yes it’s an uncomfortable position.  I want it that way.  I said, don’t stand up.  In case you haven’t noticed, I don’t give a shit what you want or don’t want. 

“You keep up this idea that your opinion matters, I will give a shit….  Literally!  I am not into that scene, but I will totally shit in your mouth to get you to understand that your opinion is as useless to me as your pecker. 

“You know what?  Stand up.  Look at me….  Look at me Cunt.  Yeah, face slaps are my thing too. 

“I’m ready to end this now if you want.  I will walk back to my rig, and I will leave you standing naked in this lot.  You want to stay with me, you agree to do what I say when I say it.  No asking not to do anything.  And what I will give you is free driver training, free lodging, I’ll pay for your food, all the expenses along the way, and finally and most importantly all the sex you ever wanted from men like me. 

“I know where the active cruise spots are.  I have driver contacts across the country that like to fuck faggots like you.  I know where the last remaining truck stops that still have communal showers.  You’ll definitely get gang banged there.  There are some other places, like this biker roadhouse where faggots get used.  That’s only the beginning.  Summer is approaching, and the fag fuckers come out to play in a big way.

“This is the only time I will make you this choice.  You want me to leave you here or do you want to be transformed into a cum-guzzling and ass eating cunt, one that can drive a truck?

“…What was that?...  That’s as I thought.  But don’t call me ‘Sir’ as you haven’t earned the right to.  You are to refer me as ‘Master.’  Once you establish yourself with me, without future problems, I’ll let you call me ‘Sir.’  And if you do a real good job, after the end of the eleven weeks, I might let you address me as ‘Dad.’

“Ok get on your knees and suck your ass juices off my cock.  Don’t think.  Just do.  Stick it in your mouth.

“Atta boy.  You are taking your first step on the right path.

“I plan on taking you there tonight, to that biker roadhouse.  They require all faggots to be locked up in a chastity cage.  They have a guy there that will fit you with one exactly to my specifications.  You’ll wear it for your duration with me. 

“I will pay for your entrance.  They charge faggots to be used by them.  Faggots from all over the area arrive, pay, and get stripped.  They are secured in one of several stations for the night.  There’s one that is bent over to lick boots all night.  Another is on urinal duty.  There’s a glory hole station and a rimming station.  There’s a full toilet station.  Piss me off again, and you might be secured in there.  And they have ways of making the faggots comply. 

“Get up and get back into position with your fingertips on the asphalt….  There you go.  Fuuuuuck…  Cunt, your cunt feels so good.  You’re not screaming this time.  Good.

“For you, I was going to have you installed at the glory hole station.  I’m going to switch it up to the ass eating one, get you under one of their rimseats.  There’s this one that your lay down on a small platform in one room, and you scoot your head through a hole in the wall.  Your head comes out into the bar area under what they call ‘The Throne.’  Your legs are lifted up, spread, and secured to the wall, leaving your cunt open for any type of pussy play.  That’s sometimes reserved by faggots weeks if not months ahead. 

“I’ll contact the owner and the man that likes to sit on the Throne for hours on end.  He’ll let me know if it’s available.  Regardless, you will be installed at one station through the night.  I’ll use you early on, but I’ll go back to the rig to spend my down time. 

“The thought of that is really getting me going.  Can you feel my cock getting thicker?  It loves it with thoughts of faggots used in a way that god intended.

“We have about some time before we need to get rolling.  Now that you know what the next three months will look like, I’m going to enjoy my new accommodating cunt for a bit.  Try to hold your position.”

[themareverine]

MARE & THE WOLVERINE ▹ Good Poison

─ Logan Howlett x fem!OC

summary: The Northern Territories were the last place Mare McAffery ever imagined herself, much less a prize fighting bar with characters the likes of the one they call the Wolverine. A logging community and living out of a Motel 6—it wasn’t exactly Shakespearean. But sometimes, survival calls for a tooth and nail fight—even for a preacher’s daughter.

warnings: AU, age gap, strangers to friends, friends to lovers, eventual romance, violence, angst, trauma, religion, self-insert, self-esteem issues, chance meetings, alcohol, grief/morning, mutual pining, falling in love, slow-ish burn, fluff and angst, canon-typical violence, virginity, reposted from my old account.

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“I’ve never met a more obsessive, religiously fanatical, irresponsible press professional in my entire career, McAffery—and I’ve been doing this thirty fucking years!”

“Told you to drop that mutant BS, McAffery—”

Blue light from her phone lights up the shadowed seat beside her, interrupting the cruel sting of thoughts lapping her brain like a pace car. Redlined and leading, her attention briefly drifts from the yellow lines of highway to the bright screen that lingers—to the text bubble with the little avatar face of who else but her mother, checking in on her for only the fiftieth time tonight. 

“I’m fine, ma,” she sighs to empty space around her. A glance upward through the windshield to the night sky canvases unfamiliar constellations, stars she’s never seen this far north. Living north all her life had prepared her for a lot of, well, Canada— but not the stars. There seemed to be more of them, dancing in troops that quickened the soul. They’d been hanging in the sky for hours, now, and every time her gaze flicked up—never saw the same cluster.  

Diiiing. The sound avalanches in the cab, almost. “Jeez, I’m fine, ” it’s more of a growl than anything as she reaches for the phone. Silences it. Practically tossing it to the cup holder, she shifts a little further against her seat, her ass into the three decade-old cushion just like she’d been doing for two days. Shoulders pressing back into the material of her seatback, a slight shiver races up her spine where frigid air snakes into the cab of the Jeep between gaps in soft-top canvas—irritates the hunger that’s been low simmering in her stomach since before the sun had disappeared. 

A quick GPS consult and civilization is less than ten miles on her course. It promises a bar, a Motel 6, some gas. Nothing fancy. Reading in-between trying to stay between yellow highway lines reveals that Laughlin City is a logging community, one of those let’s-film-a-cheesy-Hallmark-romance little sports that show up in romantic novels and on travel blogs. It’s quiet with a limited population, mountainside and traditional. Perfect. 

Starting directions to Laughlin City, you’re on the fastest route—-

“Considering I don’t see any freeways, I guess that tracks,” Frick, I’m turning into my mother talking to myself— and she had been, for two days. But that’s probably fine, better to keep herself company in the off-hours of radio. She couldn’t bear any more talk radio, didn’t have the caffeine or the patience to relive the same Shania Twain cassette tape for a twentieth time. 

Sighing, her head kicks back a little against the hard headrest behind her. Brightness from the GPS route is white-hot and blinding, has Mare McAffery turning her phone screen down to the fading 90s-print material of the passenger seat. She can see the little cloud from the hard breath she lets escape from between her lips, which subliminally raises the air on her arms. Sends a stab of cold through the bones in her hands. Even with air bursting from the defrost, it’s cold. Colder here, farther north, than her family’s quiet little farmland Minnesota home for this time of year—a t-shirt had felt like a good idea this morning at the truck stop. Splashing water on her face and smiling into sunshine. 

Her eyes drift to the dash clock as a hand reaches behind her to grope for the hoodie she’d abandoned. A little after 11—her time. Back home. Mare has no idea what time it is in Canada, under foreign stars and among unknown mountains. Though, really it doesn’t matter—time is a construct when you’re on the road. When you don’t really have anywhere to be in all that much of a hurry, when you’re getting out of Dodge and rethinking every strategic decision of your life.

God, what am I doing? Where are You in this? And the thought is random. Had been, for days. Quitting her job on the spot three weeks ago had felt like the move of the century, like a Neil Armstrong one-giant-leap-for-mankind on the moon type of deal. Once in a lifetime, defining. Must’ve been what the fathers of her nation felt, rising up to slay the Goliath oppressing them into submission—she’d bucked the power of corporate America, felt the sting of her whip for a final count. 

There’d never been more peace, more purpose about her life than in that moment, smiling down her nose at her boss. Knowing she’d left him in the lurch, had upset his canoe. Upstream without a paddle, take that you scumsucking piece of trash. Her guts had nearly risen up to her throat with the flood of pure adrenaline. Bolstered, like a shooting star— all hot and undiscerning strength. Every disgruntled employee in the history of the working class before her, caged within her bones. Finding justice in this one act, this flight. High flying and empowered, she’d crashed through the glass ceiling—unscathed, unravished. Free. 

Or so she prayed. 

Reality rose up to strike her like plague, chastened and vengeful. Leaving behind ghosts and midnight phantoms to haunt her even in sleep, her fears. Disease eating away at the flesh of her life, an insatiable predator unrelenting until satisfied. Picking its teeth with the bones of her future, the unknown. Grinning at her like a subtle, close-to-the-chest demon of her own making. Tapestry of her life began to unravel, unfurled by her own bravada, her own shield of faith in the unknown. Days bled eternally into weeks. Networking spiderwebbed away in the wind, disheveled and thin. Nothing aside from Oh-honey-I’m sorry’s and though-your-qualifications-are-impressive-we-regret’ s. 

Word traveled fast in rocks and cows country, not-the-Twin-Cities Minnesota.  Whoever didn’t look on her with sympathy dug her grave, or threw dirt on open wounds festering with her own shame. Nobody was eager to onboard the bloodhound trailblazing young lady with starry eyes and Superman hope. 

Singlehandedly she’d brought coverage of the community’s less-than-human population to hometown families and cropfarmers, faces nobody in her world desired. They’d kept the mutants at arm’s length, in the city and away from the grass that dances on the prairie; innocence of country living. Nobody wanted them in their ZIP code, their school districts—accidents raised taxes. No mayor wanted to address the subject at press conferences or on small city councils, no school board wanted funding for safe rooms or SPED. Better to lock them away in the concrete jungle of downtown, anonymous faces in a sea crying out for representation. 

Disarming a population’s ignorance had been a savage fight—soul crushing and abusive. Her head had been piked in every town-gossip-over-coffee table in the entire township, her family’s name raked over the coals in the editorials. Recklessly brave, but the greater good had come at a high, not-so-good price. Expensive for an under-thirty young little thing with bright aspirations, with a family standing behind her as pillars in a crumbling, paralyzed community.  

Better to turn a blind eye to the unfortunates than lend a hand likely to be bit, was the argument. Lambs to slaughter, all of her anonymous mutant sources had eviscerated from contact seemingly overnight—lost to anonymity, to the underworld of obscurity and fear. 

Foolish, simpleminded. White washed tombs, dens of vipers. Disheartened —didn’t they see—? 

A glance into the rearview and she’s able to make out the almost-cavernous upset digging trenches in the skin of her brow, the veil that’s overtaken once-bright eyes. All noted, even in the glare of blue light and shadows. She exhales deep and feels it, between her ribs. In, out—one, two, three; let it go, let it go let it go. That burning knot of lava that’s parked in between her shoulder blades shakes just a little, breaks apart. And for a brief moment, there’s cool relief that comes with another bite of May wind. Chases all the way down her spine, nips at her collarbones. 

Her grip tightens on the wheel, highway stretched unforgiving. Mocks her, reminding her how far away she’s attempting to fly, to hide . Inky midnight fans out before her— a lover, shadowing the world beyond the headlights of the Jeep Wrangler. Promising to hide her away, in a new world. The Wrangler seems to roar, engine loud in the empty night air, humming and thunking like old horsepower does. Whether in protest or jubilation, she’s not sure. Doesn’t even know if she wants to be. 

A wing and prayer. She’s left on a wing, with a prayer—it’ll carry her. To Laughlin, at least. 

Tires eat pavement like a beast, thrum thrum, thrumming away underneatht the rig almost in perfect step with the rabbit heartbeat kicking in her chest. Hears every rotation of rubber against asphalt through the canvas top. Tastes the cold bite of May night seeping through gaps and vinyl windows, cooling that still-there heat between her shoulders, that ache in the back of her eyes. 

Fiddling with the radio for the local news distracts her from GPS directions for a heartbeat. Almost missing the turnoff, she more forgoes the stop sign than actually misses it, engaging the clutch and brake to downshift. Skirting by the blaring scarlet of the sign, there’s no sign of headlights any direction at the four way. Except, in the distance, maybe five or so miles.

Between trees that canopy and dart in the breeze, trying to keep civilization a secret from the unsuspecting. Warring against the moon for rights to illuminate, to pierce through the veil of night—mountain peaks like dark sentinels, threatening and breathtaking in the faraway. Sits like a lion, stirring at the presence of the intruding Daniel. 

Laughlin City. 

“Bingo.” 

Mopping droplets of sweat pearling up from between his facial hair hasn’t ever felt more like a chore than it does right now, in the flickering light of a too-late pub crawling with county lowlives and province nobodies.  Every muscle burns with adrenaline that pistons through his veins like a hot steamroller, flattening any thought other than sucking air into his chest. Logan Howlett swears to God he can feel his very bronchial tubes with every pull of thick, curling air—wouldn’t be surprised if he couldn’t label every cell, working in unison to stitch him back together. 

It’s a delicate dance, healing after a fight. Body goes to work even before new wounds hit home—recovering from old ones, almost anticipating where new ones will land. Takes a significant amount of energy, a high unlike any amphetamine can deliver. Hot, heavy, painful bliss. That feel-good, fuck-this-is-perfect way he’s only ever experience in one other way—and that’s cock deep, in the right woman, red lines flaming down the length of his back. It’s taken a lifetime to ignore the adrenaline, the feel good burn of flesh stitching itself piece by piece. Wounds numbing over as the body corrects. Blood cut off from oxygen, sealed behind skin and screaming behind new scars. Bones correcting from fracture, pulled together with God-perfect precision no ER could ever match. Marrow stretching, cartilage welding back together. Feeling coming back with just as much prejudice as it had when it went. 

And it’s no different tonight, after a fight. Adamantium in his hands trembles, quakes with every beat of his pulse. Cold, itching with a sensation that only means one thing— air. Oxygen. Oxygen that fuels rage, that feeds the fire of release that’s a blazing furnace almost carved into the length of his spine. Bones, their marrow, they want air — crave it like demons. Flogging his soul like Christ at the crucifixion, crucifying him to the never-ending torment of holding it all together. Of balancing the line of monster and man, mortal and mutant. Ravages his will, rapes him of innocence, even in his youth. Even as a boy, even as James— he’d never had innocence. What even was purity to a man born to die but forced to live? 

He’d always been this, this h eld-together-with-threadbare-stitches-of-his-own-resolve carcass aching to die. Searching to live.

And it takes will, to live. Will of the ages, hills. Steadfastness of mountains to maintain the barrier between resolution and absolution. To not let go —to deny the impulses that scream through his blood like phantoms. Even the very stones beneath his feet cry out for his blood, for justice. Justice that had been lost through time, as others pass away. As he lives. His sins fade with those in graveclothes, but they haunt him like shadows. Peaceless life, ravaged. An ever-present war that carousels about his psyche. 

Don’t let go, Logan—don’t let them see you. Light a cigar. Suck in some brandy. Drown out the memories, the tombstones of everything he’s ever felt in his life rising up from buried graves and nameless mantras. It’s not for you, it’s for them. Never for you, always for them—

“—hey, you. Yeah, you— Mutton Chops. Yeah. It’s Wolverine, right?” 

He would chuckle if it wasn’t so ridiculous. Mutton Chops? 

Fingers scratch through the longer hairs, the corner of his mouth teases up with an amused smirk. Figures, they are a little dated. But, he enjoys them—he likes the way looks, always had. Cut a fine figure, and if he didn’t let himself know it, the women did. Been mooning over him since God knew . If he didn’t hate the attention, if he didn’t hate being seen; mingling with the echelon of the common man—-he could have any tit and skirt he wanted, most places. A few years of fucking anything that walked had lost its charm swiftly, and with gusto. 

Logan had learned early that he needed very few things in life to live, to survive. Living demanded the basic essentials, and a man isn’t truly a man unless he makes his own way. Women, well—girls were a luxury . Rubies and emeralds among the silver and golds of the everyday. High prices. Precious things in the eyes of God and the male sex, to be worshiped. Certainly so, can’t argue with the Twains and Shakespeares, the Psalmists of the ages—but they weren’t necessary. Not to survive. Little delicacies to make the journey tolerable, but not necessary. Privileges never were.  

“Wolverine—I’m talkin ’ to you!” 

But the alias is familiar, but the voice isn’t. Logan tosses back the bite of brandy that burns all the way down, snaps his attention from the bottom of the shot glass to the guy coming up behind him. Feet heavy, he’s at least six-two, two-fifty at a glance guess. Beer gut and a bald dome, some redheaded tart from across the bar reaching to pull him back. May as well be Vegas neon. Trouble—double order, by the looks of it. 

Shoulda been my middle name, “In some circles,” warmth skates into his blood, pulling at the attitude simmering at the edges of his resolve, “who’s askin’?” Fixing the edge of his shirt around the waist of his jeans, Logan ignores the instinctual twinge of pain that ricochets between his knuckles. One slip of his self control and there’s hell to pay—bloody, tastes-like-cold-steel hell.

Instead, his arms find the smooth bartop, glass hitting the bar with a crack. Logan pushes it away knuckles first, fingers tapping for another round. The bartender, he knows her as Sue—an aging sixties belle, witchy hair that’s perpetually pinned up in a clip—breezes by and snatches it away, promising him another with a hoarse, been-smoking-for-four-decades rasp. In seconds and the dark liquid spills into the shot glass, crystalline and pretty. 

Logan waves her come with two fingers, easing a little deeper into his usual barstool—the barstool he’s been parked in for eight months. Rolls a shoulder. A delicious little burn of healing muscle, dissipating bruises. Common place after a fight in the cage—there’s not enough curiosity in the eyes that are watching him. And he’s counting the paces of Big Boy coming up behind him, can feel the man’s anger from here. Tangible and inbred, like he’s been sucking the tit of pissed off since toddlerhood. 

The man’s huge hand is on his shoulder, jerking him back enough that it makes the barstool swivel. Logan’s spine snaps with alarm, with the initial gut punch of response. And he’s surprised with himself for a few heartbeats, that he’s chosen to shrug off the man’s arm instead of separate it from his body. A low, rumbling thunder of a growl simmering in his chest is almost animal, and he narrows a glare at the stranger. 

Sweating like a stuck pig, the man’s face is red as a beet. He’s a blush from either absolutely going batshit or having a coronary—Logan isn’t sure which he’d prefer. “I lost four hundred bucks because of you, Wolverine,” the name leaves his mouth with hacking spit, on the crescendo of a trail of spit that hits the floor at Logan’s feet in a wet plop . 

And for a second Logan expected Shit-For-Brain’s to continue, but he just stands there, sucking air.

“Tough luck,” Logan’s brows pop tall before furrowing into a hard line, irritation snapping  his tone like a fractured bone. Palming the pocket of his leather jacket taking up space on the barstool next to him, he manages a cigar from the pocket, with the God-knew-how-old Zippo. His favorite, he’d had it since—well. He didn’t keep track of trinkets. “Long odds, I guess.”

“The fuck you say?” 

He sighs. Deeply. Almost from the depths of his patience God has bestowed. “Anythin’ I can say that’ll make you vanish, bub?” Beer Belly doesn’t even flinch, except the hinge of his jaw snaps open. It could almost sway in the wind. Another sigh, “Take my word for it. Cut your losses and get Little Miss Strawberry Tart outta here—maybe she’ll cut you a deal on the way out.” 

In a matter of seconds the guy’s face drops into a gape only a choking fish could probably manage, and he really isn’t that far removed with all his sticky sweat making him look like a drowned, overfat bass. He stops sucking air like an emphysemic, maybe too stupefied to remember how. Logan’s fingers flick the flint of the lighter, cigar between his teeth as it bobs into the flame. Almost immediately, the thick curl of smoke stings his nose—chases the brandy in his throat, something magnificent . Fucking delicious. 

Small mercies, God bless them. Breathing in a wave of the thick, hot tobacco, it settles in the mesh of his lungs in a way that would probably kill lesser men—men who couldn’t die, anyway. He could fucking orgasm with how good this smoke burns, bleeding into his blood like good poison, and the exhale he gives may as well whip fifty pounds off the back of his shoulder. His head kicks back, brow furrowing as it cants to the side, taking in the craft of the ceiling. Brass tile— pricy . Riz didn’t strike him as a man with taste, but, stranger things. Interesting. 

In a flesh of fat and hairless dome, the man’s fist is curled around the collar of Logan’s shirt—he plucks him off the stool as if he weren’t anything more than a sack of meat. Surprise drops his cigar to the floor at his feet, the toes of his boots scuffing boards—and one glance to the man’s flexed arm reveals it’s absolutely straining for Beer Belly to suspend his bodyweight in the open. The vein in his temple throbs, cheeks almost purple as he splutters for air. Spit flies. Mingles in Logan’s beard. 

Revolting, but, give it a few seconds and—-

His boots find the floor heartbeats later, unphased. Logan’s turn, and it gives him great pleasure backhanding the man with his knuckles. Turning his head, saliva flying in trails of thick spit that hit somewhere he couldn’t care less about. Drive him half a step back, bring him back with his fist in tubby’s shirt—and mutant strength makes him weigh next to nothing. A little weight there, but nothing much—Logan could separate his spine from the rest of him without hesitation, thinking. Would be as easy as fileting a fat trout. 

The burn in his muscles feels magical.  And in three, two, one—he releases. Blood springs from between his knuckles, dribbling to the floor in fat drops. Scarlet stains adamantium, pearling along blades that all but sparkle in the perfect-low of pub lights. The burst of adrenaline immediately ravages the burn of pain, his bones all but ringing, chanting jubilation. And it feels so good, sometimes—so good to not have to hold back, to embrace the pain of living . 

Milkwhite, the man’s eyes haven’t unwelded from the blades dripping with Logan’s blood as they hover a breath from the fat flesh of his double-chin. Logan can see his life flashing through his eyes, like a film reel—every man’s always does in the face of death, his face. He’s shaking, Logan’s muscle absorbs every earthquake that pulses through the man’s frame. Shakes more than most—and that says more than it would, to many. Coward’s heart. Shriveled and died before they even got a chance to respond, he’d seen it before. Always took the easy way out. Talked big, acted small. His date would have better luck with an idiot savant than a coward, if Beer Belly here wasn’t a two-for-one. 

King Solomon had it right. Nothing new under the sun. 

“Told you to cut your losses,” it’s a snarl. Gravelled and aged, like every time before. Less human than monster, but he likes the fear—the respect —floating up to the man’s eyes from his soul. Logan releases him roughly, sending him foot over foot towards his date, across the floor. “Take her home before you regret somethin’ else.” 

Strawberry redhead is at his side, looking him over before she turns to consider Logan. She couldn’t have been more than twenty-something, too young to be running with a greaseball nobody with male pattern baldness and a Viagra problem. But tears run freely down her face all the same, as if she cares— and she probably does, because that’s the way of things. People care. It’s a human trait.  

All Logan can see is her enchantment with him. She isn’t afraid. While her date may have a coward’s heart, she certainly doesn’t—no common sense, a dense head, sure. But no fear. Funny how that works.

He’d smile if he wasn’t so pissed off, tired. And she doesn’t look him in the eye—her gaze is rooted on his hand, now at his side. His blood hanging out on the floor.  She blinks, only looks up at his face when the adamantium on display disappears between his fingers, sliding home in a way that echoes throughout his entire frame. Evidence of them begins to disappear as his flesh works to hide away familiar wounds, correct old sins. 

Her mouth, too, gapes like a fish. Nothing new. “You’re….you’re— wow, you’re a—” 

“—nobody you should care about, kid.” And that’s the long and short truth of it. 

Logan watches her help—he’s discovered his name is Harold—stand to his full height. Helps him sulk into a corner chair like a whipped puppy, and even from here, the purple on his jaw is already dark. Probably broken, but there’s little to do about it. 

Brushing off his arm, Logan lifted his other hand to examine it—pearls of blood. Still fresh on his skin. Evidence of their birth long since healed, he stretched his fingers before his thumb rubs between each knuckle, feeling. As if he’s never felt them before—because every time, the pain feels like it’s genesis. The beginning, new. A thrill unlike any other, in a sadistic kind of way that gives him life. Hope—that he’s still feeling. 

Turning to retrieve his cigar smoldering on the floor, Logan replaces it in the corner of his mouth. Takes another full breath, sinks low onto the barstool. The sting in his hands has almost entirely dissipated into tingling numbness, and that’s good—Sue knocks his drink to a stop in front of him. Shakes her head as her eyes landscape him up and down, like they’re digging his grave. She isn’t mad, he knows that—Sue has seen him rough up more than one Tom, Dick, Harry in this place. It’s like the revolving sun—they come in. Fight the cage. They lose, get pissed, and he knocks them on their ass. Simple science, really. 

Less dangerous and more dangerous all at the same damn time. 

“Feel better?” Thin, vein-tracked arms fold in front of her gravity-inspired chest. Heavy laden with turquoise and other painted stones, she’s the picturesque woman of her age—all gypsy, little else. If they’d be deep south in States, Sue could be confused for a bayou witch. And, thinking about her stirring a little pot of potions and cackling on to swamp creatures would be something else entirely. 

He chuckles, the mental picture amusing. Leaning forward a little on his arms, his brow peaks up a little. “Now there’s a question if I ever heard one,” his lips purse into a slow smile before he sits back, scratches his fingers through his sideburns— mutton chops, poor Harold had called them. “What do you think?”  

A lesser man wouldn’t hear it, but that bottom hinge on the front door howls something terrible in the rain. Signaling another interloper in their midst, Sue’s eyes flick past him to consider the body. It lasts a heartbeat, maybe the flow of blood, before her gaze is back to him—obviously no threat. Except, her arthritic hands reaching for a towel moves her a little closer, and she nods towards the door. 

“I think you’d better behave yourself,” she gestures with her chin towards the door, “new blood walkin’ in, Logan honey.” Nodding his understanding, he drags again at his cigar, then turns his head over his shoulder to eyeball the new body—- “Never seen her before. States girl, if I ever saw one,” Sue’s tongue clicks in the pocket of her cheek, “Poor thing’s wet as a drowned lizard. What she do, park half a mile away?” 

Drowned lizard? “Anyone ever told you you’re somethin’ else, Sue?” 

“Plenty—but don’t ask, Logan. Some things stay dead when you bury ‘em.” Her wink makes him snort, as if it’s something to joke about—and it is, really. To a man who flirts with death and defies it at every turn, nothing really surprises him anymore. The grave is little more than a calling card, and Sue knows that. Riz knows that. Everyone here knows this, but, chooses instead to look the other way—see him for what he is. 

Sue’s crooking a come finger at new blood before she’s even fully parted ways with him. “Hiya, honey. C’mere, sit down—we don’t bite.” Logan raises a Really? brow at her before Sue waves him off with a flapping hand. It takes everything he has not to smile at the old woman, but instead, he swivels a little. Back to the newcomer, who’s dropping into the corner barstool, well away from him and into the shadows. 

“Speak for yourself,” 

Sue whirls on him and tosses the towel she’s been keeping bar with at his face. Batting it away, he downs the brandy. “Oh, hush up!” Her chin gestures across the bar, to the cage—veiled in shadows, it’s little more than a knick knack without its lights, screaming crowds and humming jukebox that gathers every night at ten. Money changing, saliva flying—it sleeps like a tired beast until he rings the dinner bell.  “Well, most of us don’t bite—what’ll you have, darlin’?.” 

 If that wasn’t truth, well—Logan wasn’t sure what was. 

tags: @permanentlyexhaustedpigeon88 @fandomxo00

[muslims-matters]

A dozen students who took over the University of Minnesota were arrested today for demanding immediate divestment from companies with ties to Israel.

More than 50 police cars, along with ambulances, fire trucks, and two helicopters, were deployed after university officials issued an evacuation order.

Members of the Students for a Democratic Society (SDS) occupied the Morrill Hall, known for historically being a site of student activism and renamed it the "Halimy Hall" in memory of 19-year-old Palestinian TikTok creator Medo Halimy killed in August.

[sunbentshadows]

I've been turning this over in my head the past few days: Does anyone else think of the way the Millennial/GenZ generation in the USA have never had a functioning federal government in our lives? We're so USED to living like this we hardly even register it.

Think of all the stupid day-to-day things that make your life worse- the small things . Billions of emails in your inbox after one purchase, all of whom have already sold your data. Inability to easily cancel subscriptions online. 23andme going under meaning it's very likely their entire userbase's genetic data is about to be sold to private equity. Forever. Data privacy, passwords, the fact your SSN and health records and everything else have been leaked online and you just have to hope you don't win the stolen-identity lottery.

Or cars - touchscreens in cars which are so horrifically dangerous they should have been banned in the beginning, or that the stupid fucking Cybertruck is even allowed to be on roads, the ridiculous lifted-trucks that kill people and children that are now STANDARD model, or LED headlights so DANGEROUSLY bright they destroy your night-vision. Or even WATER - corporations allowed to take water rights and bottle and sell, or food-waste laws, or plastic-waste laws...

That I still need four different chargers MINIMUM for all my bits and bobs of technology, that tech companies are allowed to do planned-obsolescence, that it's perfectly legal for private equity to buy up homes, that medical education isn't free or highly-subsidized in the US in spite of the massive, slow-moving crash that is our lack of doctors...

These are not EASY problems (well. they are. usually they are solved with money and regulations applied correctly), but by fucking god they're the problems that could be legislated to make your life better. The functioning role of government is to pass fucking laws and protect citizens and improve their lives. But it has become SO NORMAL that we have a dysfunctional government that we're so used to life sucking in all these little ways.

Yes, there are the big ones - student loans, minimum wage, healthcare, gun control etc etc... but like, life COULD be better in other ways too, if the government would fucking DO something (if Republicans were not in office). The last major piece of "clear, everyday life-improving" legislation that passed was the ACA - and even with that, instead of making things BETTER, congress (Republicans, of course, let's again name them) spent several sessions trying to KILL the last good thing the US government ever did for its citizens.

I'm not saying dems would be perfect if they could sweep this election, but go look at what Minnesota managed to do with a one-vote majority, and then think of the way our lives could be better in small ways too.

Vote, etc. I'm so exhausted of all of this.

[smackthedevilwrites]

STRANGERS IN THE NIGHT

Story five of the J2 Christmas Anthology 2023

Rating: Explict

Chapters: 6

Word Count: 11,919

It was Christmas Eve and trucker Jensen Ackles had found himself at his familiar truck stop in snowy Minnesota. Not wanting to spend the holidays alone, he expects to find the boy he often paid for sex to keep him company on Christmas Day but when he arrives the boy is nowhere to be found. To console himself, Jensen sits down to eat at the truck stop diner but is interrupted in his solitude by a disarming French fry thief who winds up changing the course of both of their lives.

J2 Christmas Anthology 2023 complete playlist on Spotify.

'Strangers in the Night' songs -

Purple Snowflakes - Marvin Gaye

Strangers in the Night - CAKE

[lboogie1906]

Sargent Major Spencer Williams (July 14, 1893 – December 13, 1969) was an actor and filmmaker. He portrayed Andy on TV’s The Amos ‘n’ Andy Show and directed films including the race film The Blood of Jesus. He was a pioneering African American film producer and director.

He studied at the University of Minnesota and served in the Army during and after WWI, rising to the rank of sergeant major. He traveled the world, serving as General Pershing’s bugler while in Mexico before he was promoted to camp sergeant major. He was sent to France to do intelligence work there.

His involvement with films began by assisting with works by Octavus Roy Cohen. He snagged bit roles in motion pictures, including a part in the film Steamboat Bill, Jr. He found steady work after arriving in California apart from a short period where there were no roles; he went to work as an immigration officer. He was working for the First National Studio to shoot footage for a film called The River.

He was hired to create the dialogue for a series of two-reel comedy films with all-black casts. He was appointed responsible for creating The Melancholy Dame. This film is considered the first Black talkie. The films, which played on racial stereotypes and used grammatically tortured dialogue, included The Framing of the Shrew, The Lady Fare, Melancholy Dame, Music Hath Charms, and Oft in the Silly Night. He wore many hats at Christie’s; he was a sound technician, wrote many of the scripts, and was assistant director for many of the films. He was hired to cast African Americans and produced the silent film Hot Biskits, which he wrote and directed, in the same year. He did some work for Columbia as the supervisor of their Africa Speaks recordings. He was active in theater productions, taking a role in the all-African American version of Lulu Belle.

He co-founded a movie and newsreel company called the Lincoln Talking Pictures Company. The company was self-financed. He had experience in sound technology, and built the equipment, including a sound truck, for his new venture. #africanhistory365 #africanexcellence

[stevebattle]

DC-2 (Drink Caddy 2) by Gene Beley (1982), Android Amusement Corp, Irwindale CA. The DC-2 achieved TV fame, appearing in an episode of "CHiPs" called "Day of the Robot" in January 1983.

“The next model, DC-2, one of which was bought by the actor James Caan and some other friends as a present for Mr. Hefner, has a sleek fiberglass body, a color television in its chest, a videotape recorder in its midriff, a color camera in its head, a black plastic drink tray in its chest and other features. Though Mr. Beley believes that technology that could adapt DC-2 to a true robotic form is not far off, he is convinced that the home robot industry will begin with robots that have more entertainment value than practical use. ''It's nice to say you're going to make a home robot that's going to do all kinds of wonderful things,'' he commented, ''but if you ask someone if they'll spend $20,000 for it and they say: 'Are you crazy. I can buy a vacuum cleaner for $200,' it doesn't make sense.'' " – DOMESTICATING THE ROBOT FOR TOMORROW’S HOMES, Peter Applebone, The New York Times, March 4, 1982.

“Dayton’s Department Store, Minneapolis, Minnesota, utilizes a DC-2 robot on a regular basis for promotions. The 4’2” tall robot [middle photo] features a baked-on enamel grey paint job over a sleek fiberglass body with green, flashing L.E.D.s. Electronics include a 9” color TV in the chest, JVC video camera in the turning head, and a VCR.” – ANDROID AMUSEMENT CORP.

“BEVERLY HILLS, Calif. – DC-2, the first robot ever arrested here, was released yesterday after two youngsters apologised in writing for creating a fuss with the 4-foot tall machine. … DC-2 took a remote-controlled walk along a block of North Beverly Drive in this wealthy Los Angeles suburb, passing out business cards bearing the name of Beley’s company, which manufactured it. Police responding to a call of a robot walking the street couldn’t find its human controller and ended up pulling DC-2’s batteries and carting it off – via a tow truck – to the pokey. “The kids had it without permission and were just screwing around.” said Lt. Russell Olson. “There will be no criminal filing.” When police neared the mechanical object, it was heard to say, “Help me! They’re trying to take me apart” ” – Robot back at home after arrest, jail stay, Associated Press.

[bolton-buried]

Statement of Jackie Crow, regarding a “deep puddle.” Statement taken direct from subject, May 21st, 2024. Statement begins.

It wasn’t even supposed to be raining that day. I don’t know why that stands out to me so much, but it shouldn’t have been raining at all. Deep breaths. Step back. Okay.

I used to work with debts. The exact kind isn’t important, but suffice to say it was large amounts of money for the most useless products you would ever see. I’m talking MLM type stuff. “Oh, Jackie, it’s a vacuum cleaner it’s not useless” it’s also not worth $5,000.

I lived in Minnesota, up north of Lake Superior. You probably don’t know where that is. So, the fact that I’m here in London at all? I’ll get to that. Sorry.

This started while I was watching a streamer on twitch. He plays games, but another thing he does is live reactions to some really weird videos. They’re almost always of a person drowning in a body of water, a river, lake maybe. I didn’t like those ones so much, I always felt like I couldn’t breathe while they were playing, but that day…

It was me in the video. Sure, it’s hard to make out features through the water, and it’s got this broken-camera effect on it, but clear as day, that was me. Drowning in a river, lake, whathaveyou. I tried to chalk it up to coincidence, but… it itched. In my head. Didn’t help that my job was starting to get hectic, and I was starting to look for a way out.

I mean, have you seen the US job market? Just thinking of that sheer amount of pressure, that force, a tidal wave of change that feels like it could swallow you whole if you let it. That’s terrifying enough.

I was let go from the company soon after. They must have seen me getting my resume out, because “inappropriate dress for work” is the most bullshit excuse I’ve ever heard if you’ve seen what I wear. I stepped outside, exposed to every metaphorical force of the world, and like a scene from a movie, it was raining cats and dogs out there. Things in hand, I started to walk.

I saw two men on the sidewalk near me. One of them—the one in the black trench coat—handed the other an umbrella, then stood in the rain himself. And then—I’d think it was a trick of the light if it weren’t for what happened to me afterwards.

He let himself tip backwards to fall, like a trustfall exercise with no one to catch him, but instead of cracking his head on the pavement, he fell into a puddle and just. Kept going.

He vanished through what should have been solid ground. I was still processing the fall, and started to run to help, stepping out into the street.

And the next thing I know, I’m in over my head in icy rainwater. I think I stepped in another one of those puddles. Maybe. I don’t remember it well down there.

I remember cold water around me. Struggling to hold my breath. Rough stone walls that scraped at my sides. And a current. God, when I hit the current, it was like a truck hit me. I was caught in an endless flow and could do nothing to stop myself from being forced against those walls, tearing at my skin, pushing in on my lungs harder. All too close. I couldn’t breathe. And I couldn’t hold my breath either.

Again, my memory is fuzzy, but I think I stayed like that for a while, trapped in the current. I think I stopped holding my breath at some point—it felt like hours. But I couldn’t have. I’d have drowned. And I feel like I was struggling to hold in my air the whole time.

I think I fell unconscious. I remember seeing some of my friends, reaching out, calling me to them. And I remember reaching out, and then waking up on a street in London.

You guys work with this stuff, right? You can fix it, or, I don’t know. Something. There has to be something you all can do.

I need to get a new job. Funny, the things you think about when it all comes crashing down. Are y’all hiring?

Statement ends.

[alightinthelantern]

Parlor-Observation car "Juno" on the Nebraska Zephyr, a daytime passenger train operated daily by the Chicago, Burlington and Quincy Railroad (CB&Q) between Chicago, Illinois and Lincoln, Nebraska. Beginning operation in 1947, the train was typical of streamlined trains of the postwar period in that its carbodies were built of stainless steel and featured an all-silver exterior, the trademark of the Budd Company, but it was also notable in that it continued the CB&Q's unusual tradition, which began in the 1930s, of articulated, unified trainsets, with all passenger cars in each consist sharing bogies (wheel-trucks) and permanently coupled together.

The Nebraska Zephyr operated once-daily in each direction, with Westbound #11 departing Chicago at 12:45 PM and arriving in Lincoln at 10:30 PM, while Eastbound #12 departed Lincoln at 11:00 AM and arrived in Chicago at 8:45 PM. The 551-mile (887 km) trip took 9 hours and 45 minutes, and its average speed was 56 miles per hour (90 km/h) including stops. Service utilized two trainsets which each operated one direction on day and the opposite direction the next. One trainset's cars bore the names of Roman female gods, and was nicknamed "the train of the goddesses" (Venus, Vesta, Minerva, Psyche, Ceres, Diana, and Juno), while the other trainset's cars were named for male Roman gods, and was nicknamed "the train of the gods" (Apollo, Mars, Neptune, Cupid, Vulcan, Mercury, and Jupiter). The trainsets were in fact built by the Budd Company back in 1936 as the second pair of Twin Zephyrs, for CB&Q service between Chicago and Minneapolis-St. Paul, Minnesota, making them some of the first stainless-steel trainsets built by Budd, and as such they initially bore the same style of locomotive as the other CB&Q Zephyrs from the 1930s, of a smooth, semicircular front curving seamlessly into the roofline at its top, but these locomotives were later replaced with the stainless-steel-bodied, shovel-nosed diesel locomotives of the 1950s which all the CB&Q's Zephyr trains later received.

Each of the Nebraska Zephyr's two trainsets consisted of several coaches and parlor cars, a coach-dinette, dining car, cocktail lounge, and parlor-observation car. The parlor-observation car on "the train of the gods" was named Jupiter, while its goddess counterpart was named Juno. The locomotives were named Pegasus (CB&Q #9904) and Zephyrus (CB&Q #9905). The trains were generously appointed and provided comfortable travel throughout the 1940s and '50s, and the high level of service was maintained until 1963, when the cocktail lounges were removed in favor of additional seating. In 1966 the dining cars were rebuilt as "cafeteria cars" with vending machines for additional cost-cutting. The aging trainsets were retired from service entirely in 1968, although CB&Q continued to operate the Nebraska Zephyr train with other rolling stock until 1971, when the newly-birthed Amtrak took over all remaining passenger rail service in the US.

[heavyhaultransport]

How to Choose the Right Heavy Equipment Transport Companies

Heavy equipment transport can be a complex process, and it is important to choose the right company to handle your equipment. Here are a few tips to help you choose the right Heavy Equipment Transport Companies in Idaho.

What Are The Benefits Of Working With A Reputable Heavy Haul Transport Company?

When it comes to shipping heavy loads and oversized cargo like machinery, vehicles, and so on, there are a lot of different options to choose from. However, the best way to do so is to hire any of the reputed and licensed Heavy Haul Trucking Companies In Idaho.

When you work with a reputable transport company, you can rest assured that your items will be handled with care. The company will have a team of experts who know how to pack and ship items safely, ensuring that they arrive at their destination in the same condition as when they left.

In addition to the safety of your items, using a transport company can also save you time and money. The company will take care of all the logistics of shipping, from packing to shipping to delivery. This means that you don’t have to worry about a thing, and you can focus on other things in your life.

What To Look For When Choosing A Heavy Equipment Company?

There are a few things that you should look for when choosing a heavy equipment transport company. The first is experience. The company should have a lot of experience transporting heavy equipment. They should also have a lot of experience transporting the type of heavy equipment that you need to be transported.

The company should also have a good reputation. You can also ask the company for references. Also, make sure the company has a good safety record.

You do not want to be responsible for anything that happens to your heavy equipment during transport – isn’t it? So, make sure the Heavy Haul Trucking Companies In Idaho you are considering must be insured and properly licensed.

The company should be able to provide you with a quote. You should compare quotes from different Heavy Equipment Transport Companies to find the best deal. Check online and in your locality for the top listed companies and ask them for quotations to grab the best deal.  

How To Prepare Your Oversized Equipment For Transport?

The first step in preparing your equipment for transport is to gather all the items that you will need. This includes your equipment, packing materials, and any documentation or paperwork that is required. Make sure to double-check that you have everything before you start packing, as it can be difficult to track down items once you have started.

For more details visit our website heavyhaultransporting.com

[nakediconoclast]

.

A fire started in a chemical plant near a small town in Minnesota, and an alarm went out to all the fire departments for miles around.

When the first firefighters appeared on the scene, the company president said, “All of our secret formulas are in a vault in the center of the plant. I’m offering $50,000 to the fire department that brings them out intact.” But the roaring flames held the firefighters off.

Soon more fire departments arrived, and the company president offered $100,000 to the one that rescued the company’s secret formulas. Still no takers.

Then another fire truck drove into sight. It was the rural township volunteer fire department, composed entirely of elderly Norwegians. To everyone’s amazement, the rickety old fire truck drove straight into the middle of the inferno. The other firemen watched in astonishment as the old Norwegians jumped off and began fighting the flames. Soon they had extinguished the fire and rescued the secret formulas.

The company president thanked the brave Norwegians and announced that for such a superhuman feat he was increasing the reward to $200,000. A local news reporter asked the firefighters, “What are you going to do with all that money?”

“Well,” said Ole Larsen, the 70-year-old fire chief, “the first thing we do is we fix the brakes on that truck!”

[cadfreakingspinner]

I can't with my WiFi it's always at the most inconvenient times loll. I saw your post about seeing a tow mater so I thought I'd share this cause why not !! There's a local towing company here n they have an old tow truck they painted to look like mater. I rubber neck to look at it every day cause we usually pass it. I might see if I can get a picture but yeah 😎

wait are you in Minnesota?

[freenewsreport]

Mike Lindell's Net Worth in 2024: How the MyPillow Founder Built His Fortune

Mike Lindell, the founder of MyPillow, has become a recognizable figure in the business world and in American pop culture. Known for his entrepreneurial success and his bold public presence, Lindell has experienced both significant triumphs and substantial challenges throughout his career. In 2024, Lindell’s financial journey remains an interesting topic, especially for those following his ventures. As of today, Mike Lindell net worth 2024 is a reflection of his path from a self-made entrepreneur to a household name with a complex legacy. Here, we’ll explore the origins of Lindell’s wealth, his career trajectory, and the influences that have shaped his financial standing this year.

The Early Life and Struggles of Mike Lindell

Before becoming a successful entrepreneur, Mike Lindell’s life was marked by financial and personal struggles. Raised in Minnesota, Lindell had a challenging start, facing issues with addiction that severely impacted his early adulthood. Despite these obstacles, Lindell maintained a spirit of resilience, trying his hand at various businesses, including a bar, a carpet cleaning business, and even a lunch truck. None of these ventures proved highly profitable, but they laid the foundation for Lindell’s later success by instilling in him an entrepreneurial mindset.

The turning point came in 2004, when Lindell developed the idea for MyPillow. Driven by a desire to create a comfortable pillow with reliable neck support, Lindell spent years perfecting his prototype. Though the initial journey was filled with hardships—struggling to make sales, working tirelessly to promote his product, and battling addiction—the idea for MyPillow slowly gained traction. Today, Mike Lindell net worth 2024 is a testament to his early struggles and his commitment to building something meaningful.

The Rise of MyPillow: From Startup to Empire

MyPillow was officially launched in 2005, and Lindell’s tenacity in promoting his product was instrumental to the company’s growth. He made the bold decision to sell directly to consumers at trade shows, fairs, and kiosks, helping the product build a loyal customer base. In 2011, Lindell’s fortunes changed when he began running MyPillow infomercials on television. These infomercials became widely recognized, bringing national attention to both MyPillow and its charismatic founder.

Thanks to these advertisements, MyPillow became a household name, and the company’s sales skyrocketed. Within a few years, Lindell’s business went from struggling to thriving, establishing him as one of America’s most successful entrepreneurs. The success of MyPillow was a key factor in Mike Lindell net worth 2024, and his brand’s unique marketing strategies are still considered one of the main drivers of his wealth.

Business Ventures Beyond MyPillow

Though MyPillow remains Lindell’s flagship company, he has ventured into various other business areas to diversify his income streams. In recent years, he has invested in other products and industries, including bedding and sleep accessories, aiming to build a comprehensive “sleep solution” empire. His latest ventures focus on expanding the MyPillow product line to include mattresses, sheets, and pet beds, among other items. By broadening MyPillow’s offerings, Lindell hopes to capture a larger portion of the market and strengthen his financial position.

However, these expansions haven’t been without risk. While they’ve brought new revenue streams, the company has also faced significant challenges. MyPillow has been embroiled in controversies that have affected both its sales and reputation, but Lindell’s dedication to his brand remains unshaken. The ups and downs of MyPillow’s growth continue to influence Mike Lindell net worth 2024 as Lindell seeks ways to stabilize and expand his financial base in a competitive market.

Political Involvement and Its Financial Impact

Lindell’s decision to become a political activist has also influenced his net worth in recent years. His outspoken support for certain political figures and positions has made him a divisive figure, drawing both support and criticism from different segments of the public. His involvement in politics has included substantial personal investments in political campaigns, media ventures, and events, which have likely impacted his finances.

Though his political investments may have initially seemed like a gamble, they have garnered Lindell a dedicated following. This support has allowed MyPillow to sustain a loyal customer base despite controversies. However, his political activism has also led to backlash from various sectors, with some retailers opting to stop carrying MyPillow products. These actions undoubtedly affect Mike Lindell net worth 2024 by impacting the company’s distribution network and sales.

Legal Challenges and Financial Resilience

In recent years, Lindell has faced multiple legal challenges stemming from his political activities and statements. These legal battles have involved significant financial costs in terms of legal fees and settlements, potentially affecting his net worth. However, Lindell’s resilience remains evident as he works to overcome these challenges.

The legal obstacles have not deterred him from pushing forward with his entrepreneurial and political endeavors. In fact, they have fueled his desire to advocate for free speech and continue investing in projects that align with his values. Although these challenges have been costly, they have also become part of Lindell’s public persona, attracting supporters who admire his perseverance. In this sense, Mike Lindell net worth 2024 is both a reflection of his financial resilience and his willingness to take risks for his beliefs.

Charitable Contributions and Philanthropy

Another notable aspect of Lindell’s journey is his commitment to philanthropy. Driven by a desire to help others overcome addiction, Lindell has invested in initiatives that support addiction recovery and rehabilitation. He founded the Lindell Recovery Network, a platform that offers resources and support to individuals battling addiction. This endeavor holds personal significance for Lindell, as he credits his own recovery journey with enabling him to pursue success with MyPillow.

Although philanthropy has been a priority for Lindell, it has also been a financial expense, affecting Mike Lindell net worth 2024. His charitable contributions reflect his dedication to helping others, even when these efforts don’t directly contribute to his wealth. For Lindell, his philanthropic work is a defining part of his legacy, representing a side of him that values giving back over accumulating wealth.

Conclusion: A Complex Financial Legacy

Mike Lindell net worth 2024 tells the story of a complex figure—an entrepreneur who built his fortune through relentless hard work and risk-taking, yet whose choices have often sparked controversy. Despite the ups and downs of his career, Lindell’s journey is a testament to the power of resilience, innovation, and determination. From humble beginnings and personal struggles to building an empire with MyPillow, Lindell’s path reflects both the rewards and risks of entrepreneurship.

While his political activities and legal challenges may have impacted his finances, Lindell remains focused on what matters most to him: building his business, supporting his beliefs, and helping others. His financial journey serves as a reminder that net worth is only one part of a person’s legacy. As of 2024, Mike Lindell’s story continues to unfold, with his wealth representing not just monetary success, but a lifetime of dedication, vision, and hard-fought battles that continue to shape his future.

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