#Trump Tower meeting

[m-50a]

Turd Reich Nick Fuentes ARRESTED for WHAT?

[dontmean2bepoliticalbut]

On 7/31/2019 Trump has a private meeting with Putin. On 8/3/2019, just 3 days after his private meeting with Putin, Trump issues a request for a list of top US spies. By 2021 the CIA reports an unusually high number of their agents are being captured and/or being murdered. During the search executed at Mar A Lago the FBI find more documents with lists of U.S. informants on them.

A Timeline

• FBI wiretapped Russian gambling ring headquartered at Trump Tower for two years - March 21, 2017

• Trump revealed highly classified information to Russian foreign minister and ambassador - May 15, 2017

• Trump, Putin Meet For 2 Hours In Helsinki - July 16, 2018

• Rand Paul Goes To Russia And Delivers Letter For Trump, Marking Our Era Of Irony - August 9, 2018

• Following the Money: Trump and Russia-Linked Transactions From the Campaign to the Presidential Inauguration - December 17, 2018

• The US extracted a top spy from Russia after Trump revealed classified information to the Russians in an Oval Office meeting - September 10, 2019

• Trump’s Loose Lips Force US to Extract Spy From Kremlin - September 10, 2019

• Was Mar-a-Lago Trespasser a Tourist or a Spy? A Judge Said Her Story Didn’t Hold Up. - November 25, 2019

• Trump downplays massive cyber hack on government after Pompeo links attack to Russia - December 19, 2020

• Russia has been cultivating Trump as an asset for 40 years, former KGB spy says - January 29, 2021

• There was Trump-Russia collusion — and Trump pardoned the colluder - April 17, 2021

• Longtime GOP operatives charged with funneling Russian national’s money to Trump, RNC - September 20, 2021

• Captured, Killed or Compromised: C.I.A. Admits to Losing Dozens of Informants - October 5, 2021

• Files Seized From Trump Are Part of Espionage Act Inquiry - August 12, 2022

• Ex-Clinton aide implies 'President of France' file found at Trump's home during Mar-a-Lago raid could be valuable to Putin as 'kompromat' - August 13, 2022

• Inventing Anna: The tale of a fake heiress, Mar-a-Lago, and an FBI investigation - August 22, 2022

• Russians used a US firm to funnel funds to GOP in 2018. Dems say the FEC let them get away with it - October 30, 2022

• Trump makes shocking comments about trusting Putin over US 'intelligence lowlifes' - January 31, 2023

• Russia's Prigozhin admits links to what US says was election meddling troll farm - February 14, 2023

• GOP operative sentenced to 18 months for funneling Russian money to Trump- February 17, 2023

• Trump allegedly discussed US nuclear subs with foreign national after leaving White House: Sources - October 5, 2023

• 'So appalled': What witnesses told special counsel about Trump's handling of classified info while still president - April 24, 2024

🤔🤔🤔

[gold-onthe-inside]

diplomat

who? spencer reid (s6/7) x mayor!reader summary: after a schoolbus full of kids goes missing, right near the end of your first term as mayor, an old flame is called to help, and he intends to make things right. content warnings: child abduction, politics word count: 1.2k a/n: based on req: a case takes the BAU back to Pasadena, California (Spencer’s old college town) where they encounter Spencer’s ex who also happens to be the mayor.

He hasn’t seen you in over a decade, and honestly, he hadn’t thought you’d still be here, in Pasadena of all places, in the same precinct they were going to be working out of, trying to solve a serial child abduction case, least of all talking to the captain and the police chief. To be fair, all he really knew was that you had gotten into Stanford, the leg up into politics that you had wanted all along. Spencer swallowed, deaf to anything the lead detective was saying as he watched you in the glass panelled office, acting like it was yours as you listened to both men in uniform talk to you deferentially.

“Reid?” Hotch’s voice brings him back to the conversation at hand.

“Hm?” Spencer asked, looking at his own chief, Derek looking down to hide his amused smile. “I’m sorry, just, uh… who’s that in there? With the police chief?” he asked the detective.

“That’d be the mayor,” the detective — Bryant something — replied. “There’s a lot of pressure to find these kids, and we’re already under fire for not seeing the pattern sooner.” Once again, everything falls away as he pieced that into his limited information on you. Mayor? You? He looked back over his shoulder to the glass office, the police chief leading you out of the room and over to… Crap.

“You must be Agent Hotchner,” you said, a polite smile as you raised your hand and if you’d noticed Spencer, you did a very good job of keeping yourself unmoved.

“Madam Mayor,” Hotch replied, shaking your hand, while Spencer did his utmost best to sink into the carpet.

“I’ve followed your team’s work,” you said, eyes scanning over the rest of them, briefly landing on Spencer before returning to Hotch. “I’m hoping you live up to your reputation here. If you need anything, the city’s at your disposal.”

That was 48 hours ago. You were considerably less chipper than you had been back then, while the local PD and the rest of the town was downright hostile to the team. Not a cycle went by that your face wasn’t on the local news, with JJ in the background as their liaison, asking for patience and cooperation from your city, and not for the first time, Spencer felt this pang in his chest as he watched you look at the camera, filled with a sense of failure.

“Reid?” Emily called, looking at him with concern, shaking him out of his thoughts.

“Yeah?”

“You haven’t touched your food,” she reminded him, pointing at his still wrapped burger and he looked down at it.

“I’m not really hungry,” he said lamely, standing up. “I think I need to clear my head.” Emily’s brow was still creased with concern, but she nodded, letting him go without too many questions.

He might as well be burning holes in his sneakers as he walked to city hall, going through white arches, the dome towering over him, flashing his badge at the security personnel so he can go see you. Your secretary looks at him curiously, about to bar his entry until he explains his credentials, and then it’s a question of whether Spencer trumps whatever meeting you’re holed up in.

“The main problem you’re gonna face is from district 6—” You see him through the crack in the door, behind your secretary, as you lean against the back of your desk, listening to your analyst, “—seeing as a lot of the recent abductions have happened in that area. I’ve got confirmation from Chapman’s office that they’re getting calls to challenge you in the electio—”

“Mandy, can we table this for later?” you asked, interrupting the woman who seemed to finally register Spencer’s presence.

Spencer swallowed as Mandy gave him a once-over before leaving the two of you together, closing the door behind her. “You shouldn't be here,” you said, moving to turn the presentation boards around, even though it was useless — you knew Spencer had already memorised them whether he wanted to or not. A decade ago, you had marvelled at his memory, had been envious of it, but since the separation, you were thankful that time had faded the sting of it. Now, he was back, the scab that had grown over the injury torn asunder.

“You're up for re-election?” Spencer asked, watching your every move carefully, and it felt like he had crawled under your skin. It didn't matter how tough you had built it, Spencer knew you too well.

“You're in the FBI?” you asked, mirroring his tone, and when he furrowed his brow, you added, “Sorry, I thought we were asking obvious questions.”

“You haven't changed,” he said wryly and you raised a brow at him.

“You'd be surprised.” You gestured for him to take a seat. “I really hope you're here on official business.”

“I can pretend to be,” Spencer offered with a flicker of a smile. He'd missed your smile, now that he thought about it, and he hasn't seen it once since he came back.

“Spencer,” you said, pained, closing your eyes. “Can we not do this?”

“Do what?” he asked gently, innocent enough and you looked at him.

“Why are you here?” you asked softly, like someone was pulling a splinter from your hand. He'd done that for you once, reciting statistics about bacterial infections to distract you as he gently pulled the little splinter out and swabbed the wound with antiseptic. You'd asked him to kiss it better, in a way that made him forget about bacteria and germs altogether. “Spencer,” you repeated, snapping him out of the memory.

“I'm sorry,” he said gently, stepping closer.

“It's fine,” you said, dismissively, looking at the documents waiting your approval as he came closer, tentatively closing his hand around your wrist, murmuring your name.

“I'm really sorry,” he emphasised and your chest tightens, your breathing halted by his proximity. “I didn't… I didn't want you to see me as some… weird genius. I didn't want you to look at me like everyone—”

“That's your excuse?” you demanded hotly, looking at him with angry tears pricking your eyes. “You didn't want some lowly community college student to feel less than?”

“What? No!”

“Just because I didn't go to CalTech doesn't make me an idiot, Spencer,” you continued. “What, you thought I couldn’t handle knowing you were a PhD student at 18?”

“No, I couldn't,” he insisted, looking down at you. “I… You don't understand what it's like to not be like everyone else—”

“Oh, right, how traumatising it must be to be smarter than everyone—”

“Will you let me finish?” he retorted sharply. “I felt normal around you, don't you get it? Like I wasn't some weirdo or-or a freak. I know, it was selfish a-and I lied to you for months and I shouldn't have but, God, I just wanted to feel like a normal person for once!”

You said nothing, looking up at him for a long moment. “You shouldn't have lied to me,” you said eventually, quietly.

“I know,” he whispered.

“I loved you.”

“I know.”

“I wanted to hate you for so long.”

“I know.”

“I…” Still love you. “I have to get back to work.”

Spencer took a breath, nodding as he stepped back. “I get it,” he said softly. “I just uh… I wanted to explain.”

You swallowed, nodding stiffly. “You look nice, by the way,” he added, looking at you. “Your hair. Um, I'm gonna go,” he said, a blush creeping up his neck as he turned to leave and you smiled to yourself a little.

Some things never changed.

[odinsblog]

Worth re-reading

Rule No. 1: Believe the autocrat. I argued against the expectation that Trump would change in the months following the election, becoming somehow “Presidential” and abandoning his more extreme positions. This belief, it seemed to me, stemmed from the inability to absorb the fact of a Trump Presidency, and not from any historical precedents of similar transformations. The best predictors of autocrats’ and aspiring autocrats’ behavior are their own public statements, because these statements brought them to power in the first place.

Rule No. 2: Do not be taken in by small signs of normality. Most catastrophes unfold over time. Following the shock of a disastrous election—or a Presidential tweet—the sun rises again in the morning, and life appears to proceed as before. One adjusts, until the next shocking event.

Rule No. 3: Institutions will not save you. During the election campaign, one often heard the argument that institutions of American democracy are strong enough to withstand attack by Trump. A year ago, I pointed out that many of these institutions are not enshrined in law—rather, they exist as norms—and even those that are enshrined in law depend for their continued survival on the good faith of all actors. There is no law, for example, guaranteeing daily press briefings at the White House and media access to these briefings. I predicted that the investigative press would be weakened and that reality would grow murkier.

Rule No. 4: Be outraged. If you follow the first three rules, you ought to be outraged. But I know from experience how hard it is to be the hysteric in the room.

A year on, progress is mixed. Activist groups like New York City’s Rise and Resist, founded by alumni of the aids-activist organization act up, stage regular, vivid, act up–style actions. On the occasion of the first anniversary of the election, they vowed to begin weekly demonstrations demanding impeachment. The A.C.L.U. continues to file lawsuits; late-night comedians continue to amplify the painful absurdity of Trumpism. On the other hand, Washington has absorbed Trump, and so has the Republican Party. (It’s the other party whose national organization is imploding these days.) No single event or revelation has produced enough outrage to cause Trump to be removed from office, nor has one seemed to hurt his chances for reëlection. Not Charlottesville. Not the revelation of a Trump Tower meeting with a Russian lawyer who promised to deliver dirt on Hillary Clinton. Not the regular revelations of past acts of corruption and of current lies. Not the continued spectacle of a government of haters and incompetents. The outrage dissipates, and Trumpism persists.

Rule No. 5: Don’t make compromises. I predicted that Republican Never Trumpers would fold and offer their loyalty to the new President. I also feared that a great many federal employees would face an impossible choice between staying in their jobs under a reprehensible Administration and leaving, forfeiting the chance to do good within a system that had started rotting from the top. Trump’s attacks on the institutions of government have been so fast and brutal, however, that many people made the choice without torment: they left. (Remember the President’s arts and humanities committee? Or the business advisory councils?) Still, a few people remain in what’s left of the State Department; some people have joined the Administration with the explicit goal of using their expertise to help minimize damage. But to watch General McMaster struggling to mislead journalists on Trump’s behalf is to see the built-in problem with the project of minimizing damage: one inevitably becomes an accomplice.

Rule No. 6: Remember the future. There will come a time after Trump. What will we bring to it? I wrote that the failure to imagine the future—to offer a vision in opposition to Trump’s appeal to an imaginary past—had cost the Democrats the election. A year later, the national Democratic Party does not seem closer to proposing a vision (or a candidate); instead, the last week has seen the Party plunged into a vicious re-litigation of the 2016 primaries.

(full article here)

[arizonaconservativegal]

This was the first election I've been able to vote in, and after being raised by my extremely liberal parents, I've realized something. The current state of the left is entirely disconnected from what the average person needs/has/wants. The average person wants to feed and house themselves and their family, they want a stable job, and they want to be left alone/not bothered. The vast majority of people never cared about identity politics and dei, etc, before it started infiltrating their entertainment, jobs and schools. Furthermore, neither of these actually did anything for the average citizen...at best people were hired to fill new positions or to meet quotas, but that number is probably extremely low. So people keep struggling, and instead of getting any help they're being told that they're genetically evil because of their race/sex/sexuality/etc, that they're evil for thinking certain thoughts, and that everything they love and hold dear is problematic and must die. People, of course, reject this. Even some lifelong Democrats, who have been essentially abandoned by their party, reject this notion. So you have a party composed of people who haven't touched grass or actually spoken to anyone outside their echo chamber in the last 8 years, and everyone else... basically it was no surprise to me that Trump won with the margin he did. (Sorry if none of this makes sense, it's been a long day)

I think also there is a not insignificant portion of the electorate for whom voting for progressive social policies is something of a luxury - by which I mean that in relatively safe, peaceful, prosperous times, it makes them feel good to say they voted for equality and fairness and all those nice things the left claims to be for, but when shit hits the fans and they're worried about crime or war or whether or not they'll have a job tomorrow, that has to be their priority and the Dems don't have the trust of the people on those issues. Never did. The Dems have been able to capitalize on the feel-good stuff for a long time (2016 being something of a fluke) and the people leading their party are all still safe in their isolated ivory towers and haven't even noticed that regular people have more important problems than whether there are free tampons available in the men's restroom. And just like no one really likes seeing their friends bragging about their expensive vacations and new cars after they just lost their job, voters are kind of sick of seeing these elitist progressives flaunt their luxury political stances while they're stuck checking the couch cushions for spare change to buy groceries. Add in the fact that those stances are flat out insane and that progressives had the nerve to get mad at people who asked about grocery prices too, and the Dems lost that block of voters soundly. Trump didn't even have to have a solution. All he had to do was say "I hear you."

[raygirlramblings]

OH

I just realised something about Laserhawk Rayman which I've been saying about Rayman for DECADES.

So what is Rayman's defining goal which powers him throughout all his games? It's gonna sound corny, but it's FRIENDSHIP.

And you'll say 'oh that's not uncommon, most videogame protags do stuff for the sake of their friends', but it's kinda more than that.

Rayman LIVES AND BREATHES through the love and support of his friends.

Rayman is a strange little freak guy, one of a kind even amongst his own species*, and instead of being shunned and alone he is held up and supported by his friends and propelled forward by the power of friendship. This is more of a driving force in his life than a romantic interest, a prized possession, or any kind of praise.

(*I still use the logic of Rayman 1 that other limbless beings like Rayman exist but were not created by magic. Hence why Rayman has immortality)

On the surface you have his friendship with Globox as a clear example of his devotion. Despite their differences the two are like brothers and bond through various games in different ways. saving and being saved by Globox is a big part of Rayman 2. Curing Globox of Andre is literally the driving force of Rayman 3.

When Rayman is trapped by the pirates at the start of Rayman 2 he is absolutely distraught, powerless and unable to escape on his own. Without Globox risking his life on the vague chance he'd get put in a cell near Rayman to give him a silver lum, Rayman might never have escaped the Buccaneer. Rayman's friendship with Globox trumped Globox's absolute fear of the pirates.

Rayman's friends are always the ones giving him support and gifts and powers to help him save the day, not in a 'you suck lets hold your hand as you go through the game' way but in a 'we have absolute faith in you, friend, anything we can do to help we will!' way. And in turn Rayman returns that love through his actions and compassion. Rayman is who he is because of the love and acceptance of his friends. Hence why he is always seen relaxing with them, chilling with Globox and Barbara and Murfy and the Teensies.

And it's Rayman's willingness to befriend others and turn the other cheek that betters him overall. Mosquito, Inspector Grub, the Rabbids, they have all been part of his journey despite being antagonistic to him at the start.

When Rayman is separated from his friends, or unable to make new friendships, he kinda falls apart and struggles by himself. He gets lonely, realises how small he is in the world. If he doesn't have a focus to find his friends and help them he is lost.

Which makes perfect sense when you see a version of him in Laserhawk.

Rayman is the most popular mascot in Eden but HE DOESN'T HAVE FRIENDS.

The closest connection he has is to the Counsel who run Eden and even they keep him at arm's length from what we see in the show. They are not his friends, they are his abusive, neglectful bosses that dropped him the minute he stepped out of line, and without them Rayman has NO ONE ELSE in the city he can rely on.

No wonder he's a complete mess even before the show starts. He has no one to confide his fears in, no one who understands his unique perspective. He probably has yes-men and people willing to lie about how great he is, not to mention adoring viewers and a whole fanclub of kids, but even Rayman knows that's fake. They are not his real friends. He's the picture of the lonely celebrity in an ivory tower.

You can see it in Rayman's face when he meets Bullfrog, and Bullfrog VALIDATES his feelings of betrayal and anger against Red and the Counsel. Finally he has someone showing him genuine compassion but also not mollycoddling him. Someone who is honest with him and not freaked out by/judgemental of how he looks. He's scared and angry, but there is a light at the end of the dark tunnel before him.

This and being replaced by Eden is the breaking point that causes Ray to become Ramon and fight back. He now has an end goal, take revenge on the Counsel and save Bullfrog from the electric chair. He has multiple reasons for doing this ranging from his belief in protecting hybrids in general to protecting his image to taking away some of Eden's power at gunpoint...but I also like to think he did it because he put his faith in Bullfrog.

Because as well as being one of the only people in Eden who might have an idea of what's going on behind the veil, he's probably the only person Rayman could consider a friend.

[mariacallous]

And so it begins…

Tomorrow will see the inauguration of President Trump. And this time around, there’s one crucial difference. His tech bro allies will be front and centre: Musk, Zuckerberg, Bezos. NBC has reported they will be on the platform. This is the image that is going to be seared into our eyeballs and that sets the tone and the expectation for the next four years.

The ascension of the tech gods to the presidential dais is a remarkable journey. Back in December 2016, I watched live on C-Span as Trump welcomed a group of tech execs into a conference room in Trump Tower. Front and centre was Peter Thiel, the founder of Palantir, who’d been one of the few people in Silicon Valley to back Trump. And at that meeting, Trump stroked his hand throughout but the rest of the execs looked nervous, unsure. Some of them such as Sheryl Sandberg had been vocal Democrat supporters. But they all said how excited they were to be there and - Bezos’s word - “super-excited about the possibilities for innovations in this space”.

I just checked to see what I wrote that Sunday. There’s a rule in journalism that if the headline is question, the answer is generally no. But eight years on, it’s now clear: the answer is yes, yes, yes.

This week Joe Biden’s last major speech sounded the alarm to a middle America which had not heard such words before. America, he said, was becoming a “tech industrial complex”.

“Today, an oligarchy is taking shape in America of extreme wealth, power and influence that really threatens our entire democracy, our basic rights and freedom."

If you’re subscribing to this newsletter none of this is going to be news to you but given reports Google searches for the word “oligarchy” spiked immediately afterwards, it is presumably to a swathe of America that’s never had to reckon with these ideas and issues before.

Sundar Pichai, the chief executive of Google, is also among the execs who are expected to kiss the ring tomorrow. Back in 2016, it was Google that I was focussed on. Google was prompting users to search for results on whether the holocaust really happened and when they did, they were being sent straight to Stormfront, a Nazi website.

Google responded not by fixing or even acknowledging the problem, instead the head of public affairs for Europe repeatedly rang my editor and complained. Google had recently spent a lot of money with the Guardian on a sponsored virtual reality project and the head of public affairs for the company felt entitled to make his views known. Weeks of low-grade aggression culminated in a nuclear letter that landed on Christmas Eve. I dealt with in a sweat in a service station on the M4 with the Guardian’s head of legal affairs while she prepared her goose for the oven.

I often think about that story, which was the beginning of the trail that took me down the Cambridge Analytica rabbithole and what I learned from it about dealing with big tech. It was the first time I’d been threatened in this way but after the initial fear and panic - the Google exec cc-ed every senior editor on the paper - the Guardian’s managing editor was robust and reassuring: ��If there’s anything that needs to be amended, we will amend it,” she said. “And then we will tell him to fuck off.”

[kinialohaguy]

MAGA ERA

Aloha kākou and Happy Aloha Friday. Donald Trump isn’t president yet, but he’s not waiting around to be sworn into office. The President Elect has scheduled meetings with world leaders at his Southern White House Mar-a-Lago compound and at Trump’s Golden Tower in New York City. There’s been a global shift with foreign world lining up to speak with Trump. Everything from trade, tariffs, and…

[batboyblog]

You know what really upsets me?

1) This song is Still not America’s National Anthem

2) More importantly though, when some Christian Conservatives and fundamentalist minded folk hijack said song, saying it’s proof of Christianity being the US’ religion when in reality it was actually an Abolitionist Song, only given Christian lyrics because the all original version was specifically talking about abolitionist John Brown

https://youtu.be/ibNaHFlfBy8?feature=shared

you know even before I clicked on that I knew you were talking about the Battle Hymn of The Republicans, from "This song is Still not America’s National Anthem" I knew which song,

I've always loved Judy Garland's rendition of it, she captures the raw power and intensity of it that is often sanded off, she has clearly thought about and feels every line

I don't think you can really understand this song outside of New England, its a place of stoney hills, towering pines, and long snowy months, it breeds men slow to anger but who burn with unwavering certainties.

every line of that song I see row on row of marching men of New England in Union Blue bring their unshakable Calvinist Congregationalist faith with them, The Truth is Marching On.

There's always been two spirts in America, the loud, the showy, the selfish, the showman and the bigot. But along side it something else an iron grit, to do what is right not because it is easy but because it has to be done. Out at sea in 1630 the first Governor of Massachusetts, John Winthrop gave a sermon.

Ironically it's best known today, if it's known at all, for the line Ronald Reagan stole and used "we shall be as a city upon a hill. The eyes of all people are upon us" Reagan always added the showman like "Shining" to City a "Shining city on a hill"

Winthrop would have been horrified as the example he was imploring his shipmates to set for the world was this:

"We must delight in each other; make others’ conditions our own; rejoice together, mourn together, labor and suffer together, always having before our eyes our commission and community in the work, as members of the same body." and "If thy brother be in want and thou canst help him, thou needst not make doubt, what thou shouldst do; if thou lovest God thou must help him,"

some times I drive past the white washed meeting houses of my native country and I think about that communitarian dream, they were difficult, hard people to like those stoney New Englanders, but some part of me loves them for that vision, to make others’ conditions your own.

Its that particular faith and their God that marches on from every line of the Battle Hymn, that iron resolve and belief in the higher calling of caring for others, its not some lovey dovey hippy idea of love, it is a commission from God himself, it is the certain of what a Christian must do or forsake the love of God forever.

"As He died to make men holy, 

Let! Us! DIE!! To! Make! Men! FREE!"

Today's selfish self centered evangelicalism, where wealth is a sign of Gods love, that lays hands on Donald Trump bares no true relationship to the burning faith of the abolitionists, and men like Robert Gould Shaw or Joshua Lawrence Chamberlain who marched with their God south to fight a crusade to free the slaves and destroy the evil of slavery forever.

Lincoln as always put it best

"Fondly do we hope, fervently do we pray, that this mighty scourge of war may speedily pass away. Yet, if God wills that it continue until all the wealth piled by the bondsman's two hundred and fifty years of unrequited toil shall be sunk, and until every drop of blood drawn with the lash shall be paid by another drawn with the sword, as was said three thousand years ago, so still it must be said "the judgments of the Lord are true and righteous altogether.""

any ways I think that was a long winded way to say Modern American Christians have never felt called by their God to do anything truly hard and would crap themselves if they did.

[1americanconservative]

@libsoftiktok

Meet June Rose, the nonbinary, queer Chief of Staff for the Providence, RI City Council and a Democrat Delegate to the DNC.

He was arrested yesterday for joining the mob of protesters who invaded Trump Tower in NYC.

Seems totally normal and stable…

[violetgroans]

So, the Luigi Mangione situation has been consuming my thoughts for days. Honestly, I’m surprised to see even those who typically consume right-wing media starting to connect the dots.

Kyle Rittenhouse was hailed as an “American patriot” and a “hero” by right-wing media like Fox and co, not because they’re anti-establishment but because they blindly support the establishment. After his acquittal, conservative media framed his actions as self-defence, the ultimate embodiment of “law and order.” But let’s be honest—this wasn’t about justice or morality. It was about doubling down on a toxic gun culture, one that upholds violence as a virtue when it aligns with their politics.

Take Donald Trump, for example. He’s their golden boy, the so-called saviour of the working class, but what did he actually do for anyone struggling to make ends meet? He gave billionaires a massive tax break, slashing corporate rates to 21% and leaving crumbs for everyone else. Universal healthcare? Forget it. Trump spent years trying to dismantle the Affordable Care Act without even pretending to offer an alternative. And wages? They stagnated while he bragged about a booming economy. He couldn’t stop talking about low petrol prices—as if that fixes lives ruined by medical debt or the soaring cost of living. Meanwhile, his obsession with fracking wasn’t about energy independence; it was about making oil companies richer.

Trump’s entire existence is proof that capitalism rewards incompetence if you’re born into the right family. He’s failed at business after business, but the money and connections always find their way back to him, bringing power along for the ride.

Now compare that to someone like Luigi Mangione. Here’s a guy from a privileged background—an Ivy League graduate, no less—who allegedly assassinated UnitedHealthcare’s CEO, Brian Thompson. And why? Because Mangione had seen enough of the system Thompson profited from: a healthcare industry that lets people die while executives rake in bonuses. Mangione reportedly left behind a manifesto condemning health insurance companies for putting profits over people. Even Daily Mail readers, who’d normally back the establishment, are expressing sympathy for him and calling out billionaires. When even the most propagandised audiences are waking up, you know something’s wrong.

This isn’t complicated: poverty kills. Debt kills. And billionaires like Thompson—who faced criticism for policies that punished patients seeking emergency care—are perfectly comfortable profiting off that suffering. They sit in their towers, insulated from the consequences of the system they exploit, while working-class people are forced to choose between survival and dignity.

What billionaires should really fear is us realising we’ve been played. For decades, they’ve worked to convince us our biggest threats are each other—minorities, immigrants, anyone but them—when they’re the ones pulling the strings. Without our labour and endless, soul-crushing consumption, they’re nothing.

Do I feel bad for a billionaire who’s scared? Not in the slightest. They don’t know fear the way we do. They don’t have to worry about eviction notices or medical bills. They’ve convinced us their success is aspirational, but it’s all a con—a rigged game that keeps them on top no matter what.

I hope the Luigi Mangione case sparks a backlash they can’t ignore. I hope it forces people to confront how deeply this system has failed us. The media will try to spin it, of course. They’re already working to humanise people like Thompson, men who built their careers on denying claims and leaving sick people to fend for themselves. Meanwhile, these same journalists won’t write about kids being pushed into poverty or the way empathy disappears when a rapist gets elected to office. It’s so absurd it feels like a cruel joke—like we’re being manipulated for laughs as reason abandons our collective psyche.

People have turned this murder into a meme, and they’re being condemned for it. But billionaires, propped up by the likes of Murdoch, have relied on our desensitisation for decades to amass wealth and control political narratives. The internet makes that harder for them now, and they know it.

And people are tired. We misdirect our anger into the wrong places, often at each other, and can you blame us? What have protests actually accomplished lately? Millions marched for Palestine—one of the largest demonstrations in recent memory—but did it stop the US or UK from backing Netanyahu? Of course not.

So where do they think all this frustration is going to go? Because one day, it’s going to boil over—and no amount of money or media spin will protect them.

[wh0re43van]

Older- (Stan Bowes X Reader)

Word count: 4k

Summary: You’re interning under Stan who's taken quite the liking to you, but you’re much too naive to notice at first.

Warnings: age gap, smut, thigh ridding?, cheating

A/n: Okay ya’ll, this is not my best. My motivation randomly dropped like a week ago and I've been trying to get it back. I'm so sorry.

I started my paid internship at Trump tower a few weeks ago in order to finish up my business degree. I’ve only seen my temporary boss a few times, but he is an extremely intimidating man. His suits are always pressed and starched in a very neat way, his hair always gelled back perfectly; not one strand out of place. He walks with confidence and determination. He’s horrifying. And of course, on the day that I’m having a major wardrobe malfunction, I have to go into his office. I stayed at a friend’s house last night and left my work shirt at home. Thankfully, she also has an office job as well, so she has appropriate clothes- at least for her body type. She’s much smaller in the bust than me, so the top button on my blouse has been popping open constantly. I’ve been walking around with my hand on my chest all day as if I’m saying the pledge of allegiance on repeat.

I stand outside of Mr. Bowes door, taking a deep breath with my papers in hand, ensuring my button is snapped shut- at least for the time being. I bring a shaky hand up to knock on the wooden door. A few seconds later I hear,

“What now? What is it? Come in!”

Great, he’s already frustrated with me. I slowly open the door, sticking my head in. He doesn’t remove his attention from the many papers spread across his desk.

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Bowes,” I say in a feeble tone, standing awkwardly in front of him. He looks up when he hears my unfamiliar voice. His dark eyes scan over my face and my body. I feel small and weak under his intense stare.

“It’s fine Miss…” he says firmly awaiting me to introduce myself.

“Oh! I’m so- I- Y/n Y/l/n,” my tongue seems to stop working. “I’m an intern. Th-that’s why I’m here actually,” I smile nervously. “I need you, uhm, to fill out this form proving that I- I’ve completed the first two weeks here at the company,” I clear my throat, mentally kicking myself in the ass for how stupid I sound. Mr. Bowes, however, seems to find it amusing. A small smile creeps onto his face, revealing two charming dimples.

“Very well then Miss Y/n,” he holds out a strong hand. My trembling fingers pass him the papers. “No need to be so nervous,” he says, staring directly into my soul. His dominant presence makes me feel like a child who’s been called to the principals office. He scans over the form. “Can I have you go ahead and sign this for me, Miss Y/n. That way as soon as I get around to it we can fax it to your school. I’m all about efficiency,” he smiles politely, handing me a pen.

“Of course, sir!” I say a bit too enthusiastically, I flinch when my voice cracks. As I take the pen from his hand, I can see him stifle a laugh to save me from embarrassment. I bend down to sign the paper with a shaky hand, before standing back up. Stans eyes are locked on to my chest, he clears his throat, using his eyes to motion to my blouse.

“Shit,” I mutter as I turn around quickly, my cheeks burning crimson. I quickly pull the fabric together tightly to snap the weak fasteners. Even with the snap buckled, there’s a gap in between the two buttons; I try my best to hide it. I slowly turn back around to face my boss, my eyes closed, too afraid to look at him.

“Mr. Bowes, I am so sorry, I this- I- th-“ I take a deep breath. “This isn’t my shirt. I apologize,” I finally open my eyes to see him leaning back in his chair, his face firm but a glint of amusement in his eyes. He grabs a mint from his desk, popping it in his mouth.

“Have a seat, Miss y/n,” Is all he says, staring at me with the intensity of a thousand suns. I take a seat from my shaky legs. “I’d hate to have to do this upon our first-time meeting officially,” he begins, but the smirk on his face says otherwise. “But it is company policy that I inform you that the attire you’ve worn into work today is not up to our standards,” he says simply as he leans forward onto his elbows. “Do you always wear such revealing clothes,” he asks, tilting his head to the side a bit.

“No! No, Sir, of course not,” I plead, hoping that he’ll believe me. “This isn’t my shirt, it’s a friends! I was in rush, and I couldn’t find my shirt- well this all she had. She uh- her, uhm chest is a bit smaller than mine so it’s not exactly, uh, the most flattering on me,” I try to explain in a mush of words. He listens intently, nodding his head.

“I see,” he sits up, straightening his tie. I can see his biceps strain against his white button up as he adjusts the strip of fabric around his neck. “You seem like a respectable young lady, and I’m a sensible man, Miss Y/n. I understand that there are some things out of your control,” he offers me a small smile, seemingly dismissing the situation.

“Thank you, Sir,” I let out the breath I was holding.

“Please, call me Stan,” he insists as he leans back in his chair.  

“Yes, sir- I mean Stan!” I correct myself, my cheeks blushing. “I apologize, I’ve never referred to a man of such power and superiority in such a casual way,” I admit honestly. He seems to like my acknowledgment of his power over me, he puffs his chest out a bit at the comment.

“Refer to me in whatever way makes you comfortable, Miss Y/n,” he grins.

“Yes, sir,” I look down at my feet, my stomach is a ball of nerves. Stan just sits there, staring at me as if he enjoys intimidating me, while I wait for him to dismiss me.

“Are you free this weekend, Y/n?” he asks as he leans back down to his elbows, crossing his hands, while awaiting my answer. I notice a wedding ring on his finger.

“Uhm, I believe so,” I say but it comes out more of a question. Why would a married man possibly want to know about my weekend plans?

“Would you be willing to meet with me outside of the office to complete some more work? I believe it will enhance your education and your experience with us,” he offers simply, but I notice an underlying tone in his voice, I’m just not sure what is.

“Does it count as over time?” I ask with a small laugh, finally being comfortable enough to crack a small joke. He looks a bit thrown by my comment- which confuses me- but he lets out a small chuckle.

“Yes of course, I would never ask you to work for free,” he smiles while grabbing a piece of paper, scribbling down an address. “This is my home address,” he hands me the slip. “Does 9 am Saturday sound okay?” he raises his brows.

“Uh yes sir, whatever works for you,” I smile, accepting the scrap of paper. “Should I just knock? I apologize, I’m not yet acquainted with the etiquette of professionalism,” I blush a bit. He seems to enjoy my naiveite.

“Yes dear, just knock,” he chuckles. “Oh, and please be sure to wear something more appropriate,” he says but it comes out light- a joke.

“Oh of course Mr. Bowes! I wouldn’t want your wife to get the wrong idea,” I say out of respect for his relationship, motioning to his wedding band with my hand. Stan looks a bit taken back, almost as if he forgot he was married somehow. He clears his throat.

“She’s out of town with our children this weekend. With no distractions we’ll be able to get the work done in just a couple hours I’m sure,” he’s back to his calm, dominant demeaner now.

“Alright Sir, I’ll see you at 9 am on Saturday,” I smile standing from my seat, walking towards his door.

“Miss Y/n,” his voice stops me, I turn around. “I need to know that you understand that this is something that will be kept between us. I need you to tell me that you won’t speak of this to anyone,” he says sternly. My face contorts into a quizzical expression.

“Uhm yes sir, I can do that. I won’t tell anyone,” I promise. “But can I ask why, Mr. Bowes? I’m just a bit confused. How is this any different than us doing work at the office?” I ask genuinely. I know I don’t understand work etiquette quite yet, but this seems a bit strange. My response seems to stress him a bit, but ultimately he lets out a chuckle.

“Look y/n, I’m a married man with a reputation to uphold, you’re a young bright-eyed lady. Word spreads fast,” he says slowly.

‘oh’ I understand what he’s implying now.

“Yes sir, of course. I understand. People have a tendency to talk,” I nod, wringing my hands nervously at his stern demeanor.

“Very good,” he seems pleased with my understanding. “You’re dismissed,” he motions to the door. I thank him, walking out of his office.

“Well, that was odd,” I mutter to myself as I find my way back to the secretary quarters.

•

•

Saturday morning comes soon enough. I get dressed- making sure to put on a shirt that actually fits this time- and a skirt that stops just above my knees. I pull on some black thigh-high stockings and allow my hair to flow freely. I’m not sure why, but I decide to put on some light makeup. Just some mascara and a subtle red lip. It’s strictly just work, but I can’t help but want to impress Stan. He’s just such an alluring man. I know it’s wrong, he’s a married man- not to mention probably at least 15 years older than me- but he’s so charming. I take a final look in the mirror before heading to the taxi that Stan has called for me.

I walk up to his beautiful house; He obviously has money. I knock on the door, adjusting my outfit while I wait for him. Within seconds, Mr. Bowes is greeting me.

“Adalaide, so nice to see you,” he smiles warmly, inviting me in. I look around the nicely decorated home in awe. “I trust that no one has seen you come in?” he asks as he pokes his head out the door before locking it behind me.

“Uh, no sir. At least not that I’m aware of,” I smile innocently. “Mr. Bowes your home is stunning,” I say still looking around.

“Oh, this place? It’s nothing,” he grins, putting his hand on my lower back, leading me to his couch. I jump a bit at the unexpected touch, but I don’t mind. I’m just a bit confused by it. “So, this shouldn’t take much time, we can get started if you’d like,” he explains, his voice low and-if I’m not mistaken- a bit sultry as he sits down on the sofa next to me. I take a seat, then I notice that there is no paperwork in sight.

‘that’s odd,’ I think to myself, searching around for the task in question.

“Sure Mr. Bowes, you’re the boss,” I giggle lightly, awaiting directions. He looks at me, placing a hand on my knee.

“Miss, Y/n. I have to ask,” he sighs. “You do understand that I didn’t bring you here for actual work, right?” he leans a bit closer to me, raising his eyebrows. My smile drops.

“Oh no… Am I in trouble?” I ask innocently, looking at him with sad eyes. He lets out a chuckle.

“No, my dear. Of course not,” he gives me a kind smile. “I was just hoping to get to know you a little better,” his voice comes out low as he rolls the hem of my skirt in his hands, that’s when I notice his wedding band is no longer on his finger.

‘Oh…OH!’ my eyes widen at my epiphany. I’m not allowed to tell anyone, his wife is away, he made sure no one saw me come in, he’s had his hands on me since I got here… for fucks sake the first time I met the man, my tits were out. God, why am I so naive?

“Oh, I uh,” I clear my throat nervously. “I understand now, Sir,” I blush, slowly looking up at him. His looking at me with lust filled eyes.

“My, you sure do blush a lot,” he says with amusement in his voice. “It’s adorable,” he smirks. He seems to be attracted to how innocent I’ve been about this whole thing.

“Uh, thank you sir,” I give him a shy smile, nervous- but excited- about what’s going to happen in the next hour. This man is like catnip; I couldn’t resist him if I wanted to. He makes a simple white button up look far too good as his hand slowly moves up my thigh.

“No need to be shy y/n,” he says in a whisper against my neck. “Just relax,” his voice is low and gentle, but dripping in seduction. I shiver as he slips a warm hand under my skirt. His fingertips brush my skin where my stockings end.

“Yes sir,” I bite my lip in anticipation, nodding my head. I turn to face him, our eyes exchanging an intimate look. I can’t wait any longer. I wrap my arms around his neck, pulling his face against mine. He lays me down on the couch, his lips still on mine. My stomach flips seeing the dapper man hovering above me. “May I suggest going somewhere a bit more…private, Mr. Bowes?” I ask as my fingers twirl the dark hair that falls neatly at his neck. The living room is full of large bay windows, as anxious as he is about his nosey neighbors, this doesn’t seem like the smartest place to have an affair.

“These are the kind of ideas that will move you up in this company,” he smirks as he stands, offering me a hand. I giggle, letting him lead me to his bedroom. I can’t believe how elegant his house is, if I wasn’t completely dripping in arousal and desperate for this man, I’d take the time to complement his house again. The room is neat and minimalistic. I take notice of the picture frames face down on both the night stands.

‘That’s probably his family,’ I frown to myself. Guilt flushes over me quickly. I turn to face Stan to tell him that this might be a bad idea, but the way he’s is looking at me while he loosens his tie makes any thought other than his skin on mine fly out the window. Stan smirks, keeping his eyes locked onto mine as he sits down on his bed, patting his leg.

“Come here, darling,” Stan coos, his voice makes me weak. I take a step towards the bed. “Crawl,” he demands simply. I give him a confused look. he smirks as he slides his brown leather belt out of his pants. “Crawl to me, dear,” he lays the belt on the mattress beside him. As he begins to unbutton his white dress shirt he asks, “Can you do that for me, y/n?” I simply nod as a grin creeps onto my face. I’m confused, but oh so excited. I assume this is something the older men are into, and I’m more than happy to explore that. His eyes follow me as I drop down to the floor. I slowly crawl over to him, settling on my knees in between Stans slack clad legs, looking up at him with lust laced eyes as I await further instruction. “Use you manners,” he says in the tone he uses on me at the office. I catch onto what he’s implying after a few seconds.

“I apologize,” I giggle, as I look up stan. His stern look and his sultry gaze make me drool. “Yes sir,” I smile, pulling my bottom lip between my teeth. Stan smirks, seemingly pleased by my response.

“Good girl,” he nods. “Come here,” his voice is stern yet sultry as he pats his leg. Butterflies explode in my stomach and down to my core as I straddle his thigh. I sit on his leg with nothing more than his pants and my underwear keeping us apart. I can’t help but giggle with excitement as his hands run up my legs to push my dress up before he cups my ass in his hands. “You’re stunning, Miss Y/n,” his voice came out low as he smiles genuinely.

“Thank you, sir,” I blush. He grabs my chin, pulling me into press his lips onto mine. I giggle into as I wrap my hands around the back of his neck. His hands slide up my body, stopping to hold onto my hips. As I brush my fingers into his slicked back hair, he starts to bounce his leg and using his hands to maneuver my hips back and forth. I moan into the kiss as Stan bites my bottom lip, unzipping the back of my dress. The fabric pools around my waist, bouncing with his leg as I grind against him. The friction against my core makes my toes curl as Stan moves his mouth roughly against mine.

“Are you enjoying this dear?” he breathes against my lips in low tone.

“Mhm,” I moan, gripping onto his thigh as I grind against him, focused on my own pleasure. I feel Stans hand grip my neck, pulling my head down closer to his face as he continues bouncing his leg. We breath the same breath as I stare deep into his dark eyes, moaning inwardly. “Manners, darling,” his growls, squeezing my throat with the last word as his lips brushing against mine. I whimper in his grasp.

“I’m sorry, Sir,” I whimper, staring into his stern eyes as I feel my orgasm quickly building from this new experience. The entire situation is so wrong; he’s my boss, a married man in his 30s, yet here I am; his college intern grinding an orgasm out on his leg. I roll my eyes back as I release, moaning out in pleasure as the euphoria floods my senses.

“Look at me, darling,” stan growls, tightening his grip on my throat. I open my eyes, biting down on my bottom lip. Stans watching me intently as he continues bouncing his leg, seeming to notice every twitch and moan my body makes as I ride out my orgasm. His strong arm reaching for my throat is tensed, making the veins pop out more than usual. Stan is truly one of the most beautiful men I’ve ever seen.

He finally stops his leg, and I lay forward onto him so that my head is resting on his shoulder as I catch my breath.

“Thank you, sir,” I whisper. He lets out a small chuckle.

“You’re welcome, Miss y/n,” he grabs my chin, tilting my head to look at him. I press my lips against his as he lays me down on the bed. His hands slip my dress completely off my body as mine work to finish unbuttoning his dress shirt. His kisses trail down my neck as I reach to undo his pants. “A bit eager, hm?” he laughs into the crook of my neck.

“Extremely eager, Sir,” I giggle as I continue to slide the trousers down his legs. He kicks them off before sliding down my body, settling between my legs. He kisses my stomach down to where my panties rest, each peck sending electricity through my body. His soft hands gently remove the thin fabric covering my core, as if he’s afraid he may break something. His eyes are focused on my body as he rids me of the fabric. “You are stunning,” he breaths, not looking away from my now completely bare body.

“Thank you, sir,” I blush, he smiles at me before dipping a finger into my entrance, earning a gasp out of me. He bites his lip, removing his now slick finger, bringing it up to trace circles on my clit.

“Always so ready to please. That’s a good quality to have,” he chuckles, standing from the mattress to further remove his boxers and shirt. Seeing him in all his glory is surreal. He crawls on top of me, earning an audible, anxious gulp from me. He smiles as he leans down, resting his toned forearms on either side of my head, lining himself up with my entrance.

“Are you ready dear?” he asks, in my ear.

“Yes sir,” I whimper, shaking from anticipation. With that he pushes into me slowly as a low groan creeps from his throat. I gasp, squeezing my eyes shut trying to adjust to his size. His movements start slow, but soon the pain melts into pleasure and I give him permission to speed up. His thrusts are quick and deep, earning desperate moans from my mouth with each stroke. The way Stan holds my hip and grips my throat while he fucks me is a sensation I’ve never experienced before. I’m complete putty in his hands, allowing him to use me in anyway he sees fit, and I’ll thank him every time. Briefly pulling out of me, Stan flips me around to my stomach.

“Hands and knees,” he pants out as he stands from the bed. I quickly scramble on the mattress to get into the position he’s requested as my heart feels like it’s going to beat out of my chest. “Good girl,” I can hear his smirk as he brings a hard hand down over my ass, earning a whimper from me before he thrusts back into me, no mercy this time.

“Fuck!” I moan out as I feel him bottom out immediately. Stan finds his rhythm, using his hands to pull my body against his with every deep stroke.

“God, you take me so well,” Stan groans as he moves a hand underneath me, rubbing his thumb over my clit. I moan loudly at the extra stimulation. Stans thrusts get sloppy, and his groans get louder as I begin to flutter around him, focusing on my own climax as he pounds into me relentlessly.

“Fuck,” I whimper, warning stan of my orgasm approaching.

“Be good for me, I want you to beg,” Stan pants out with smack on my ass.

“Please sir,” I whine as my legs begin to shake. “Please let cum. I can’t hold it. Please sir,” I plead in a way I never thought I would speak to man.

“Good girl,” he speeds up his finger that’s working with my bundle of nerves. I quickly come undone. Sweat forms a thin sheen on my forehead as I release around him, seeing stars. Soon after, he pulls out before I feel his warm seed shoot out, running down my back. I lay down on my stomach, closing my eyes as I try to catch my breath. Stan lays down right next to me, pulling me into his side. I look up, his chest heaving as he wipes his forehead with his hand.

“I think we’ve made a lot of progress today,” he chuckles as he brushes my hair off my sweaty face.

“I agree, Mr. Bowes,” I giggle as I rest my head on his shoulder.

[klbmsw]

July 1987, Moscow, USSR.

41-year-old Donald Trump arrives in Moscow with his wife, Czech model Ivana Zelnichkova, at the invitation of the Soviet Ambassador to the

United States (!!! ) Yuri Dubinina. The invitation was approved by the politburo of the ck kprs.

Trump, who is in a financial crisis - his assets are plummeting rapidly and the debt is rising - reflects on his condition in a famous joke:

-- "See that beggar in the hat on 5th Avenue?" "- he tells his companion, who just gave a diamond necklace.

"That man is 1.5 billion dollars richer than me! "

"But he's got nothing!" "

"He has nothing, but I have 1.5 billion in debt!" "

Returning from Moscow, bankrupt Trump unexpectedly receives a loan from a consortium of 16 banks and buys a Plaza Hotel in New York. Soon, it will get another loan from a consortium of 22 banks to buy Eastern Air Lines Shuttle (renamed Trump Shuttle).

What happened in Moscow in 1987? Who has been funding Trump?

Financing came from Soviet sources of KGB in the United States - through guarantees of loans, not direct monetary payments. In Moscow-1987, Trump's first political contract took place - he was offered support for a future US presidential campaign, and he agreed.

Volodymyr Kryuchkov, head of the KGB, in a report from the Politburo presented Trump as a suitable American candidate who could become a controlled president of the United States.

Before the trip to Moscow, Trump said he would never run for president, because he prefers the free life of a businessman. But after 1987, he changed his position.

---

1996-1997, Moscow, Russia.

Trump visits Moscow three times, meets with Russian businessmen, trying to build ** Trump Tower Moscow without his own investment, only at the expense of Moscow criminal structures funds.

The agency (FSB) watches over him without putting pressure. It's a relief for Trump, but he also doesn't get money, which leaves him frustrated in Yeltsin's Russia.

---

July 1998, Moscow.

Vladimir Putin becomes the director of the FSB. General Philip Bobkov, a former deputy chairman of the KGB, who oversees foreign intelligence and handled Trump's case, is his adviser.

Bobkov passes Putin a compromise on Trump. Trump gets a "message": the FSB returned control and remembers about it.

---

November 2013, Moscow.

After the 2008 financial crisis, Trump returns to Moscow as a bankruptcy, holding the Miss Universe contest in Crocus City.

Event organizer Araz Agalarov pays Trump $14 million and gives unlimited access to young contestants. The FSB films all the events in high resolution, including moments with underage girls posing as contestants.

Putin's agents remind Trump of his 1987 "obligation" promising funding and intelligence support for his presidential campaign.

---

2016 is trump's victory

Putin's propagandists are celebrating:

“America is ours!” "

---

July 16, 2018, Helsinki, Finland.

Trump's closed-door meeting with Putin. Only their translator is an FSB agent.

Putin shows Trump records of his meetings in Crocus City. Trump comes off as a loser and tells reporters:

"... I don't trust my intelligence agencies... i trust Vladimir Putin... "

---

January 6, 2020, Washington DC.

Trump is losing the election. Putin's agents are sending him a "message" - not to concede defeat, to lift up his supporters and attack the US Congress.

Trump urges supporters to storm Capitol.

---

March 22, 2024 Moscow.

Putin burns Crocus City - a kind of Trump signal.

---

Bottom line:

Trump is all in:

1. Many-year cooperation with Soviet and Russian intelligence services.

2. Funding from an enemy state.

3. Compromise in the form of video recordings.

4. Direct communication with terrorist attacks organized by Putin.

Putin has made Trump his "pocket president".

[fluffypotatey]

To be honest I am a huge Nalu shipper. But the thing is I want to know the difference between the way Natsu cares about his guildmates and Lucy. Like what is the obvious difference since that boy sees every as Nakama so how can we say that the wag he cares about Lucy is different?

Like even when Erza passed away? (All the way back in first season there was a segment where the guild was gathered at her grave and all) Natsu was still very reactive. Plus he was also said to be depressed even when Lisanna passed.

What's the difference between all of them and Lucy?

the fact that he stayed. the fact that before he met Lucy, Natsu wasn't one to stay in a group or even want to work with anyone besides Happy at the start of the story. hell, he was ready to just file Lucy down as "New Guildmate" once they reached Fairy Tail

but then, Lucy doesn't leave. she follows him on his mission to save Macao despite her not needing to or even really understanding everything about it. she stays and then fights with him and saves him. it's no secret that Natsu is strong and can take care of himself really well. he's been going on solo missions for years now, and no one has really stopped him, but that means he's been in a lot of sticky situations where he and Happy are on their own and have no backup. and yet, without asking, Lucy offers it

and i think this is the moment when Natsu considers that maybe it's okay to have someone there to have his back (sans Happy)

"but Natsu only needed Lucy for the next quest because of the requirements," well, Natsu also wouldn't have taken or even considered that quest if it weren't for Lucy, yeah? he was not a team player (in the picking job's sense) or really wanted other people to help him on his quests sans Happy. and then he goes and picks a job that caters to their team whilst ensuring that Lucy can't say no

or maybe i'm reading too much into it 🤷🏻‍♀️

or maybe Natsu's got horrible abandonment issues that he will latch onto people so fast (Igneel & Lisanna) but also cause him to distance himself so far when left behind (his 1st time at the guild, Lisanna's death). Erza and Gray are Natsu's closet friends after Lisanna and yet they cannot reach him when he closes himself off. and then we have Lucy, who stuck by and had his back, so who is to say Natsu didn't make some contingencies to ensure whether or not she'd join him?

but maybe it's the rose, colored ship glasses i have on

because yeah, Natsu cares for all of his guildmates. the power of friendship is his biggest motivator. when we meet Natsu, our first introductions of him is defending his guild's reputation from Bora (who was using it as a guise for human trafficking) and saving Macao. and our 1st big arc (Galuna Island), where Natsu adamantly refuses to allow Gray to use Ice Shell and sacrifice himself despite how antagonistic they've been to each other. we get Natsu 100% at Erza's defense throughout the Tower of Heaven and he is even ready to defend Wendy though they only met hours ago

Natsu is a character with a bleeding heart and cannot help but wear it on his sleeve, but we don't really see him allow others to fight his battles or have his back until Lucy comes in. to be honest, i don't even think he had his heart on his sleeve until Lucy. he still has a bleeding heart (i don't think anything could stop that), but he was not ready to be open in receiving company because he was so used to it being ripped away from him

that being said: of all the characters he interacts with, he finds Lucy to be someone compatible enough for him to start going on team missions and inviting her on them (for example, his 1st S-class mission, which he stole, he went to her house to show it to her. the fact that part of the reward was a celestial key might be a coincidence, but i wouldn't doubt it as Natsu and Happy's trump card in case she refused)

but yeah, the difference is that he stayed and didn't push her away at the beginning, but instead continued to invite her along with him to the point that doing a mission without Lucy wasn't his regular anymore. compared to the rest of the guild, of whom he spent most of his childhood with, even if he spoke to no one, they would still be around and talk to him anyway. he might not invite them on job and only challenge them to fights, but the guild is his home and a constant in his life, a constant he needs (bc heavy abandonment issues).

"okay, but he still pushed her away after he watched Igneel die right in front of him. and he left the guild for a whole year, too. so what's the difference there?" you may ask.

so 1) Natsu never thought the guild would disband. he returns to Fiore after a year and is the last to know that they disbanded. he assumed, like all the other times before and while he and others were sealed for 7 years, that Fairy Tail would still be there when he returned. he assumed that his disappearance would not impact so hard because the guild would still be around and Lucy would have the others with her

which, did not happen :)

and like, so many guild members go off on jobs, quests, or even just leave for an indiscriminate amount of time (which i, personally, believe was his rationality for leaving), so him being gone for a year was nothing! right? no harm, eh? his plan was never to be gone forever :))))

2) he just watched his father die and lose any chance of having some semblance of a long term reunion with Igneel. he literally lost one of his main driving motivations for getting stronger and taking jobs. before Fairy Tail, before anyone, it was Igneel. and to learn that a) Igneel was always with him to begin with and b) he only got to see him for less than a day after 14 years of nothing......i would feel lost too ngl

man's needed space from everybody. and he also needed comfort, but Natsu has been shown not to really be the character who asks to receive comfort (and when he does receive it, it's usually when he's already emotionally compromised). he is in the habit of shutting people out after being abandoned or losing someone close to him, with his next rationale being to "get stronger" in order to prevent what happened in the past to ever happen in the future.

anyway

what makes this different? well for one, he sent the letter only to Lucy (or it's implied since no one else is shown getting one) because of how the two spend most of their time together. even the line that goes with the panel makes it sound like Natsu is unsure on how the note will be received (maybe even hesitant? but that could be my own hopes)

and one of the 1st people he reunites with after a year is Lucy and we get such a similar parallel to the first chapter of Fairy Tail between the two as if the narrative itself is slotting them together to say "ah yes, now everything is back to normal and new journeys can begin"

but yeah, this is just a long way of saying, that Natsu does love his friends and guildmates but even when he is close to them, he kept to himself (and Happy) and sort of stayed in their orbit but always with some emotional distance because of his fear of abandonment. and then you have Lucy where he will stay for and allow her to orbit around him and he will invite to new adventures no questions asked

that's the difference

[mrs-stans]

Sebastian Stan’s Crash Course in Becoming Trump

After a long tour of duty in the Marvel universe, the Romanian-born actor is conquering the festival circuit, with starring roles in “The Apprentice” and “A Different Man.”

Illustration by João Fazenda

By Alex Barasch

The actor Sebastian Stan glanced approvingly at the neon signage and old-school menus at the Pearl Diner, in the financial district, the other day. He’s lived in and near New York since he was twelve—around the time Donald Trump swapped his first wife, Ivana, for Marla Maples—and has watched the city evolve. “It’s funny. It’s changed, but it’s also the same buildings,” he said. “And then you’re, like, ‘The buildings are there, but you are not the same.’ ”

Stan took off a white ball cap and ordered coffee with cream; he was jet-lagged, fresh from the Deauville American Film Festival, where he’d received the Hollywood Rising-Star Award. “Rising” is a stretch for the forty-two-year-old, who’s appeared in a dozen Marvel projects, but Stan has lately reached a different echelon. In May, he went to Cannes for “The Apprentice,” in which he plays seventies-era Trump. In Berlin, he’d won the Silver Bear, an award whose previous recipients include Denzel Washington and Paul Newman. “Everyone was, like, ‘Oh, the Silver Bear!’ ” Stan said. “Then you go back and you’re, like, ‘Do we know what the Silver Bear is in America?’ ”

The prize was for his role in “A Different Man,” Aaron Schimberg’s surreal black comedy, which nods to “Cyrano de Bergerac.” Stan stars as a man whose lifelong disfigurement is miraculously reversed; the shoot included a grisly three-and-a-half-hour session spent peeling off chunks of his face.

“The Apprentice” demanded a transformation of a different sort. At the diner, Stan pulled out his phone and swiped through an album labelled “DT physicality”—a hundred and thirty videos of Trump, which capture his tiniest gestures and his over-all mien. Marinating in Trump content was, Stan said cheerfully, “a psychotic experience.” He watched the clips so many times that when the director, Ali Abbasi, asked him to improvise in a scene about marketing Trump Tower, he could rattle off the stats: sixty-eight stories of marble in a peachy hue chosen by Ivana, because, as the real Trump put it in a promo, “people feel they look better in the pink.” (It turned out that he’d also memorized Trump’s lie: the tower is actually fifty-eight floors.)

Growing up in Communist Romania, Stan had just an hour of TV news each night; New Year’s Eve was an event because it meant twelve hours of programming. His instinct for mimicry—he had a habit of imitating family members and neighbors—was the earliest tell that he might be an actor. After he and his mother fled to Vienna, in 1989, Stan got his first credit, in a Michael Haneke film—an experience that nearly put him off show business. “I stood in line with, like, a thousand kids, for I don’t know how many hours—which I hated,” he said. “If I could fucking meet Haneke now, it would be amazing!”

When the family moved again, to America, he experienced pop-culture shock. He binged every movie he’d missed—from “Back to the Future” to “Ace Ventura”—in a pal’s basement. Another friend roped him into the school play. “My high school was really, really small, so I didn’t have a lot of competition,” Stan said. “They were, like, ‘Please be in the play!’ ” Soon he was playing Cyrano himself.

After stints on Broadway, and on “Gossip Girl,” Stan was scooped up by Marvel. “I’ve been lucky to play a character for fifteen years,” he said. The blockbuster paychecks freed him up to explore edgier material. “I, Tonya,” in which he played the ice-skater Tonya Harding’s dirtbag husband, was a turning point. “It allowed me to see that a good director will bring out more in you than you can,” Stan said. It was also his first time portraying a real person—a feat that he repeated in “Pam & Tommy,” as the Mötley Crüe drummer Tommy Lee, and now in “The Apprentice.”

“It’s like learning a piece of music,” Stan said, of nailing an impression. “You’ve got to start out slow—it requires practice. Suddenly, you’re getting it more. You’re still making mistakes—but you’re playing the music. You’re playing the music every day until you can do it in your sleep. That’s when the fun starts.” He sliced the air for emphasis, then caught himself and grinned. “And sometimes it’s months later at a diner, and you’re, like, ‘Why am I doing that with my hands?’ ”

[johnwickb1tsch]

john wick x model!reader imagine pt 4

masterlist

quatre

-You've semi-retired from the modeling game, but Sebastiano is in trouble. He says he needs help securing an investment. His company is in danger of bankruptcy, and you wonder if a great deal of that has gone up his nose in an unfortunate coke habit. But he gave you your start in your career, so when he asks you to accompany him to a party, you feel like you can't say no.

You put on a short dress from Seb's latest line, blood red lipstick by YSL, and some steel in your spine. You have this feeling like this might be your last act of business in this superficial world of glitz and glamor. You have been carrying this cloud-like hope in your heart, a faith in John to do what needs to be done so finally you can be together. When he returns to you, which you hope will be soon, you know you will have to drop off the radar. 

You are looking forward to it.

This prospective investor, a Mr. Oleg Baranov, is having a banger of a party. You and Seb enjoy yourselves a bit, mingling with drinks in your hands. You turn down the proffered tray of Columbian Marching Powder, but Seb indulges in two lines before you can even blink, his eyes dilating wide as saucers. You're not sure how that will affect his usually keen business sense, but it's not your company on the line. Maybe it's crazy, but you know some million-dollar deals have been sealed on less than proving you can party. 

Finally, it's time to meet Mr. Baranov. His office is appointed a la Trump Tower c 1983, lavished with so much gold it makes your eyes ache. When he clasps your hand with an oily smile, your heart sinks to your feet. You are so tired of this side of the fashion world, pandering to the Uber rich who mistake you for a call girl. 

You will not miss it. 

Baranov insists that you sit on the red velvet couch with him, while Seb gets his own chair nearby. They make pleasantries, then talk business. You listen, thinking the terms sound risky, but no bank is willing to touch Seb at this point. He's defaulted too many times.

Baranov says that Seb's proposition is interesting, but he will have to think on it. You both thank him and rise to go. But Baranov catches your hand. “Stay a while,” he invites. “A beautiful woman always helps me think about a business deal.” He gives Seb a look, and to compound his point, Baranov's heavies, two huge and scary looking dudes, close in.

You're not leaving, even though you badly want to. 

Well, fuck. 

Your heart drops to your feet, and you hope you can stall with coy conversation until something comes along to distract Baranov. It wouldn't be the first time you've had to with a pushy admirer. Seb gives you an uneasy look of apology, but then he leaves you.

You can’t believe he fucking leaves you. 

Baranov sits again, and you follow suit, taking the seat at the opposite end of the long couch. He scoots closer, placing a hand on your thigh. 

“I have admired you for years, Ms. Y/n. You are very... talented.” 

He looks you up and down, leaving little question as to what he really means. 

“Ah... thank you.”

He tries to move his hand up, and you push it back down. 

He smirks, and leans in to kiss you. 

That's when the shooting starts. 

You've never really been around guns. It sounds like world War 3 is going on outside, and you freeze with fear, your heartbeat a deafening drumroll in your ears. The toughs at the door draw guns and make to see what the fuss is about. One is shot down immediately. The other tackles the smartly-suited shooter, and they fight. It is brutal, and somehow beautiful, the attacker moving so precisely in this deadly dance. A beat later you realize...it’s John.

Baranov takes your distraction as opportunity to grab you, using you as a human shield. John does some complicated ninja throw, grabbing the guard by the neck and using his momentum to throw him to the ground. 

Then, he shoots him in the head. 

A small scream escapes you.

You are shocked, to say the least. 

“Don't come any closer,” Baranov snarls, shoving a gun under your chin. 

You meet John's laser-like gaze, and resign yourself to whatever he will do. You close your eyes, trusting him, and there's a shot. 

Baranov falls to the ground behind you. Stunned by the violence, you are vaguely aware of the wet splash of blood on the side of your face, a ringing in your ears.

Suddenly, you are in John's arms. 

“What the fucking hell are you doing here?” he demands hotly between kissing you. 

Some of the numb you feel subsides in his arms. He’s got you. Everything will be fine.

“I was here with Seb...but he left me.” 

John frowns murderously at that. 

Then it occurs to you to ask, because maybe he didn’t appear just to save your virtue, “Wait, what are you doing here?” 

“My Impossible Task.”

“What?” 

“Getting my freedom, sweetheart. You really shouldn't be here.” 

You hold up your hands in a silent, Well guess what? It actually makes the corner of his mouth turn up. You think he wants to kiss you again, but then more of Baranov's guards run in, and John has to spring into action. 

It is a thing of beauty and horror, watching him work. He has all the grace of a trained dancer, and the mercy of an enraged tiger.

That is too say, absolutely none. 

The men are dead in under a minute. 

He stands bent over for a moment to catch his breath, before holding his hand out to you. “Come on.” 

There is blood on his fingers. 

Although you are astonished by the carnage you’ve just witnessed, you slide your hand into his without a second thought. 

-You make your escape on a different motorcycle. You are not exactly dressed for safety, but it is exhilarating to ride off into the summer night with John after surviving such an ordeal. 

You feel so free. 

John takes you to a building you don't know, in a part of town you don't frequent. “You'll be safe here,” he says, helping you off the bike and walking you in with an arm about your waist, as though he is afraid to let go of you. You would think he'd be overjoyed after pulling off such a coup, but he is solemn, almost sullen. 

The building is not much, but the space he brings you to is comfortable. You reach up to touch his face, studying his expression. He looks haunted. But then, he just killed a shitload of people...

He killed a shitload of people, for you.

Thinking that maybe he is in pain, you usher him to a careworn chair. There are cuts on his face, but they seem fairly superficial. “Are you hurt?” you ask, pushing his suit jacket from his shoulders so you can more easily inspect him. He winces as you run your hands over his ribs. “Bruised,” he admits, catching your hands. “But I'll be fine, believe me.”

“Then what's wrong?” You know your voice sounds small. 

He reaches up to cup your cheeks in his hands, and it is his turn to study you. “I never wanted you to see what I do,” he admits. “You surely must think me a monster now.” 

You understand his mood then. He is afraid you won't want him now. The thought, to you, is fucking absurd. Careful of his ribs, you climb into his lap in the chair.

“I could never think you're a monster, John.” 

“I'm a killer, y/n.”

“Who were those men you killed? And don't think I didn't notice you let all the women go.” He'd deliberately stopped himself from taking risky shots, in your mad dash at the end, to let the female bystanders escape. 

“They were a rival Bratva to the organization I work for.” 

So now it seems you're finally getting some straight answers. 

“And how did they make their money?” 

You’re not so naïve anymore. You have learned that most anyone who has millions, legit or no, fucked over someone somewhere along the line to get them.

“Heroin and trafficking women, mostly.” 

“Good fucking riddance then.”

A small huff of laughter escapes him for the dead certainty in your pronouncement. You have had the luxury of seeing things in black and white. His world has always been painted in shades of grey.

“Well then.”

You caress the bones of his cheeks with the blades of your thumbs, careful of a cut there. You realize you almost match, with Baranov’s dried blood still painting the side of your face. However, he looks at you with nothing less than adoration, as though you are Helen of Troy.

“If you think I'm giving you up now, after all this, John Wick, you have another thing coming.”

You feel the weight lift from him, like a ton of bricks hefted from his shoulders. He grabs you up with hands on your ass, pulling you in closer and kissing you like there is no tomorrow. When you separate you are breathless, and so filled with joy, the intoxicating thrill of promise for the future in the air. 

John actually breaks out into a toothy smile, his eyes glittering like polished onyx. “Y/n, will you run away with me?” 

You throw your head back with laughter, unable to contain your joy. “Yes, yes I will, John Wick.” You run your fingers through his hair, your heart so full it should rightfully explode. “Jardani.”

After all these years you never forgot.

Hearing his true name from your lips does something to him, dark heat flashing in his eyes like fire in a pan. He stands swiftly with you in his arms, and you never fail to marvel at how strong he is. “I think we need a shower,” he practically purrs, his voice gone low and lustful. You know that sound…and you know you are in for it. Agreeing, you nod with a smile.  

Later, with the length of his long bare body spooning yours, he caresses your curves with featherlight fingers. “Where would you like to go?” he asks softly into the shell of your ear. You're not sure it’s possible, but your mind goes back to that magical city where it all began. 

“What about Paris?”

You feel him nod against your hair. 

“Perfect.” 

-He leaves you one last time, stealing away into what is left of the night, to get something in writing. When he returns you go to your apartment to pack your bags, and then you are off, racing towards your next great adventure, together.

You rent an apartment in the 5th arrondissement with a view of the Tour Eifel, and you revel in the beauty of simple domestic things that you will never take for granted. Sharing a homecooked meal, going to the flea market hand in hand, watching a film with his arm slung around your shoulders. When you are apart, it is never more than for a few hours. Sometimes he goes on long walks alone in the city. You know he is conferring with his past demons, but he returns to you with fresh flowers from the marché and a gentle smile, and you know you are the richest of women.

You love to sleep in, because you have nothing else to do but be together, and you bring him coffee in the morning. His smile of contentment is the air you breathe. You catch him looking at you with such tender warmth sometimes, it brings tears to your eyes. You do not miss the fame and fast pace of your old life. In John, you have all you need, and your collection of photos of him grows by the day. You do not post them with some coy little teaser to prove to the world at large how blessed you are. You keep them just for you, and you are so happy.

Time marches on, and you do not tire of each other. 

You both have aged, but when you look in the mirror you like to think the fine lines appearing at the corners of your eyes are now from smiling. You go for motorcycle rides into the countryside, bringing along decadent picnics. You eat grapes and foie gras on crusty bread in his arms, feeding him bites between kisses. You gain some weight, living la bonne vie in France. John does not mind, or care, worshiping you with the same insatiable appetite he's always had for you.

Watching the sun rise from Sacré-Couer, he produces a ring that glints white fire in the growing light. You do not answer him with words for several minutes, your lips pressed to his, but he knows the answer. 

The answer to this man, from the moment you met, has always been yes. 

Fin