#We were watching Candidate for Crime

[un-monstre]

Showed my sister Columbo for the first time and she said "it's just like watching mob movies, but I don't have to worry that I am going to see anyone get graphically murdered."

[andhumanslovedstories]

Eight years ago I was so deeply invested in the American presidential election, I listen to multiple weekly podcasts, I was on twitter, I checked the polling updates, read the articles, watched the news, I could tell you the political happenings of every week of 2016, and we were on the road for a large portion of it so we had to work for it. We watched one of the presidential debates in a Las Vegas Panera before heading back to our campsite. I did something similar for the 2020 election because jesus christ what a fucking Historical Year. Now it’s 2024, and gearing up for the grind once more is such a dismal feeling. I don’t want to have to have an opinion on Nicky Haley’s viability as republican candidate. I don’t want to follow another twelve Trump trials. I don’t want to watch everyone even slightly left of center once again devour each other as we polarize about it’s a bigger war crime to vote for Biden or not vote for Biden. Everything is going to get so unpleasant and it’s so important and the stakes are so high and it’s gonna suck the whole time. I’m trying to think of one funny thing that could plausibly happen that would fill me with joy and not terror for the future of America and also the world, and so far I’ve only come up with Jeb Bush giving a presidential campaign another go.

[magicalgirlmindcrank]

Watching the GOP trying to pivot and find targeting on Kamala that the Average Voter™ would agree with is hilarious. It's largely been clips of out of context moments where she laughs awkwardly about bad jokes she made. A few mentions that she never won a primary and are their best hits. They have nothing else outside of dog whistles, and those guys were always voting Trump. Like we hate her here for her being a cop, but the GOP can't fucking angle 'cops bad' to their base. As awful as 'tough on crime' rhetoric is, it's immensely popular with the exact kind of people who are swing voters. Even the attention from the attempted assassination was basically lost as all the focus shifted to Biden's decision. Theres suddenly a momentum around the DEM candidate we haven't seen since Obama. It feels like it went from an uphill fight to keep Trump out to a layup.

[victusinveritas]

"The coming days will be ugly. Yet I feel it’s my job to remind you that, bad as this is, we are not Weimar Germany, and this is not 1933. Trump and his lieutenants aren’t battle-hardened trench fighters, they’re Elon Musk and a coterie of half-enthusiastic half-frightened billionaires who got rich gambling on apps to let you rate your classmate’s tits. Their foot soldiers are used car salesmen from Encino, not Freikorps. The United States is not starving to death and crippled by war, it’s irritated and anxious because its working people have been robbed blind by those same billionaires.

The one thing we do have in common with Weimar is that our fascists now find themselves at the head of a state that capitulated to them not out of enthusiastic consent but exhaustion, cowardice and above all a feeling that it didn’t really matter.

That last one, the feeling that nothing matters, the system is fucked, there’s no point in engaging or organizing- that is the most powerful weapon they have right now. Because that feeling stops you and everyone else from opposing them. From interrupting as they reach out, yet again, to take something you love or need.

But there’s a danger here too. In moments of stress and anger the desire to DO SOMETHING, ANYTHING can be intense. And when we’re swept up in that mood the natural tendency is defaulting to the things we know best. The things we’ve done before. The marches and chants and poster-boards we’ve been walking and shouting and carrying all century long. Going back to those old tactics without iteration or acknowledgement of their limitations is a road to failure.

I’ve been to a lot of protests, starting at Zuccotti Park in 2011 and ending last year in Chicago, at the DNC. One of the most dispiriting moments of my life was listening to young anti-genocide activists vow to shut down the DNC, to “make it great like ‘68”. This was a reference to the 1968 DNC. Mass protests were ignited when the preferred anti-war candidate, Eugene McCarthy, was rat-fucked by Democratic party insiders in favor of Vice-President Hubert Humphrey. The protests were quashed violently with tear gas and truncheons. Protesters chanted, “The whole world is watching.”

It may have been then. But the war went on. Nixon won election, then re-election, and then finally pulled U.S. troops out of Vietnam after dropping enough bombs on South-East Asia to have ended several Third Reichs.

During one particularly bad night at the 2024 DNC, miles away from the event itself, a march of self-described “radical protesters” confronted the police while chanting “the whole world is watching” and I can say, unequivocally, it was not. The only people watching were me, several other journalists, and a handful of folks on Twitter. The police, as they kettled, maced and arrested members of the crowd, barely seemed to care. The DNC didn’t shut down. Kamala Harris was made the nominee. There wasn’t even a real anti-war candidate for party insiders to rat-fuck in her favor.

Garrison Davis, my colleague and friend, remarked to me afterwards that the DNC had been somehow much more depressing than its Republican counterpart a month earlier. He was right.

On the stage floor all the Democrats had to present were aging celebrities and Bill goddamn Clinton, drooling out the same platitudes that led us to the Trump era in the first place and doing their best to ignore delegates who walked out and slept in front of the convention center to protest the genocide in Gaza.

Meanwhile in the streets a lot of very nice, earnest people (alongside a handful of grifters) did the only thing they could think of doing after months of imbibing footage of war crimes. They walked around and shouted. The police and city largely let them, because they knew none of it was going to change a damn thing.

I’d felt tremendous optimism right after Joe Biden resigned, not because I loved Kamala but because it was something shocking, an upset, an experiment. Or at least it seemed that way at first. The DNC made it clear that Biden’s advisors and consiglieres, the powers behind the throne, still ran the show, and would not allow any real change. The rot had spread too far, spoiling the meat, spoiling everything.

It was my accurate belief in 2020 that the Democratic Party, broken as it was, had the numbers and organizational capacity to slow the spread of fascism for a short time. It was my inaccurate belief in 2024 that this might still be the case. I had hope because I’d lost any sense of actual productive optimism. We lean on hope when we have no ideas to brace ourselves against.

Hope, as George Miller reminded us, is a mistake. If you don’t fix what’s broken, you’ll go crazy. That’s where we are now, going crazy. Committed Democrats, the decent regular people who fill the party not the soulless shoggoths of capital who run things, are going crazy because they got what they thought they wanted for four years. We returned a “decent” normal politician to office, he kept the economy humming along, got us out of Afghanistan…and everyone still hated him.

Leftists are going crazy for different reasons. In 2020 this country saw the largest sustained uprising of its modern history and nothing, fundamentally, changed. In its aftermath, the oligarchs who control social media set to tweaking, buying or outright inverting their algorithms to ensure no similar movement would ever gain that kind of steam again. Their efforts have been largely successful.

And yet many organizers, be they progressive social democrats, communists, anarchists, whatever, are still stuck in the same loops. Behind each march to nowhere and tired chant is an equally tired hope. The social democrats dream of a giant, continent-sized Denmark, with cyclists replacing Ford Trucks, universal healthcare, good schools and a bevy of other lovely things both political parties will fight tooth and nail to prevent. The authoritarian Communists dream of a new October Revolution, but this one will work rather than just creating a new dictatorship that ages and dies within the space of a single human lifetime.

Anarchists tend to be very good at seeing the flaws in the logic and futility of the hopes of the previous two groups, but they are just as bereft of ideas for how to stop what’s coming. Some tendencies dream of collapse, of an end to industrial society and either living in the woods eating berries or some sort of solarpunk daydream, wildflowers sprouting from rubble. The latter is a nice dream but try offering either future to a single mom who can’t afford her 5-year-old’s insulin and see how she reacts.

Most of the anarchists I know define themselves as “helpers” before anything else. They’ll cheerfully admit they don’t know how to solve the big problem but they do know how to provide free eye exams to homeless people once a month, or do water drops down at the border so migrants don’t die of dehydration, or crowdsource insulin from their friends to help that single mom through a bad week or two.

If you are where we all are right now, bereft of ideas, staring down the barrel of a nightmare, those are good folks to know. Like everyone else, they’re defaulting to what they’ve been doing, but at least what they’ve been doing helps people.

The larger solutions to our common woes, if they ever arrive, will be something new. Something we haven’t tried yet. I feel very confident they won’t take the form of another march or involve everyone finally agreeing to be the same kind of communist/anarchist/whatever. Shawn Fain, chief of the United Auto Workers Union, has called for a General Strike in 2028, and that so far is the only clear plan I’ve heard anyone make that feels like it has a ghost of a chance.

It’s an audacious plan, and I recommend reading what Shawn’s laid out about it. But half of why I support the idea is because it IS audacious. The religious right got to where they are right now in this country by being bold. As I laid out earlier, fascists win because they always try, and this is something we need to copy.

Shit can be different, but not unless we’re willing to try different shit.

Many pundits and columnists were shocked and horrified by the massive and instant support for Luigi Mangione when he assassinated the CEO of United Healthcare. Both the tutting gatekeepers of traditional media and the actually-sweating oligarchs characterized this as evidence of bloodthirstiness. Some leftists did the same and interpreted support for Mangione as proof that the body politic did, indeed, have energy for an uprising.

I saw something different. More than the actual killing itself I think people were excited to see someone try something new. Luigi adopted a novel tactic, carried it out in a novel way, and in doing so he did more to punish one of the oligarchs bleeding us dry than the entre Occupy movement.

Novelty is the one thing that ties Donald Trump and Luigi Mangione together. The enthusiastic public response to both men’s actions and the simultaneous revulsion of traditional elites are mirrors of themselves. In 2024, Trump still had enough novelty to convince people that he might upset the apple cart in some way that benefited them. He rode a global anti-incumbent wave back to the White House.

The consequence of this is that he and his are now on their way to becoming the new establishment. This is an underappreciated downside of the fact that most legacy media outlets have started moderating their coverage of Trump, if not embracing him outright. He is being normalized. His toadies, Musk chief among them, are now our legitimate powers. What novelty remains will fade rapidly.

I suspect the same thing will be true of the copycats who follow in Luigi Mangione’s footsteps.

Most of his plagiarists won’t be good at what they do. At best newly heightened security will see Luigi’s plagiarists dropped before they can pull a trigger. At worse, innocent people will be killed or maimed by bullets and bombs that fail to hit their intended targets or do but with a lot of collateral damage.

I don’t know what the next new thing will be. But between Trump and Mangione there aren’t many old norms left to shatter. We are in a time of enormous potential. Many new things are about to be tried and as awful and bloody as the fallout from some of them will be we all have no choice but to strap in and roll some dice of our own.

The present is ugly, the future unwritten. The only way we’ll make it a better one is if we embrace boldness, creativity and, perhaps, a little overconfidence of our own."

-Robert Evans

[mariacallous]

(Note to readers: I wrote this two weeks ago, on 15 November. This update accounts for things I have learned since, and for Trump’s further appointments, who confirm the thesis.)

Each of Trump's proposed appointments is a surprise. It is comforting to think that he is simply a vengeful old man, lashing out this way and that. This is unlikely. He and Musk and Putin have been talking for years. And the whole idea of his campaign was that this time he had a plan.

We should be wary of shock, which excuses inaction. Who could have known? What could I have done? If there is a plan, shock is part of the plan. We have to get through the surprise and the shock to see the design and the risk. We don't have much time. Nor is outrage the point. Of course we are outraged. But our own reactions can distract is from the larger pattern.

The newspapers address the surprise and the shock by investigating each proposed appointment individually. And we need this. With detail comes leverage and power. But clarity must also come, and quickly. Each appointment is part of a larger picture. Taken together, Trump’s candidates constitute an attempt to wreck the American government.

In historical context we can see this. There is a history of the modern democratic state. There is also a history of engineered regime change and deliberate state destruction. In both histories, five key zones are health, law, administration, defense, and intelligence. These people, with power over these areas of life, can make America impossible to sustain.

The foundation of modern democratic state is a healthy, long-lived population. We lived longer in the twentieth century because of hygiene and vaccinations, pioneered by scientists and physicians and then institutionalized by governments. We treat one another better when we know we have longer lives to lose. Health is not only the central human good; it enables the peaceful interactions we associate with the rule of law and democracy. Robert F. Kennedy, Jr., the proposed secretary of the Department of Health and Human Services, would undo all of this. On his watch, were his ideas implemented, millions of us would die. Knowing that our lives will be shorter, we become nasty and brutish.

A modern democratic state depends upon the rule of law. Before anything else is possible, we have to endorse the principle that we are all governed by law, and that our institutions are grounded in law. This enables a functional government of a specific sort, in which leaders can be regularly replaced by elections. It allows us to live as free individuals, within a set of rules that we can alter together. The rule of law depends on people who believe in the spirit of law. Matt Gaetz, Trump’s first proposed attorney general, is the opposite of such a person. It is not just that he flouts law himself, spectacularly and disgustingly. It is that he embodies lawlessness, and can be counted upon to abuse law to pursue Trump's political opponents. The end of the rule of law is an essential component of a regime change. He has been replaced by Pam Bondi, who will evade the sex-crime allegations that seem to have brought Gaetz down. But Bondi is someone who dropped an investigation against Trump when he made an illegal donation to one of her foundations. She also led “lock her up” chants against Hillary Clinton, who had committed no crime. And she participated in a central injustice of contemporary American history, Donald Trump’s Big Lie that he won the election of 2020. She can be expected to lead prosecutions based upon alternative reality.

In a class by himself is Kash Patel, whom Trump would like to see as director of the FBI. This, of course, requires Trump to fire Christopher Wray, whom he himself appointed, and who has three years left to serve. Firing Wray for no reason would be unprecedented and would itself have been an outrage in a more sane time. Giving Patel authority over the national police force is nothing less than a promise of authoritarian rule.

Patel is a narcissitic zealot with zero qualification for such a post, as even hard-right Trump insiders such as Bill Barr have said (“over my dead body” were his words when Trump proposed Patel for a lesser position of authority in 2020). Patel got Trump’s attention for his efforts to denounce the entirely correct proposition that Trump was supported by Russian in 2016. Patel was then one of the most active and outspoken participants in Trump’s coup attempt of 2020-2021. Patel has since become a pitchman for a clothing line as well as pills that, he claims, will detox your body from the harmful effects of vaccinations. Patel said both that he would shut down the FBI and that he would use it to prosecute journalists and people who deny the untrue conspiracy theories in which he believes, and to prosecute people who say true things, such as that Russia supports Donald Trump when he runs for office. Russian trolls have been, understandably, very excited in their support of Patel.

A pattern is emerging: the federal government is to be used only as an instrument of revenge, which means that the law will be subverted as such. Laws that were passed to improve the laws of citizens, meanwhile, will simply not be implemented.

The United States of America exists not only because laws are passed, but because we can expect that these laws will be implemented by civil servants. We might find bureaucracy annoying; its absence, though, is deadly. We cannot take the pollution out of the air ourselves, or build the highways ourselves, our write our Social Security checks ourselves. Without a civil service, the law becomes mere paper, and all that works is the personal connection to the government, which the oligarchs will have, and which the rest of us will not. This is the engineered helplessness promised by Elon Musk and Vivek Ramaswamy, who are to head a black hole named after a cryptocurrency. There are already oversight instruments in government. DOGE is something entirely different: an agency of destruction, run by people who believe that government should exist for the wealthy or not at all.

The understandable jokes are that DOGE just adds unelected bureaucrats when it is supposed to replace them, and that DOGE is itself a model of inefficiency, since it has two incompetent directors. But the humor distracts from the basic truth: DOGE is there to make the government fail, and then to divide the profitable bits among regime-proximate oligarchs.

DOGE = Den of Oligarchs Gets Everything.

In a modern democratic state, the armed forces are meant to preserve a healthy, long-lived people from external threats. This principal has been much abused in American practice. But never before Donald Trump have we had a president who has presented the purpose of the armed forces as the oppression of Americans. Trump says that Russia and China are less of a threat than "internal enemies." In American tradition, members of the armed forces swear an oath to the Constitution. Trump has indicated that we would prefer "Hitler's generals," which means a personal oath to himself. Pete Hegseth, Trump's proposed secretary of defense, defends war criminals and displays tattoos associated with white nationalism and Christian nationalism. He is a fundraiser and television personality, with a complicated sexual past and zero experience running an organization. Like Trump, he has no coherent account of how foreign powers might threaten America; if anything, he praises them for sharing his misogyny. His own obsessions with gender lead him to believe that American high officers should be politically purged — a proposition that America’s actual enemies would of course welcome. Hegseth makes perfect sense as the person who would direct American armed forces against American citizens.

In a world of hostile powers, an intelligence service is indispensable. Intelligence can be abused, and certainly has been abused. Yet it is necessary to consider military threats: consider the Biden administration's correct call the Russia was about to invade Ukraine. It is also necessary to counter the attempts by foreign intelligence agencies, which are constant, to harm American society. This often involves disinformation. Tulsi Gabbard, insofar as she is known at all, is known as a spreader of Syrian and Russian disinformation. She visited Syria, where here remarks could only be understood as an endorsement of the atrocities of Assad. She suggested to burn victims that they had not suffered because of Assad and his ally Russia, which was in fact the case. Gabbard has no relevant experience. Were she to become director of national intelligence, as Trump proposes, we would lose the trust of our allies, and lose contact with much of what is happening in the world -- just for starters. We would be vulnerable to all of those who wish to cause us harm. Unsurprisingly, Gabbard is regarded in Russia as “girlfriend,” “superwoman” and a “Putin’s agent.”

In the Soviet theory of regime change, one crucial aspect was control of the power ministries: those associated with defense, the police, and intelligence. Patel, Gabbard, and Hegseth are such shocking suggestions as custodians of American power and law that it is easy to overlook Kristi Noem as Trump’s proposed director of Homeland Security. Noem is regarded positively in Trump’s circles because of a publicity stunt in which she, as governor of South Dakota, effectively privatized her states’s National Guard by accepting a big private donation to send a few of its members to the border with Mexico. The border is, of course, a serious matter, Noem’s combination of spectacle, privatization, and incompetence is more than concerning.

Imagine that you are a foreign leader who wishes to destroy the United States. How could you do so? The easiest way would be to get Americans to do the work themselves, to somehow induce Americans to undo their own health, law, administration, defense, and intelligence. From this perspective, Trump's proposed appointments -- Kennedy, Jr.; Bondi; Musk; Ramaswamy; Hegseth; Gabbard; Noem -- are perfect instruments. They combine narcissism, incompetence, corruption, sexual incontinence, personal vulnerability, dangerous convictions, and foreign influence as no group before them has done. These proposed appointments look like a decapitation strike: destroying the American government from the top, leaving the body politic to rot, and the rest of us to suffer.

I do not defend the status quo. I have no doubt whatsoever that the Department of Defense and the Food and Drug Administration require reform. But such a reform, of these or other agencies, would have to be guided by people with knowledge and experience, who cared about their country, and who had a vision of improvement. That is simply not what is happening here. We are confronted instead with a group of people who, were they to hold the positions they have been assigned, could bring an end to the United States of America.

It is a mistake to think of these people as flawed. It is not they will do a bad job in their assigned posts. It is that they will do a good job using those assigned posts to destroy our country.

However and by whomever this was organized, the intention of these appointments is clear: to create American horror. Elected officials should see this for what it is. Senators, regardless of party, should understand that the United States Senate will not outlast the United States, insist on voting, and vote accordingly. The Supreme Court of the United States will likely be called upon. Although it is a faint hope, one must venture it anyway: that its justices will understand that the Constitution was not in fact written as the cover story for state destruction. The Supreme Court will also not outlast the United States.

And citizens, regardless of how they voted, need now to check their attitudes. This is no longer a post-electoral moment. It is a pre-catastrophic moment. Trump voters are caught in the notion that Trump must be doing the right thing if Harris voters are upset. But Harris voters are upset now because they love their country. And Harris voters will have to get past the idea that Trump voters should reap what they have sown. Yes, some of them did vote to burn it all down. But if it all burns down, we burn too. It is not easy to speak right now; but if some Republicans wish to, please listen.

Both inside and outside Congress, there will have to be simple defiance, joined with a rhetoric of a better America. And, at moments at least, there will also have to be alliances among Americans who, though they differ on other matters, would like to see their country endure.

(Please share this post with people who might benefit from reading it.)

[teymars]

Imagine reader giving birth to twins boys

they become 14YO, and they are famous in the clan as troublemakers and Neteyam and reader have to deal with them ..

Ah isn’t that CUTE!!!

THIS IS SUCH A CUTESIE IDEA !!

-no warnings, just some fluff, family dynamics & sweet Dad(dy)!Neteyam (also mentions of bullying + fights if that counts??)

Loud caterwauling blasted throughout the camp, reaching you and Neteyam from within your family-hut. You glanced at your mate, resisting the incredible urge to roll your eyes, there were only two possible candidates for the source of that noise.

“Pshh, I’ll go sort it out, again.” Neteyam sighed, chucking his hands up in defeat. He quickly rose from his spot next to you and hightailed it to the awaiting ‘crime’ scene. For the past few weeks, your twin 14 year-old sons had been causing fights consistently amongst the clan’s young trainees.

You crouched for a moment, subconsciously counting down the moments before your lover’s deep, authoritative voice boomed over the ruckus outside. “BOYS, GET OVER HERE!!” The scolding your two son’s were now receiving increased in volume as Neteyam dragged them both by the neck, back into your hut.

“Ma ‘Teyam-” he cut you off swiftly “How many times do I have to repeat myself to you two?? You can’t just go around fighting people!” Neteyam bellowed, his tail thrashing angrily behind him.

“Sorry, Sir. It was my fault.” Tsyalu, the youngest twin, piped up bashfully. He tried hard to avoid his fathers menacing gaze. “That’s bullsh- ugf’ come on bro, you and I both know Rahaylo deserved it!” The eldest, Myerìn, blurted without shame, barely managing to dodge using ‘foul language’ infront of both his parents.

“Enough, I don’t care wether it was ‘deserved’. Tsy, you have to stop taking the heat for this skxawng! And YOU-” Neteyam gestured to a smirking Myerìn “-need to quit causing trouble, you read me??” Both boys nodded silently before stalking off to different parts of the hut.

You had observed the scolding, originally aiming to hold back a chuckle of amusement, until something in Tsy’s gaze and the way he spoke left you irked. You sat quietly beside him, assisting in preparing the fruits for dinner. Thankfully neither him nor his brother had been injured in the skirmish, you noted.

“What is the matter, sweet child?” You cooed, stroking the side of his cheek as slight tears swelled in his defeated eyes. “It’s nothing, mama..” the boy assured you, trying to hide his face. “Don’t be silly Tsyalu, you can tell me what’s wrong.” You encouraged, faintly aware of your husband’s ears flicking in interest at your conversation, as he watched from his place by the fire-pit.

“Well, we only keep fighting-” he broke off in a quiet sob “-be-because Rahaylo has been bullying me..” Both you and Neteyam fell stock-still at his words, feeling an onslaught of guilt overcome you. “Yea, and Dad told us to stick up for ourselves, so we did.” Myerìn informed, rather nonchalantly. Neteyam looked almost shell-shocked, having realised the poor communication that led to all this.

He moved closer to where you and both your sons were now crouched, reaching down to rest a hand on each boy’s shoulder comfortingly. “I’m sorry, boy. I had no idea.. why didn’t you say anything about this though? Violence is not a good way to solve these issues.” Neteyam offered, sounding solemn. “I- we didn’t want you to think we are weak, we thought you’d be proud of us, because we are brave like you.”

“Oh, Tsy..” you whispered, feeling ashamed that your children ever had to feel that way. “I am proud of you, both of you. So is your mother.. we just don’t want to see you both fighting all the time.” Your mate assured them, providing both with a warm embrace. “It is okay to come to us when somebody causes you trouble, we will help you, I promise.” He continued, allowing you to curl up at his side, joining the family hug. They both hummed in understanding.

“We are pretty brave though, right Dad?” Tsyalu whispered. “Just like you?” Myerìn added, hopefully. “Of course you are! You’re the bravest little warriors this clan has ever seen.” You and Neteyam chirped, nuzzling both boy’s foreheads affectionately. The twins smiled contentedly, feeling relieved as they relished within their father’s hard-earned approval.

“Sooo, who won?” Neteyam mused, smirking at his sons pridefully. “Neteyam!” You chided, smacking the back of his head playfully.

“Oel ngati kameie, my sons.”

Sorry this is a little short, I hope it lives up to what you had in mind! 🤍

Neteyam be getting some insane flashbacks 😭

[thr0wnawayy]

Just HOW corrupt is Hero Society?. Pt 1.

At this point in MHA's timeline, it's no secret that Hero Society is beyond saving. In my time lurking in these tags, I've seen the occasional post tackling some aspect of this corruption, all of which I found insightful. Today I'd like to share some of my own tidbits and thoughts regarding the sensationalized hellscape that is MHA's Japan.

Hawks' Origins:

Something that always bugged me was the timing, It seemed to good to be true. Hawks' dad gets caught, ENDEAVOR of all people is the one to do it and the Commission just happens to arrive.

Well, no. Let me ask you this, why would they send in the Number 2 hero to deal with a petty thief turned murder. A hard hitter like Endeavor would have been the WORST possible person to send as opposed to like, Eraserhead who would have been able to dissarm Takami quietly.

It's not like Mr. Takami was particularly dangerous either, his feathers at best could make for decent lockpicks or shivs but that doesn't justify Endeavor's appearance nor does it make sense given his arrogance. To him the situation would be small fries.

It just doesn't make sense when you assess the risk, it's not like Endeavor has ever been good at restraint (See: Hero Killer Arc) and the possibility of collateral wasn't exactly zero when you consider Mr. Takami got caught jacking a car (additionally not a major or dangerous crime). So he gets arrested, the seeds of Hero worship are planted in a young Keigo's mind and Hawks + his Mother flee and become homeless. Hawks eventually goes looking for the police and returns with:

Well they aren't police.

So, your telling me that these Commission agents just so happend to be around Hawks, here in some backwater cranny. What interest would the HPSC have in this dregg of a family (How do they even know their names). They shouldn't. Not unless they knew something before hand.

(I find it funny that the scene parallels how Tomura was found, down to their respective "saviors" having their own agendas)

We know Hawks used his quirk as a sort of motion detection system to alert his father of any intruders. Mind you, we don't know how far or accurate he was prior to the HPSC's efforts (minus being able to reach the city). So it's possible the HPSC avoided detection by watching from a distance and avoiding certain areas where Hawks could sense them.

Just how long was the Commission watching, how long did they allow the abuse to continue. How long did they watch the Takami's starve on the streets from afar before acting. So many questions, yet no answers.

"Cool but how does the HPSC tie to Endeavor?" You may be asking.

Well, sometime before the arrest happened Hawks had actually left the house and ventured into the nearby district woth his mother.

And came home with an Endeavor plush. Funny how that works huh?. It's not implausible to assume that the Commission simply requested Endeavor to handle Mr. Takami, possibly adjusting his schedule for their convenience.

I'm not suggesting that Endeavor knew of the Commission's scheme here, nor am I suggesting he (intentionally) helped. (Enji's cruel, yes. But he's also an idiot in anything not hero/celebrity related.).

Something I ask myself is, were there other candidates?. Children stuck in situations like Hawks', what happened to them. Were they abandoned to either die or become villains, killed to eliminate potential threats, or perhaps they were just born "unlucky".

Some final notes:

Hello, I apologize for the amateur nature of the formatting, I'm still getting used to the sites formatting options, as well as trying to figure out my "style" so to speak. Regardless I hope you found something in this post and look forward to your thoughts and opinions regarding the content above.

Yours truly,

Thr0wnaway.

[istarveforplatonicptnstuff]

Caught lying in the resume as Cabernet's staff...

Cabernet looked about just ready to EAT 🍴 you... But HOLD UP 🤚 We need to rewind how did you exactly get here.. 🤐🤐🤐 So, flashback before babes decided that your life was basically forfeit...

Pooks decided to look for a helper to help an up and coming event where rich 💳💳💳 people will attend, so her employees posted an ad for applications... You, came across it and decided "Hey, why not apply to this side hustle? 🤪🤪🤪 " Thinking you were slick about deciding to lie your way into getting the job but noooo 🙅‍♀️🙅‍♀️🙅‍♀️ You weren't. 😒 She already knew what was up but, decided to hire you anyways because you were exactly what she was looking for. Young, naïve, and stupid... Smh, you really thought... Gworl, she RICH RICH, why would you try this?

Anywayssss fast forward to the event, you were clueless roaming around the damn hall, overwhelmed by the flock of rich people crowding the place. Bestie you stuck out like a sore thumb 👍 the entire time... Trying to think of a way to help out since everyone knew what they were doing, except YOU 😩 Unbeknownst to you, Cabernet was watching the interaction the whole time, you awkwardly nodding to a random old rich couple who demanded to see the chef, their anger rising as you scramble to get a chef or someone... 🙃 Perfect... You were the perfect candidate for making this event a success...

Meanwhile, you standing like a fool 🧍‍♀️ tryna find someone, the manager??? 👩‍💼 so ya'll can figure out how to y'know.. Deal with rich karens ig... Babes is already stalking her meal 😋, while you're still busy with how tf are you gonna get out of here 🏃‍♀️ yes, you decided to spanish vanish like Duolingo held your marketable plushies as hostage 🦉🟢

Then, you just so happened to be at the crime scene because you were LOST 🗿 in this huge ass place that the event was held in, making you open a random door, that you thought is the exit 🚪 But nah, pookie witnessed a crime scene like a live horror move scene straight out of the screen, like??? Are you seeing this shit rn? 🤓🤓🤓 Then, you ran away from the room and frantically LEAVE the place altogether. Too bad she was faster than you, with those louie gucci prada stilettos' my girl was SERVING 👩‍🍳 while hunting you down... 💅💅💅

When she finally caught up to you... She was ready to EAT you up... But you ATE when you recited the escucha😆las🔪palabras 🧍🏻‍♀️de 😡las 😍brujas 🙈los 😢secretos 😒escondidos 😱en 😜la 😾noche 👹los 😈antiguos🙈 dioses 😩invocamos ��ahora 👺la 💅🏽obra 👄de😋la 🤣magia ✨oculta 😓 and cutely disappeared... Without a TRACE ✍✍✍ Girlie was stunned, but decided to hire you again after her cravings was satisfied 🤭 You got yourself another job to do, congrats!!! 🎉🎉🎉 Sis gave you some MONEYYYY 👻👻👻 that you decided to come back because you were PAID, unlike your previous boss Bai Yi who didn't pay you AT all... AN: If you haven't read the committing tax fraud with Bai Yi then... (Stink, this scenario can be alt route or the canon route depending on how you think of it as...) So, be posting some random ass fics while trying to come up with second parts of my previous workssss 🥰🥰🥰 *Gets in the getaway car, as Che drives me back to sue the company for you getting underpaid for the SERVE! you did during your time in Bai Yi's company...* Possible hint for the next installment (?) /hj

[nausicaamusiclover20]

Decorating with Metallica: Chaos Ensues🎄

୨୧・・・・୨୧・・・・ ୨୧・・・・୨୧・・・・ ୨୧・・・・୨୧・・・

When James Hetfield calls you at eight in the morning, it’s rarely a good sign.

“Y/N! What’s up?” he boomed, his voice far too energetic for the hour.

“What do you want, James?” I asked groggily, already suspicious.

“Why do you always assume I want something?”

“Because the last time you didn’t want something, Lars ended up stuck in a snowbank while Kirk claimed the sled ‘needed testing.’”

James burst out laughing. “Okay, fair. But this is different! We’re decorating the house for Christmas. We need your expert touch.”

“You’re decorating? You, crazy, are decorating for Christmas? On purpose?”

“Yeah! Come on, it’ll be fun. We’ve got everything: lights, ornaments, tinsel. It’s gonna be killer. We just need you to tie it all together.”

Against my better judgment, I agreed. Spoiler alert: I shouldn’t have.

When I arrived, the scene was pure chaos.

Kirk was practically cocooned in a massive tangle of Christmas lights, Lars was rummaging through a box of decorations like a squirrel looking for nuts, Cliff was sitting cross-legged on the floor eating cookies, and James—James was holding a hammer.

“Why do you have that?” I asked immediately, pointing at the hammer like it was a dangerous animal.

“Creative vision,” James said, waving it around with glee.

“Please don’t destroy the house,” I pleaded.

“No promises!” he shot back, grinning like a mischievous kid.

I took a deep breath and rolled up my sleeves. “Alright, what’s the plan?”

We started with the tree, which had potential until Lars declared that the traditional tree stand was “boring.”

“I’ve got an idea!” he said, dragging an empty beer keg out of the corner.

“You’re not serious…” I started, but it was already happening. They wedged the trunk into the keg, and Lars stepped back, arms outstretched like a proud sculptor.

“It’s metal!” he declared.

“No, it’s unstable,” I corrected, watching the tree sway precariously. “This thing is one sneeze away from disaster.”

Meanwhile, Kirk was valiantly trying to untangle the lights, though his progress was questionable. “It’s like the lights don’t want to cooperate,” he muttered, twisting them into knots even tighter than before.

“Just throw them on the tree,” James said, grabbing a handful of tinsel. “We’ll make it work.”

“Throw them?!” I protested. “You can’t just—”

Too late. Kirk chucked the tangled ball of lights onto the tree in one go. “Ta-da!”

“Wow,” I said, deadpan. “It’s… something.”

As we started unpacking ornaments, James held up a box of clear plastic balls with photos inside.

“Check these out!” he said proudly.

I leaned closer and immediately burst out laughing. Inside were tiny photos of the guys, each more ridiculous than the last. Kirk mid-solo with his hair flying everywhere. Lars pretending to play drums with turkey legs. Cliff in a Santa hat flipping off the camera. And James, captured mid-laugh with his face frozen in a weird squished grimace.

“These are perfect,” I said, holding up the turkey-leg ornament.

“They’re festive!” James said, carefully hanging his grimace-photo ball front and center.

As we unpacked more, I froze. “Wait a second… Is that me?!”

Sure enough, there were ornaments with my face on them. One was a candid of me glaring at the camera, another showed me mid-laugh, and the worst—an unflattering close-up of me eating pizza with sauce all over my chin.

“Who took these?” I yelled, holding up the pizza one like it was evidence in a crime scene.

Everyone immediately pointed at Lars.

“What?!” he said, feigning innocence. “It’s art!”

“It’s blackmail,” I muttered, hanging the pizza ornament at the very back of the tree.

Cliff snorted and moved it right to the front. “You can’t hide the classics, Y/N!”

As we struggled to finish the tree, James got the idea to crank up some Christmas music.

“Alright, let’s set the mood!” he said, looking through his massive collection of vinyls. “We need some classic Christmas tunes!”

“Oh no,” I muttered under my breath, already knowing what was coming.

“I’ve got the perfect song!” he announced with an evil grin. “A little classic Jingle Bells!”

I let out a sigh, relieved for a moment. Okay, maybe this wouldn’t be too bad—just a little holiday cheer, right?

James grinned again and plopped the vinyl on the turntable. The speakers crackled to life as the familiar jingle of Jingle Bells started playing… but then, instead of the soft, cheerful melody, a deep, thunderous guitar riff smashed into the room, followed by a pounding drumbeat that felt like it was shaking the house.

“Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, JINGLE ALL THE WAY!” James screamed at the top of his lungs, and the rest of the guys joined in, playing air guitar, drums, and bass like it was a live concert.

I winced, covering my ears. “I knew it,” I muttered.

Kirk, completely in his element, was shredding an air guitar solo while Lars pounded on an empty pot with a spoon like it was a cymbal. Cliff was headbanging so hard, I thought his hair might fly off. And James—oh, James—was belting out Jingle Bells like it was the most epic rock anthem ever written.

I tried to hold back a laugh, but it was impossible. “This is ridiculous,” I said, shaking my head.

“You’re welcome!” James grinned, throwing a thumbs up in my direction.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the song ended. The house was silent, save for the echo of my ringing ears.

I dropped onto the couch, exhausted. “Never again,” I muttered, rubbing my sore ears.

James plopped down beside me, still grinning like a maniac. “Admit it. That was awesome.”

“Awesome?” I asked. “That was like being trapped inside a drum solo with a megaphone.”

“It was festive,” he said with a wink. “Come on, it was metal Christmas.”

I sighed. “Well, I guess it’s better than being stuck in a place  full of screaming toddlers.  Barely.”

“You’re just mad because we shredded the jingle,” Lars said, giving me a playful nudge.

I raised an eyebrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Kirk jumped in with a grin. “Oh, Y/N, we’ve got something even better. Get ready for a special Metallica Christmas classic!”

“I’m not sure I’m ready for any more classics,” I muttered, preparing for the worst.

But before I could protest, James picked up his guitar (air guitar, naturally), and Lars grabbed his makeshift drumsticks (spoons), and they started playing the Jingle Bells riff... Metallica-style. Cliff joined in with a wild bass thrash, and Kirk was air-guitar-shredding like his life depended on it.

Then they all started singing, their voices loud and confident:

“Jingle bells, Metallica’s here, we’re the best band alive, Shredding all the holidays, we’ll make your Christmas thrive!” James screamed.

“We’re the kings of metal, we’re the loudest in the land,” Lars added, dramatically air-drumming.

Cliff jumped in with his bass, “Jingle bells, we rock so well, you know we’ve got the plan, We’ll melt your face with every trace of riffs and thunderous jams!”

Kirk, getting into it, belted out, “Jingle bells, all the way, we’re the ones who’ll slay!”

(He grinned, clearly proud of himself for that line.)

I sat there, blinking in disbelief. “Did you just write a metal version of Jingle Bells about how awesome you are?”

“Of course!” James laughed. “We’re Metallica! We own Christmas!”

Lars leaned in and added, “We’re the ones who make Christmas epic, Y/N. Who else would do this?”

The guys were still shredding the air instruments, and it sounded like a battle between electric guitars and drumsticks.

After what felt like an eternity of shrieking guitars and drum solo madness, the song finally ended. I slumped onto the couch, defeated. My ears were ringing, and my head was spinning from the chaos that had just gone down.

I shot them all an exaggerated glare. “You know, I think I’d rather decorate a tree with toddlers than spend another second in this noise storm.”

James smirked, clearly proud of himself. “Oh no, Y/N, Metallica’s better than a bunch of toddlers any day of the week!”

“You bet,” Lars chimed in, giving Kirk a playful shove. “Who else could rock a Christmas carol that hard? Certainly not any toddlers, that’s for sure!”

I rolled my eyes but couldn’t help but laugh. “You guys are nuts. Absolute maniacs.”

“Well, it’s Metallica for you,” James shrugged with a wink, “we’re just built different.”

Kirk, looking more serious than usual (which was saying something), stepped forward with a grin. “Hey, Y/N, we’ve got something special for you. After all, we’ve been making you suffer through our ‘epic’ Christmas tunes... we owe you.”

Lars clapped his hands together. “Oh yeah, time to give you a real gift—Metallica’s special dedication to you, our one and only Y/N.”

I raised an eyebrow. “You’re not seriously going to try and play something… sweet, are you?”

“Oh, sweet?” Cliff said, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Is that what you want? We can do sweet. We can do soft… if you want the most metal soft rock ballad ever!”

I instantly regretted saying anything. "Wait, wait. I didn't say sweet."

James was already adjusting his guitar, giving me a knowing grin. “Get ready for Y/N’s metal ballad, all about the best friend in the world.”

Kirk started to strum his guitar softly, and I could hear them all whispering about the “perfect intro” for the song. I crossed my arms and braced myself, wondering what on earth they were about to do.

Then, without warning, they all burst into a very loud, very chaotic version of their “dedicated song.”

“Y/N, our friend, our Christmas cheer, You’re the one who’s always near! We love you more than we love beer, Y/N, Y/N, Y/N!" They all screamed, slamming their instruments.

I gasped, my eyes wide. "Wait, what did you just—"

“Y/N, Y/N, you’re the best, Better than all the rest, Even when you’re losing your mind, You’re the one who’s always kind!”

I started laughing hysterically. “That’s not a song! It’s just… a bunch of nonsense!”

Lars grinned. “Yeah, but it's our nonsense. We couldn’t make it too serious, could we?”

“Of course not,” James chimed in, his grin only getting bigger. “What’s the fun in that?”

They kept going with their ridiculous lyrics, all about how awesome and “metal” Y/N was. The chorus was a wild mess of screaming, air-guitaring, and “rock star” moments. Cliff started doing exaggerated dance moves, and Kirk threw in guitar solos that made the whole thing sound way more dramatic than it should’ve been.

I was laughing so hard by the time they finished that I could barely catch my breath. “I’m never going to live this down, am I?”

“Not on our watch,” James said with a wink, as the others nodded in agreement.

“Y/N,” Lars said seriously, “this is the gift you get from Metallica. Take it. It’s the most rock Christmas present ever.”

I shook my head, still laughing. “I’m going to need a few hours to recover from that. Seriously.”

“Take all the time you need,” Kirk said. “We’ll be here... making more ‘songs’ just for you.”

“And we’ll keep the Christmas chaos rolling!” Cliff added, pumping his fist in the air.

I leaned back against the couch, closing my eyes. “The day is still long,” I say to myself.

At some point during the chaos of decorating, James suddenly had an idea that made him look even more mischievous than usual.

“Guys,” he said, rubbing his hands together, his eyes lighting up. “I think we’re missing something.”

I looked over from where I was holding an ornament in one hand and a string of tinsel in the other. “What now?”

“Something that will really bring the Christmas spirit alive!” he said, already grabbing a piece of mistletoe off the shelf.

“Oh no…” I muttered under my breath, but it was too late. James was already excitedly hopping toward the door frame.

“Perfect spot!” he exclaimed. He held the mistletoe above the door with exaggerated pride, giving it a tap like it was the most magnificent thing he'd ever laid eyes on.

Lars walked over, nodding approvingly. “Good idea, man. Adds a touch of romance.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Or chaos,” I muttered, crossing my arms.

James stepped back, admiring his handiwork like he had just built a grand monument. “Yep, that’s perfect,” he said, hands on his hips, looking smug. “Just like I planned.”

I rolled my eyes, but the trouble was far from over. “You do know that’s how mistletoe works, right?” I said, my voice rising playfully. “If someone stands under it, you have to kiss.”

The moment I said it, all four of them froze, their expressions shifting into a mix of confusion and disbelief.

James halted in mid-step. “Wait, what?” he asked, blinking. “That’s a thing?”

“Yes,” I said, struggling to hold in my laughter. “No exceptions.”

Lars narrowed his eyes, his usual sarcasm dripping from every word. “So, you’re telling me I might have to kiss one of these guys?” His eyes flicked between the bandmates, clearly considering his options.

James groaned loudly, stepping back dramatically. “Well, I hope I don’t end up under it with Lars. I’d throw up.”

The room erupted into laughter, with everyone pointing at James and mocking his dramatic reaction. But Lars, clearly not one to let a comment slide, stared James down.

“Oh, yeah? Well, fine. If that’s how it’s gonna be, then I’ll just kiss Kirk!” Lars declared, his voice thick with mock authority.

Kirk raised an eyebrow, hands on his hips, and shot Lars a look. “Oh really? Well, come here, my boy,” he said, his voice suddenly taking on a sultry, over-the-top tone.

He took a step forward, dramatically puckering his lips in a way that no one could take seriously. The entire room was already cracking up, and I could barely breathe from laughing so hard.

Lars leaned in, his lips exaggeratedly puckered, making loud smooching noises as he leaned toward Kirk. “Mwah! Mwah!” he exaggerated, clearly playing it up just to get a rise out of everyone.

Kirk tilted his head back like they were starring in a cheesy soap opera, his hand clasped to his chest in mock passion. “Oh, darling, it’s been too long,” he said, in the most ridiculous sultry voice he could muster, causing the room to erupt into laughter.

I was clutching my stomach by now, tears streaming down my face from laughing so hard. “You guys are so stupid!” I gasped between fits of laughter.

Cliff, ever the opportunist, took his cue and immediately turned to me. He waved his hands dramatically in front of his face. “Y/N,” he said, still struggling to control his own laughter, “I think I’d better cover your precious eyes. You shouldn’t have to witness what’s about to go down.”

Before I could protest, Cliff moved toward me, clapping his hands over my eyes like a pair of comedy goggles. “Don’t worry, we’ll protect you from the horror,” he said, his voice shaking with laughter.

I could barely breathe, let alone get a word out. “This is insane!” I finally managed to choke out.

“You say insane, I say festive!” James interrupted, still grinning like a mischievous child. “And you gotta admit, this mistletoe idea was genius.”

I turned to James with a mock glare. “You’re ridiculous,” I said, wiping tears of laughter from my eyes.

James just shrugged, completely unfazed. “Stupid but festive,” he said, with a grin that could only be described as completely self-satisfied.

Lars, still mock-pouting, crossed his arms. “Next time, we’re putting the mistletoe in my spot, and no one is kissing anyone.”

“Well, Lars,” Kirk said with a wink, “we’re not all lucky enough to be under it with me.”

“I’ll take my chances,” Lars muttered, still giving Kirk a side-eye.

I was still trying to catch my breath, unable to stop laughing. “If I ever thought about leaving this house for peace and quiet, I’ve changed my mind. You guys are nuts.”

James clapped me on the back. “That’s the spirit! Who needs peace when you’ve got Metallica?”

I groaned, knowing full well that this Christmas was going to be one I’d never forget. Not because of the decorations. But because of the utter chaos that was now somehow associated with mistletoe, the four maniacs in front of me, and the insanity that I could never escape.

But, deep down, as much as I wanted to escape the madness, I knew I wouldn’t have it any other way.

By the time we were done, the house was… unique.

The tree leaned like it was actively trying to escape, covered in mismatched lights, ridiculous photo-ball ornaments, and a cowboy hat topper. The porch lights blinked like a rock concert, and the snowman outside had a mohawk and one arm.

I collapsed onto the couch, exhausted. “I can’t believe I gave up my Saturday for this.”

James flopped down beside me. “Admit it. This is the most metal Christmas ever.” “You’re all ridiculous,” I said, but I couldn’t stop smiling.

As the night wore on, the chaos mellowed into something cozy. We sat together, drinking cocoa and laughing about the day. Kirk hummed Jingle Bells softly while Lars fought the cat for a piece of tinsel, and James told a ridiculous story about setting his oven on fire trying to bake cookies.

It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t even good. But it was ours.

“To friendship,” I said, raising my mug.

“And to never kiss Lars under mistletoe,” James added.

Lars threw a cookie at him, and we all laughed until our sides hurt.

Surrounded by my ridiculous, chaotic best friends, I couldn’t imagine being anywhere else.

[musntbill]

Hank Voight x Fem!Reader

(TW: Some violence and implied sexual abuse/[worse], but nothing explicitly said)

Hank’s eyes surveyed the crime scene. A murder, of someone quite important to the mayoral candidate. This was a high-visibility case, which Hank hated. That meant more people telling him how to do his job.

Hank crouched beside the body, the body of a young girl who had been practically mutilated. Tortured in all of the worst ways. Hank could only imagine what her last moments must have felt like. Something nobody should experience. Something he promised himself he would make the culprit experience, one way or another.

His eyes moved up as he stood, listening to Antonio telling him about the case. “We have no witnesses, apparently. At least, none who are willing to talk.”

Hank huffed in protest. “She was dumped in the middle of the street. Someone has to know something.”

“They won’t cooperate,” Antonio replied, shaking his head as he put his notebook and pen away. “Damn shame, too.” He then walked away to talk to some of the other officers.

Hank looked out over the crowd of people behind the yellow tape. They were watching and chattering amongst themselves, all except one woman. She stood there, facing Sergeant Voight, arms wrapped around herself. She had her hood up, hair blowing in the breeze to cover part of her face. As Hank looked at her, they locked eyes. She seemed to curl into herself as she moved backward, disappearing into the crowd. Hank hummed, musing to himself over the woman and her behavior as he looked over the crowd in an attempt to find her. When he found the effort to be futile, he moved away from the scene in the opposite direction, getting into his car and heading to the district.

— —

The case dragged on, dead end evidence everywhere they looked. Without a witness to put the criminal at the scene, all they had was circumstantial at best. Hank rubbed his forehead with one hand, taking in a deep breath as he poured over the paperwork again. It didn’t help that the folks in the ivory tower were breathing down his neck, watching his every move.

The bullpen was empty, as everyone else had gone home for the night. Hank knew he should leave too, but he needed answers. He needed to find the killer.

“Hank,” came a familiar voice. Strong but gentle, he knew it to be Trudy. He didn’t look up to meet her eyes, simply grunting in response. “Hank,” she insisted.

He sighed, looking up from the files to look at his friend and coworker, only to see a woman beside her, the same woman from the crime scene. She had her hair in front of her face, but her hood was down this time. She still curled into herself, as if at any moment she would be attacked. Hank stood to greet her, looking her over. “You were at the scene.”

“Then you know why I’m here,” the woman replied. “I’m (Y/N).” She reached out to shake his hand.

“(Y/N),” he repeated. “Sergeant Hank Voight.”

“I know,” she replied softly, Trudy nodding to Hank and leaving as (Y/N) sat down across from his desk. “You were there the night Emilia was murdered.”

“Did you know Emilia?”

“Yes. I was her babysitter, back when she was younger. We grew close in the last few years. I just graduated college.”

Hank hummed as he leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms to listen to the girl in front of him. “And?”

“And…” She sighed heavily, rubbing her arms. “I saw them murder her. They said if I talked…” She looked away, flashing back to the terrible memory that had kept her awake.

“Please, please!” She begged, crying and kneeling before the two men who had just mutilated her friend. “Please, please don’t kill me, please! I-I’m a nobody! I don’t have family!”

“Kill the bitch!” The first man said, obviously in a rush, since they’d left Emilia’s body in the street.

“Andy, she’s begging for her life! Let’s just get out of here.”

Andy growled, grabbing (Y/N) by the collar. “If you go to the cops, speak to the cops, or call the cops, you know what I’ll do to you? Huh? I’ll tie you down and cut out your tongue. Then, I’ll do all those nasty things to you that you see in the movies. I’ll make you suffer, more than your friend.”

“(Y/N)?” Hank had since stood, putting a hand on her shoulder and leaning down to her. “What did they say?”

“They said… They’d cut out my tongue… Do horrible things… Then make me suffer, more than Emilia did.” She took in a ragged breath, looking up at Hank.

Finally, he could see the light on her face, her hair moving back to reveal a black eye. Hank tucked her hair behind her ear, gently pressing his fingers to her chin, maneuvering her face so he could see better. “Did they do this to you?”

“Last night, when I was at home, they came in and threatened me again. They said the cops were getting close, and said that if I talked, I was dead.” She swallowed hard, tear welling in her eyes as she looked up at Hank. “They hit me and… And then they left.”

“Is that all they did?”

She swallowed hard, moving back from his grip and looking down, letting her hair fall back into her face. Silence washed over the both of them, (Y/N) pulling tighter into herself, clinging for life as she re-lived the night before.

Hank let out a soft breath, then crouched in front of her. “Hey… You did the right thing,” he reassured her, a tender hand on her leg, the other resting on her arm. “I’ll take care of you.”

She sniffled and took in a deep breath, nodding. “I know your reputation on the street. I asked around about you. If you give me your word… if you promised to protect me… I would believe you.” She looked up a bit, her eyes meeting his.

Hank nodded in response, looking up into her eyes. “I promise.”

[tumblingxelian]

I saw a post earlier today that really kinda got my goat so to speak so I wanted to re-post my take without starting shit on tumblr dot com.

I categorically disagree with the idea that Adam was ever planned to be the main leader of the White Fang pre coup.

We meet Adam leading what was suppose to be a resource acquisition mission that he turned into an attempted mass murder for shits and giggles because he is a blood thirsty idiot.

Not only is that incredibly wastefully and politically stupid of him, it is also not reflective of what Blake described the White Fang's methodology as during Volumes 1. IE the methods that actually were working and were introduce by said new leader which Adam was blatantly ignoring.

It also makes clear his relationship with Blake is awful given the manipulation, the lies, the dismissal and using her as a shield, and maniacal cackling ETC.

The second time we see Adam its in volume 2 right after its revealed that a ton of Faunus died because of Cinder's plan and Mercury wonders if they will still obey. Adam arrives and promising to continue throwing his people's lives away for Cinder. Making it quite clear where Adam stands on the subject while showing the White Fang itself lacks any loyalty to Cinder.

Before V3 we have two possible mentions, one being the silhouettes in V1, one of which could be argued to represent Adam, but also contained two other people. & the masks reference which, if Adam was the leader, you'd think Blake would just say it was an idea their leader came up with. The fact she didn't should make it clear to any viewer that Adam was just popular, but not in charge.

Going into V3, we already know he's fine throwing Faunus lives away for Cinder, so anything he says when rejecting Cinder needs to be taken with a grain of salt. Yeah Adam wasn't just gonna work with some random human cos he doesn't like humans and his people are watching so his behavior is performative. Cinder leaves, then returns and makes it clear she can kill him if he doesn't obey and he instantly bows because, shock and horror the manipulative abuser is not actually all that brave when its 'his' ass on the line, setting the stage for what we already know happens by V2.

Adam was never meant to be the leader, Adam was never a genuine revolutionary, Adam was always an abusive cowardly liar and manipulator seeking power and appeasement for himself.

Losing Sienna was a tragedy and genuinely a huge mistake on the writers part and Ghira taking over again is in no way ideal, but Adam is not some tragic loss. He's one of a dime a dozen would be revolutionaries who only care about the 'revolution' for their own ends. Any passing glance at historical revolutions and rebel movements will show people like him.

One can criticize the White Fang plotline without needing to big up someone like Adam; just like one can endorse revolutionaries without advocating for war crimes. Discuss Sienna and how she could have been introduced earlier or avoid her demise. Bring up how Ilia's arc could have potentially led her to being the one leading a revitalized White Fang. Or how Blake herself could potentially have taken the reigns more overtly, as challenging as that might be to portray given the overall plot line.

There's plenty of ways to emphasize the new generation, and tackling bigotry head on without raising Adam as a viable candidate and especially without engaging in historical revisionism as to his slated role in the series proper.

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

The American people lost the debate last night, and it was more painful than usual to watch the parade of platitudes and evasions that worked in the debate format run by CNN. The network’s glossy pundit-moderators started by ignoring the elephants in the room – that one of the two men standing at the podiums was a convicted felon, the leader of a coup attempt, an alleged thief of national security documents who was earlier this year found liable in a civil court for rape, and has promised to usher in a vengeful authoritarian regime if he returns to office.

Instead they launched the debate with the dead horse they love to beat in election years, the deficit and taxes. Throughout the excruciating evening, Joe Biden in a hoarse voice said diligent things that were reasonably true and definitely sincere; Donald Trump in a booming voice said lurid things that were flamboyantly untrue. The grim spectacle was a reminder that this is a style over substance game.

Debates are a rite in which not truth but showmanship wins the day, and in which participants get judged as though it was a sporting event – which it pretty much is, in high school and college debate events. Before 2016, presidential debates were relatively decorous events in which the participants slammed each other, but more or less within the parameters of the true and the real with maybe a little distortion and exaggeration.

Then came Trump. You cannot win a debate with a shameless liar, because what you’re supposed to be debating are facts and positions. A lie is a kind of poison; once it’s in the room it makes an impression that is hard to undo, and trying to undo it only amplifies it.

Trump’s positions on anything and everything shift and slide at will, and he lies about his own past with pathological confidence – in this debate he both denied that he had sex with Stormy Daniels and that he praised the white supremacists who stormed Charlottesville in 2017. More substantively he lied – unchallenged, except by Biden – about his role in the January 6 coup attempt, and the CNN pundits did not trouble him further about his crimes. Trump talked about whatever he wanted – asked about the opiates crisis, he reverted to the lurid stories about sex crimes and open borders that obsess him and inflame his followers.

Most outrageous of all, and of course utterly unchecked, was one of the outrageous falsehoods Trump has been pushing for years – the claim that abortion continues on into infanticide, that doctors and new mothers are murdering babies at birth. That one candidate has long supported reproductive rights and the other has led the attack on them was not something you would learn from this debate.

Debates exist so that people can hear from the candidates, which makes sense when they’re relative unknowns. We’ve heard plenty from both of them for 40 years or so, since Biden was a young congressman and Trump was a young attention-seeker in New York City’s nightclubs and tabloids, and both of them have had the most high-profile job on earth for four years.

We didn’t need this debate. Because 2024 is not like previous election years, and the reasons it’s not are both that each candidate has had plenty of time to show us who they are and because one of them is a criminal seeking to destroy democracy and human rights along with the climate, the economy and international alliances. If you are too young to remember 2017-2021, this would not help you figure that out.

As political journalist John Nichols put it, “CNN is illustrating how a ‘debate’ where the moderators reject the basic responsibility of fact-checking in real time, and refuse to challenge blatantly false statements, is not a debate. It’s a chaos where lies are given equal footing with the truth.”

Much has been said about the age of the candidates, but maybe it’s the corporate media whose senility is most dangerous to us. Their insistence on proceeding as though things are pretty much what they’ve always been, on normalizing the appalling and outrageous, on using false equivalencies and bothsiderism to make themselves look fair and reasonable, on turning politics into horseraces and personality contests, is aiding the destruction of the United States.

The major American newspapers have been unable or unwilling to convey to the voting public that the fate of the country and its constitution are at stake, that the Heritage Foundation’s Project 2025 is a game plan for authoritarian rule and the loss of long-protected rights for many kinds of Americans.

Trump dodged a mild question about taking action on climate change, and though moderator Dana Bash brought him back to the subject he then just boasted about how under his reign we had “the cleanest” air and water, on the very day that the US supreme court justices he appointed savaged yet another piece of environmental protection. The highly-paid pundits could have asked him about his recent promise to leaders of the oil and gas industry that he’d serve their interests if they donated $1bn to his campaign.

Because it’s not just the fate of the US but of life on earth that’s at stake in this election; in 2016, the US undermined global cooperation on climate by electing Trump, who withdrew us from the Paris climate treaty, installed Exxon’s longtime CEO as his first secretary of state, and went to war against environmental protections. Biden has a flawed record but many huge achievements on climate – plus less huge ones too many and complex to bring up in a debate format.

But the hacks running the debate were no more interested in substance or the fate of the country or the earth than Trump. They were putting on a show, and they were putting it on as though we still lived in a world that no longer exists. By so doing they further endangered the world in which we do exist.

[Rebecca Solnit]

[lethalchiralium]

Diamondback | Prologue

a/n: HEIBDEJFB i’m so excited for this one don’t even. I know it’s short, leave me alone 🥲

warnings: cussing, mentions of cheating/pregnancy (not reader), maskless!simon riley

summary: The heat was something else. With a heavy heart and nothing to lose, you’ve ditched your ex-fiancé to chase your childhood best friend across the country to a small town in a wildfire prone area of the United States - Pine, Arizona. It’s nestled in a valley and is where your best friend, Alex Keller, calls home. He’s following his passion, his dreams, and it soon enough, you’re following it too; but the flames are getting too close and soon you’ll be in the line of fire of your best friend’s superintendent, John Price, and his assistant, Simon Riley.

SERIES MASTERLIST | >> NEXT

Alex Keller was a man of his word. 

With his phone now slipped into his pocket, he moved with light steps from his locker and across the room to his Superintendent’s office. It was getting late, most of his fellow Hotshots had already gone home for the night. He was almost set out to leave too, having already put on his street shoes and his bomber jacket when you had called him. You’ve been his best friend since the first grade, essentially his second sister; he’d do anything to help you, so when you had called, his heart broke and anger flooded his body.

“Where are you gonna go? Your mom’s not the best choice-“

“Please tell me I can crash with you.”

“What?”

“Please. I’ll even work in your little firefighter station too.”

“You can’t just join a Hotshot crew, Y/N-“

“I know as much about fire and firefighting as you do, maybe even more.”

“That doesn’t mean you have the physical capabilities for it! It’s grueling, it’s exhausting-“

“Oh, I know you are not trying to mansplain your job to me.”

“What? No! No, it’s just-“

“A little hiking and extra upper arm workout is nothing. Put in a good word, would you?”

“I mean, I can- But be for real, you can’t uproot your life! You love being a fire watch.”

“Yeah, and I loved Justin. Shit can change, Alex.”

Alex knocked on the door, hearing faint voices of approval granting him entrance. He opened the door, revealing the warm light that had been on for a few hours. At the desk sat his Superintendent, John Price - a man with expertly groomed facial hair and the drive of a wildfire. He was physically and mentally maintained; he was everything a Superintendent should be. Across from him sat Alex’s Assistant Superintendent, Simon Riley - a man with the sense for fire science and for weather. The more physically maintained of anyone in the crew, he was the best at keeping the 141 Hotshots on their toes. The two of them worked incredible as a team and were the reason why the Pine Fire Department in Arizona was allowed their own Hotshot crew - Alex respected them.

Both looked to Alex, equally surprised he was still in the firehouse.

“What do you need, Keller?” Simon was the first to speak, Alex took a breath.

“Look, I know you guys are still looking for a new Hotshot, I may have a possible candidate.” He placed his hands on his hips, watching as Simon looked to Price. 

Price’s eyebrows furrowed. “Go on.”

Shit, how do I tell them that she’s just leaving her job ‘cause of that douchebag? “Uh, so she actually does- did, did fire watch in Yellowstone, she was a Hotshot for like… a year before? Anyway, she’s uh, she’s coming to live with me and wanted to know if she could interview.”

Price looked to Simon, who looked back to him. With a knowing glance shared between them, Price looked to Alex.

“She do drugs?”

Alex shook his head.

“Convicted of a crime?”

“No sir.”

Price’s next question was as blunt as it could’ve been. “Did she kill somebody?”

Alex blinked for a moment, stuttering, “Well-Well no! I mean she might, she has a good reason right now.”

Simon snickered, “Doesn’t everybody?”

Price glared at his Assistant Superintendent before he looked back to Alex. “When’s she gonna be here? ‘Cause we might be mobilizing soon.”

Alex looked at his watch. “She’s on a plane now.”

His Superintendent looked pleased before looking at Simon, then to his own watch.

“Have her be here by 9 tomorrow morning.” The man’s blue eyes were sharp as they looked back up to Alex. “If she washes out, it’s your ass on the line.”

“Yes sir.” 

The Hotshot still stood in the office, the Superintendent looked to his Assistant, who spoke. “Why are you still here, Keller?”

Alex cleared his throat. “As a good employee, I’m saying that she would be a great hotshot. As her friend…”

Both Price and Simon’s eyebrows raised. 

“She’s a bit… intense.”

“You son of a bitch!”

“Y/N, I swear! I don’t know a Natalie!”

A vase shattered against the wall next to your fiancé’s face, he shouted in fear - but you wanted him to feel your fucking rage. 

“You are a fuckin’ liar!”

A mug nearly hit him in the face, only to explode into a million pieces next to him. “Stop!”

You weren’t done. No, you were far from done. With a quick hand, you grabbed your former favorite framed photo of your engagement - a time where you were truly happy. It was a stark contrast to the scene now; you had made your way through the kitchen into the living room, throwing things to keep your fiancé, Justin, far away from you. “You got her-“ You chucked the picture frame at him, it barreled against the wall and shattered on impact. “fucking pregnant! You got a girl pregnant!”

“I didn’t!” He tried to take a stop forward but your hand was on another picture frame, ready to throw it, so he paused as he held his hands out. “It’s not fucking mine! I don’t know her!”

Another picture frame was thrown at him, he moved out of the way as you made your way to the front door. Your hand fished into your jacket pocket as you threw your backpack over your shoulder, throwing the small keyring at Justin. He took two steps closer, but you ripped open the front door.

“Where the fuck are you even gonna go?!” He shouted, face red with anger. You gave him a nasty look.

“Somewhere you won’t fuckin’ find me, ‘cause we are over. We will stay over, so if you harass me,” You snarled at him, taking a step backwards and out of the house. “So help me God, you’ll be meetin’ Him faster than you can say sorry.”

And you slammed the door behind yourself, hands shaking and tears threatening to fall. You had no one here in Montana, no one where you could hide and you sure as Hell weren't going to have your mother say "I told you so". With a shaking hand, you dug your phone out of your pocket and dialed the one person you always knew you could count on.

With two rings, he picked up and tears pricked your eyes. "Alex."

Taglist: @all-good-things-have-an-ending @warners-wife @random0lover

Copyright © 2023 lethalchiralium. All rights reserved.

[horrorosier]

rosekiller - everything reminds me of you by take care

if this peaks your fancy!

i’m doing it everyone ! mack’s writing again ! thank u sm drac for this suggestion ! here’s a lil snippet of something <3

tw for grief, death, brief suicidal ideation

His knuckles are bruised, the same color they were the first time he shook hands with Evan. The two of them were only fourteen then, unaware of one another’s presence, until Barty took it upon himself to knock the lights out of the boy who wouldn’t leave Evan alone.

Barty smiles.

He glances down at the cuff of his shirt, a deep green color, one of Evan’s favorites. Of course, Barty couldn’t help himself when he decided to put it on this morning. Naturally, he had picked it out two years ago with completely different intentions. No matter what, it would still remind him of Evan.

Barty balls up his fists.

His legs are still bare, at least that is what his reflection in the mirror is telling him. Just above his right knee is the shitty, little stick and poke Evan gave him. One word, four letters: slut. At the time, Barty thought it was hilarious. And maybe, sometime in the future, he will get a laugh out of it again.

Barty swallows thickly.

Wedged in the corner of the mirror is a Polaroid picture Dorcas took of the two of them when they were seventeen. They didn’t know it had been taken at the time. It’s candid; Barty talking animatedly, mainly facing away from the camera, but then there’s Evan, watching with rapt attention and devotion as if he’s literally hanging onto every single word. It’s one of the few pictures Barty has where Evan is genuinely smiling.

Barty feels the tears well in his eyes.

There’s a gentle knock on the door, and Barty is sent back.

“B, can I—is there anything I can do?” Evan asks once he enters the room.

“Just hold me?” Barty murmurs his response.

“Barty, we have to go.”

Only, it’s not Evan’s voice this time. It’s Regulus.

Barty feels the tears start to trickle down his cheeks. Because the truth is, Evan is gone. His body has gone cold, same as his side of the bed. It’s been that way for five days now, yet Barty can’t muster up the courage to believe it. He’s still in denial.

Everything Barty does, feels, sees, breathes, and knows reminds him of Evan. He doesn’t think it will ever stop—he prays it will never stop. Forgetting Evan would be a crime, punishable by death itself.

But then, Barty thinks for just a moment, he would be with Evan again.

[strange-dreams-are-made-of-these]

wip wednesday (Thursday?)

i'm late to wip wednesday. I worked 12 hours, sue me. This wip is reader being friends with Wade on their quest to save Earth 10005. A reader insert into Deadpool and Wolverine. Have fun with it babes!

Eden was a place in Canada that had saved the mutant children years earlier, having immunity from nearly all mutant centered laws making their existence a crime in itself. She was no stranger to the world of mutants, having carried the X-Gene herself. She had been alive for nearly eighty years now, though she could easily pass for middle to late twenties. She had cashed in one last favor about seven years prior, joining Logan and Charles as they escorted a girl named Laura to North Dakota to get her to Eden. One last favor for an old friend who had run out of time. It pained her to see Logan so sickly, somebody who used to run circles around the X-Men was now barely able to take care of himself. It pained her to watch him die, that slow awful death. As Wade gently put it, he had been ‘chest fucked by a tree’, something he blabbered on about in the Void. A place that Wade dragged her to when he asked for help. Y/N left her superhero days behind her, living somewhere in Oregon as a teacher. “Come on, Y/n. We all know you Xavier freaks printed your teaching credentials from the internet. Which is high-key insane given the fact you would have done that in the nineties.” She huffed at him, the man in his signature red and black outfit, though it had been polished out and even smelled of a clean car. “Wade, I told you, I’m done with that life.” Wade looked at her desk, seeing the few pictures that were on them. He picked one frame up, turning it over to show her. “Would you tell that to this little crotch goblin?” He pulled her out of her plans again, setting the crate of books down as she marched on over to him, taking the picture frame back. “I don’t have any kids, Wade.” At least none by nature. She looked at it, seeing the only picture in existence of Logan and Laura together. Her eyes softened at the fond memory of Laura taking it with her phone when she was busy, along with some other little candids. The perfectly made daughter, plucked directly from Logan’s DNA. Y/N wondered what happened to her, after she made it to Eden. Always afraid to go snooping somewhere that she felt like she didn’t belong. Wade made a clicking sound with his mouth, pointing a finger at her. “I can see the gears moving, baby girl!” She looked up at the white eyes of his mask, a thin line forming across her mouth. “Why should I do this? For you? The last time we worked together, you left me impaled on rebar in a construction site.” He threw a hand over his heart in mock horror and shock. “How dare I leave you, another regenerative healing badass, to pry yourself off Home Depot branded stripper poles while I dealt with the real threat.” Seeing her face flash with rage, he pulled his mask off, “Listen, if you don’t join me, I would understand. But just know everything out there will disappear and go away forever, without a fighting chance.” She watched him, knowing there would only ever be one reason why Wade would pull his mask off. He wasn’t hiding his motivations, he was choosing to be vulnerable. He reached into his utility belt, pulling out a polaroid photo. “I’m doing it for them. They are my world. I need to save them.” As she looked at the photo her eyes found Vanessa’s. If they had been together or not, the woman knew Wade would do anything for Vanessa. Her eyes met Wade’s, her brows furrowing as she went against her intuition. “What’s the plan?”

[ausetkmt]

At President Trump's rally in Tampa last week, a familiar face made it back in the national news. Maurice Symonette, also known as Michael the Black Man, was front and center in a crowd hurling invective at CNN reporter Jim Acosta, waving a "Blacks for Trump" sign.

Symonette has been a regular at Trump rallies all over Florida and as far away as Arizona. Just last month, he popped up at the U.S. border to appear in a video with disgraced sheriff-turned-pardoned-Senate-candidate Joe Arpaio.

All that national exposure raises an obvious question: Who is paying the bills for Symonette, a former member of Miami's murderous Yahweh ben Yahweh cult, to represent "Blacks for Trump" at Trump rallies? 

Since Blacks for Trump isn't a registered political organization with the Florida Division of Elections or the Federal Election Commission, there are no public records of any donations funding the group's operations.

It seems unlikely Symonette is fronting the cash for his travel himself because he filed for bankruptcy this past May. In federal court records, he reports that he's unemployed, generates no income, and has $0 in the bank. He also says four banks have staked claims on $2.9 million worth of property around Dade County. 

So how is he getting to Arizona and Tampa to stand behind Trump on national TV?  Reached on his cell phone, Symonette declined to discuss his group's financing. "You guys are horrible racists," he said. "You are lawbreakers and you're mean... God is going to punish you horribly."

Throughout the '80s, Symonette — then known as Maurice Woodside — was a devoted follower of Yahweh ben Yahweh, a charismatic preacher who wore white robes and called himself the Messiah.

Federal prosecutors later accused Yahweh, whose real name was Hulon Mitchell Jr., of ordering his followers to murder at least 14 people, including random white vagrants who were massacred as an initiation rite.

Symonette was charged in federal court along with Mitchell and 15 other followers in 1990; while the cult's leader was later convicted of 14 charges of murder conspiracy and served nearly two decades in prison, Symonette and six other cult members were acquitted.

In the decades since, Symonette has been charged with crimes including grand theft auto, carrying a weapon onto an airplane, and threatening a police officer, but has never been convicted. (He does have a pending case on a municipal ordinance charge in Hollywood after police showed up to a really loud party he threw.)

Since Trump's election, Symonette has carved out an unlikely new niche as one of President Trump's most visible African-American supporters. He has a knack for getting prime placement directly behind Trump and has handed out hundreds of his "Blacks for Trump" signs.

They advertise his website, which is full of conspiracy theories about Cherokees running the U.S. banking system. (Really.)

Symonette was even featured at a Miami Trump rally that prosecutors later alleged had been funded by Russian nationals looking to disrupt the election.

Symonette filed for Chapter 7 bankruptcy on May 16, listing Washington Mutual, Homecomings Financial, HSBC Bank, and Indymac Bank as his creditors; each institution laid claim to one of four houses. Three are in North Miami-Dade County, and one is near Kendall.

In court docs, his only listed assets are clothing, watches, various household items, and a pool table. He does say that his live-in girlfriend, whom he doesn't identify by name, provides him with $2,000 per month.

Could that money from his significant other cover Blacks for Trump's various trips around the country to support the president on TV? Symonette wouldn't discuss that with a New Times reporter. 

Instead, he spoke at length about his belief that the banking system is corrupt. He added that "Trump being the president is the greatest blessing we have ever had."

In his bankruptcy case, he's repeated those allegations about the banking system being crooked to Judge Laurel M. Isicoff. He's also repeatedly sought to change hearings that overlapped with Trump events. Symonette suggested the scheduling conflicts are a sinister plot to keep him away from the spotlight at Trump rallies.

"Creditors know that I have a rally in Arizona on July 25 and deliberately set the hearing on that date to cause me and my musical band to miss the performance and the rally with the bus we rented," he wrote in a motion filed the same morning as the Phoenix rally. "The creditors overheard that at the house we are disputing... and set that hearing on the same date just to harm me."

That motion was denied, as was another he filed on July 30, just before Trump's Tampa rally. "As founder of Blacks for Trump, (I) have rented vans to go to Trump's rally. We need to make the country aware how the banks (FOREIGNERS FROM THE EAST) are illegally taking WHITE AND BLACK PEOPLE'S houses away."

Maurice Symonette's story is baffling, to put it mildly. Symonette, who also goes by the name Michael the Black Man, somehow went from being part of the murderous Yahweh ben Yahweh cult to getting acquitted of murder charges himself to being a staple at Donald Trump's presidential rallies all over the country. Even among the rogue's gallery of rodeo clowns and Bond villains who make up Trump's core cadre of supporters, Symonette might legitimately be the weirdest person hovering around Trumpworld

.

After Michael the Black Man turned up at a Tampa-area Trump rally last week and led anti-press chants, it's worth taking note of all the bizarre places he's materialized since becoming a prominent Trump supporter:

1. At the original October 2016 Trump rally where he first popped up on TV:

Conservative Twitter is abuzz this afternoon with a trending hashtag: #BlacksForTrump. The spark is clear: Thousands have retweeted photos from Trump's rally in Lakeland, Florida, this afternoon showing a small group standing directly behind the Donald while enthusiastically waving "Blacks for Trump" signs. "Blacks are for Trump and the left can't stand it," writes @LawlessPirate, with another pic of the sign-waving man wearing a shirt reading "Trump & Republicans Are Not Racist." So who is this new face of Trump's elusive black support? He's none other than Michael the Black Man, also known as Maurice Woodside or Michael Symonette, who has made waves in Miami in recent years with protests against the Democratic Party and rallies for the GOP. He's also a former member of the murderous Yahweh ben Yahweh cult, which was led by the charismatic preacher Hulon Mitchell Jr., who was charged by the feds in 1990 with conspiracy in killings that included a gruesome beheading in the Everglades. Michael, along with 15 other Yahweh followers, was charged for allegedly conspiring in two murders; his brother, who was also in the cult, told jurors that Michael had helped beat one man who was later killed and stuck a sharpened stick into another man's eyeball. But jurors found Michael (and six other Yahweh followers) innocent. They sent Mitchell away for 20 years in the federal pen. In the years that followed, Michael changed his last name to Symonette, made a career as a musician, started a radio station in Miami, and then reinvented himself as Michael the Black Man, an anti-gay, anti-liberal preacher with a golden instinct for getting on TV at GOP events. He's planned events with Rick Santorum and gotten cable news play for bashing Obama. Since 1997, he's been charged with grand theft auto, carrying a weapon onto an airplane and threatening a police officer, but never convicted in any of those cases. 

2. At a Trump rally in Bayfront Park in Miami just before the election: 3. At a rally allegedly organized with the help of Russian agents:

A federal grand jury filed charges against 13 Russian nationals [in February 2018] for allegedly stealing identities, wiring money overseas, and staging a small series of flash mobs to help tip the 2016 election in Donald Trump's favor. It's unclear whether the social media campaign had any actual impact on voting, but the FBI alleges Russian money indeed affected one small group of Miamians who unknowingly used Russian cash to pay for supplies for an unnamed rally the September before the presidential election. There still seem to be online traces of that Moscow-funded rally. Only one publicized, pro-Trump rally appears to have taken place in the Miami area — #LatinosConTrump in Doral at 1 p.m. September 11, 2016. The event was pitched as an "anti-media" protest outside the town's Univision offices. The national group Latinos With Trump created flyers for the rally and noted that virtually all of Miami's most prominent pro-Trump groups — Cubans 4 Trump, Hispanas for Trump, Latinas for Trump, and the official Miami Trump Volunteers — would attend.

4. At a 2017 Trump rally in Phoenix, per the Washington Post:

And so it was Tuesday night before a crowd of Trump supporters in Phoenix who had come to watch another show. There was the president, whipping up the wildly cheering crowd, and then there was Michael the Black Man, chanting just beyond Trump’s right shoulder in that trademark T-shirt. The presence of Michael — variously known as Michael Symonette, Maurice Woodside and Mikael Israel — has inspired not only trending Twitter hashtags but a great deal of curiosity and Google searches. Internet sleuths find the man’s bizarre URL, an easily accessible gateway to his strange and checkered past. The radical fringe activist from Miami once belonged to a violent black supremacist religious cult, and he runs a handful of amateur, unintelligible conspiracy websites. He has called Barack Obama “The Beast” and Hillary Clinton a Ku Klux Klan member. Oprah Winfrey, he says, is the devil. Most curiously, in the 1990s, he was charged, then acquitted, with conspiracy to commit two murders.

5. With noted racist Sheriff Joe Arpaio at the U.S.-Mexico border just last week:

Via our sister paper Phoenix New Times:

Former sheriff Joe Arpaio filmed a video at the U.S.-Mexico border with a former Florida cult member who goes by the name Michael the Black Man. In the video posted on Thursday, Michael has his arm around Arpaio as the ousted former sheriff promotes his improbable race for Arizona's open Senate seat during a visit to the border fence in Naco, Arizona. Michael was a follower of the Yahweh ben Yahweh cult, a black-supremacist religious sect in Florida. In 1990, the feds charged Michael and over a dozen fellow cult members with conspiracy related to brutal murders in Florida. Alongside Arpaio and Michael in the video is an independent Senate candidate in Massachusetts, Shiva Ayyadurai, who shared the live video on Twitter. Born in India, Ayyadurai is a scientist and MIT graduate who claims that he invented email. He began his Senate campaign as a Republican before switching to run as an independent. Ayyadurai’s campaign uses the slogan, “Defeat #FakeIndian Elizabeth Warren,” as a derogatory jab at his Democratic opponent. “First of all, I’m from Massachusetts, so of course I’m supporting this great guy,” Arpaio says of Ayyadurai in the video. “He’s gonna win.” Michael says, “We’re at the border right here, between Arizona and Mexico.” He turns to Arpaio to ask if he has anything to say to the camera. The aging former sheriff brings up his law enforcement background. “It’s great to see the border again; I haven’t seen it in a while,” Arpaio says. 

If you've got any info on who's paying Symonette's travel bills to Trump rallies, email [email protected] or [email protected]

For a second, Donald Trump seemed to be backing off his vitriolic attacks on the free press. After five journalists were massacred at the Annapolis Capital Gazette, Trump briefly toned down his slurs. He even invited New York Times publisher A.G. Sulzburger to the White House to clear the air. But it didn't last.

Trump quickly returned to his Stalinist, enemies-of-the-people label for journalists and then lied about his meeting with Sulzburger to insist that truthful reporting is "fake news." Those insults have a real effect, and that fact was never frighteningly clearer than at Trump's rally last night in Tampa, where an unhinged-looking mob screamed insults and waved middle fingers at journalists, particularly CNN's chief White House correspondent, Jim Acosta.

The scene left many political watchers deeply shaken, including Acosta:

Just a sample of the sad scene we faced at the Trump rally in Tampa. I’m very worried that the hostility whipped up by Trump and some in conservative media will result in somebody getting hurt. We should not treat our fellow Americans this way. The press is not the enemy. pic.twitter.com/IhSRw5Ui3R— Jim Acosta (@Acosta) August 1, 2018

But most national press watchers didn't notice who was right at the center of that mob hurling invective at Acosta and his colleagues: Yep, it was Michael the Black Man, AKA Maurice Symonette, a former member of Miami's murderous Yahweh ben Yawheh cult who once faced charges of conspiring in the group's murders.

That's him with his instantly recognizable "Blacks for Trump" sign:

.@Acosta is trying to do a stand-up at #trumptampa and the crowd is booing and chanting “CNN sucks” behind him. pic.twitter.com/XiULajB1Li— Emily L. Mahoney (@mahoneysthename) July 31, 2018

Symonette has been a mainstay at Florida Trump rallies and over the past year has popped up at other Trump-linked events around the nation. Just last week, he flew to Arizona to film a video at the border with disgraced former sheriff Joe Arpaio. Trump's staff regularly gives Symonette front-and-center seats where he waves his black-and-white sign on national television.

Here's some background on Symonette from New Times' earlier reporting on him:

He's also a former member of the murderous Yahweh ben Yahweh cult, which was led by the charismatic preacher Hulon Mitchell Jr., who was charged by the feds in 1990 with conspiracy in killings that included a gruesome beheading in the Everglades. Michael, along with 15 other Yahweh followers, was charged for allegedly conspiring in two murders; his brother, who was also in the cult, told jurors that Michael had helped beat one man who was later killed and stuck a sharpened stick into another man's eyeball. But jurors found Michael (and six other Yahweh followers) innocent. They sent Mitchell away for 20 years in the federal pen. In the years that followed, he changed his last name to Symonette, made a career as a musician, started a radio station in Miami and then re-invented himself as Michael the Black Man, an anti-gay, anti-liberal preacher with a golden instinct for getting on TV at GOP events. He's planned events with Rick Santorum and gotten cable news play for bashing Obama. Since 1997, he's been charged with grand theft auto, carrying a weapon onto an airplane and threatening a police officer, but never convicted in any of those cases. 

In other words, he's exactly the kind of guy you might not want to drive into a blind rage at journalists who are just trying to do their jobs. Yet there he was in Tampa, right in the middle of the crowd screaming at Acosta — who, incidentally, took time to talk to the crowds who were so angry with him:

After each live shot, @Acosta would walk down and politely talk to the people who just heckled him. He talked to one group for at least 15 minutes. pic.twitter.com/J26nlxfD6k— Christopher Heath (@CHeathWFTV) August 1, 2018

There are two safe bets on this topic going forward: Trump won't stop throwing insults at the media, and wherever the president is whipping up that anger, Michael the Black Man will probably be there with his signs, happily taking the bait.