#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.

[fluentmoviequoter]

Lock and Key

Requested Here!

Pairing: Tim Bradford x fem!shy!pregnant!CSIphotographer!reader

Summary: When Angela and Nyla need someone to go undercover in a women's prison, you seem like the perfect candidate. Inside with Lucy, Tim, and Angela nearby, you find more than a killer.

Warnings: fluff, brief angst, murder case, very quick allusion to past sexual assualt

Word Count: 1.9k+ words

Masterlist Directory | Tim Bradford Masterlist | Request Info

“Can you do another establishing shot of the bedroom?” your crime scene unit supervisor requests.

You nod, feel your baby kick, and tread carefully through the home-turned-crime scene to take more photographs. It’s no secret that CSIs can never take too many photos, but now that you’re pregnant, you wonder if there’s a way to collect them faster. You love your job; being a police photographer is wholly rewarding and enjoyable for you, but some scenes and some days are more trying than others. Being near Tim Bradford at work similarly has its pros and cons.

“Hey, mama,” Angela greets as she enters the bedroom. “Is this the primary scene?”

“We think so,” you answer softly, removing the sync cord from your camera to photograph the scene without the light.

“How are you feeling?” Angela asks, looking around the room without altering anything before your photos are complete.

“Pretty good,” you reply.

“Tim still… well, Tim?”

You nod as you move toward the corner, focusing the camera on a bloody screwdriver. Whatever happened here wasn’t quick and was undoubtedly painful. Your supervisor walks through the hall and tells you to pack up, and you nod at Angela with a smile. She hugs you before you leave, and you ready your nerves to see Tim when you return to the station.

“Wait, go back,” Lucy requests as you’re shepherded into the roll call room. “Tim, I’m going to say this slowly and I want you to listen very carefully, okay?”

“Chen,” Tim snaps.

She doesn’t heed his warning tone and begins, “You want to send the mother of your child into a prison to get intel on a murder case. Where in that sentence do you hear a good idea?”

“What?” you inquire with your hands clasped tightly beneath your growing bump.

Lucy turns, her expression guilty. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know you were in here.”

“We were just brainstorming,” Tim explains, walking toward you. “The woman who was murdered this morning was released from CIW last week.”

“CIW, however, is out of our jurisdiction,” Nyla adds. “So, we reached out to San Bernadino PD and they’ve agreed to let us send in a UC.”

“The problem is that the woman we need to talk to is notoriously picky about who she takes up company with,” Tim adds. “Rumor is, she has a thing for strays, she likes being around people she can protect.”

“Which, to me, sounds like she would be ready to turn on them in an instant,” Lucy interjects. “Hence my reluctance.”

“So, because I’m pregnant, you think she’d watch out for me, let me close?” you clarify.

“More or less,” Nyla answers.

Lucy scoffs and shakes her head. “It’s too dangerous.”

“Would I be alone?” you whisper, looking at Tim.

“Of course not. We’d send in two officers, acting as doctors, who can pull you out any time.”

“Would it do it if Tim and Angela went in with you?” Nyla asks.

You pull your bottom lip between your teeth as you consider everything. You’d be putting yourself and your baby in danger. If Tim and Angela were a call away, the risk would decrease dramatically. Before you can decide, Lucy holds your arms and hugs you.

“Don’t do it,” she says. “There’s too much at risk.”

“We can’t just leave a killer on the street,” you whisper against her.

Lucy sighs as she pulls back, and she nods. “Then I’m going in too. Get San Bernadino on the phone; I want to be closer than a doctor.”

Nyla nods, then looks at you.

“Yeah, I’ll do it,” you state.

“We’re right beside you,” Tim promises, kissing your hairline.

“Technically, I am right beside her, you’ll be in the infirmary,” Lucy corrects. “I better get to be this baby’s godmother.”

Nyla laughs before she says, “In your dreams, single-income, apartment-sharing option.”

“What, just because you’re married and have a house, you’re a better fit?” Lucy questions. Her smile drops as she murmurs, “Yeah, that makes sense.”

“Alright,” Tim calls, shaking his head. “Let’s go to Chino and get some answers out of convicts.”

“They call her Pitbull,” Angela had explained before you went in. At your wide-eyed expression, she adds, “She’s essentially a guard dog. She chooses who she’ll protect and sics anyone who comes near. If you can get on the right side of Pitbull, she’ll tell you what she knows about Ringer – our victim.”

You sit on your bunk and look around, wondering if you look like a pumpkin in an oversized orange jumpsuit. When you hear footsteps outside, you drop your head and let your shyness run rampant. If it makes you seem weak, this is a better time than ever to embrace it.

Lucy unlocks the cell door, and Pitbull enters. She looks at you, running her eyes up and down your face before noticing the protruding baby bump beneath your new and temporary outfit.

“What are you in for?” Pitbull asks, her voice raspy and low.

“Stabbed my baby daddy,” you admit, rubbing a hand over your stomach. “He wouldn’t stop,” you add, letting her fill in the blanks.

As you speak, your baby kicks. The farther along you get, the more your voice seems to excite him or her.

“You don’t fit in here, Mommy,” Pitbull sneers.

You nod with your head down, telling the truth when you agree with her.

“People around here don’t like different, don’t like chicas who aren’t the same,” she adds. “What are you going to do about that?”

When you shrug, she surges forward. Her hands land on your shoulders, and you inhale when she pushes you up to make you look at her. She stops, smiles, and brushes her hand against your neck.

“You don’t have to do anything,” she whispers. “Understand?”

“Why?” you inquire.

“Because…” she drops her hand to your bump before she confesses, “I’ve got reasons you won’t understand, and you’ve got a reason to accept the protection.”

“I can’t- I don’t have anything to give you.”

Pitbull laughs as she returns to her cot. “This isn’t a tv-style arrangement; I’m giving you a gift, and I ask for nada in return. Just focus on yourself, and the baby.”

“Thank you.”

As you lay awake in bed the first night, you hear Pitbull whisper a prayer in Spanish. You wonder what she knows when she asks for the eternal protection of Ringer’s soul.

“Dr. Benson is here,” Lucy says, dressed as a corrections officer. “Let’s go.”

“Whoa, hold up,” Pitbull interrupts, moving to block the cell door. “Dr. Benson male or female?”

“None of your concern.” Lucy barks your fake last name and repeats, “Let’s go.”

“She was traumatized by her ex; she probably doesn’t want a male doctor. Right?”

She turns to face you, and you nod sheepishly.

“So, now it is my concern,” Pitbull continues, cracking her neck to the side. “I go with her, or you get another doctor.”

Lucy sighs as she checks her watch. Pulling a radio from her hip, she asks if you can have another inmate accompany you. You recognize Angela’s voice as she begrudgingly allows it just this one time.

“Boy or girl?” Pitbull asks, glaring at the women in the cells you pass.

“I don’t know yet,” you answer honestly. “Doesn’t matter, though, does it?”

“Still your kid. Last chica I shared a cell with, she had a kid on the inside, reached out when he turned 18, and got cartas desagradables from the parents even though he was old enough.”

“Cruel world,” you murmur.

“Crueler people.”

You glance at Pitbull, wondering what she did to get her locked up for nearly half of her life. She’ll come up for parole in a few years. Part of you wants her to get out, but you know better.

“Ringer – that’s what we called her because she rung a guy’s neck for assaulting her niece…”

You know that’s not true. Ringer's niece was assaulted, but Ringer broke a lot of necks looking for the right guy. She was practically a serial attempted murderer.

“Ringer said she was going to find the kid when she got out, just long enough to apologize and let him know she wouldn’t have given him up if she’d had a chance.”

“Noble,” you muse.

“Crueler people,” she repeats as you near the prison infirmary.

Pitbull stands beside Lucy as you move to the examination table. Tim enters a moment later, looking like an angel in a white lab coat. He’s wearing glasses, and his hair is styled differently. His hands on you feel the same, even if he isn’t smiling and keeps his speaking clipped and serious (though you suppose that part isn’t much different than the version of him you see at work).

“How far along are you?” he asks.

“Four months or so,” you answer.

Tim nods, then lays his hands on either side of your bump.

“Have you had a thorough exam by an OBGYN?” he inquires.

You shake your head, and he slides the rolling chair back as his hands fall away.

“She’ll need one now,” he tells Lucy. “I can call in a female colleague if that would be more comfortable.”

“Do that,” Pitbull demands.

Tim stands, nods at Lucy, and exits the room. He returns to hand Lucy a paper robe, then disappears. Lucy takes Pitbull out of the exam room while you change, and you know she will keep her out for the entire 'examination’ so you can tell Tim and Angela what you found. Angela comes in first, her brows rising at the sight of you in a jumpsuit with tight braids framing your face, courtesy of Pitbull.

“She said Ringer was looking for her son – he turned 18 while she was still incarcerated, and she vowed to find him when she got out,” you explain. “His adoptive parents wanted her far away from him.”

“That’s motive,” Angela says, pulling her phone from her pocket. “I’ll get units to the parents’ house now.”

Tim returns to your side, and you pull his hand against your bump. As you tell him everything Pitbull has shared with you, your baby kicks against his hand. Tim smiles as he bends down to kiss you, and you suddenly want to leave this prison. Pitbull’s parole is no longer a thought in your mind.

“We’ll get you out as soon as we can,” Tim promises.

Less than twelve hours later, you’re removed from your shared cell with Pitbull, taken to solitary, and then you walk out of the prison in your own clothes with your hand held tightly in Tim’s. Ringer’s killer, the adoptive father of her son, is behind bars and awaiting trial, and Angela and Nyla have yet another solved case to add to their repertoires.

“Want to grab some dinner?” Lucy asks in the parking lot. “Or breakfast,” she amends, noting the first streaks of sunlight painting the sky.

“We’re going home,” Tim answers for you.

“Thanks for everything, Lucy,” you tell her as Tim opens his passenger door for you.

“I didn’t do much,” she argues. “But anytime.”

In the comfort and safety of your home, you sit beside Tim, brutally aware of his fingers brushing along your bump where his arm is tucked around your waist.

“You did amazing,” he says.

He kisses your forehead and then your lips, and you sigh against him as your baby kicks again.

“We should find out the baby’s gender,” he says. “I know we said we didn’t want to…”

“I agree,” you reply, laying your head on his shoulder. “I’ll make an appointment.”

“You mean you’ll have me make an appointment.”

You turn your face against his shoulder and huff, your ears warming at his teasing. Tim chuckles, holding you like he never wants to let you go, and you feel exactly the same.

[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.

[claramelooo]

CHECKMATE (3/20)

You will know more about our governor... I know I know... is taking a while for them to interact, but is a slow burnnn. Let's feel it, okay?

About the US elections, I'm not a us native, so if you find something wrong. Please, let me know!

Enjoy!!

MINORS MUST NOT INTERACT

Warnings: +18, angst and blood mention. (Proceed with caution)

Pairing: Governor!Agatha Harkness x Fem Reader

Summary: Agatha tries to find you and can't believe you were there the whole time.

Queen

noun

The most powerful piece of the game. It can move freely in any direction and any number of places, since there aren't other pieces in its front.  

Her makeup was flawless. Not because she wanted to look pretty—that was quite trivial—but because image was everything on national television, and Agatha Harkness knew how to manipulate image like a general commanding troops.

The TVW logo flashed in blue and white on the screen, followed by a deep musical cue that announced: "Washington Governor Debate: The Future at Stake."

Cameras cut to the austere stage set at Kane Hall, University of Washington, with tiny American flags hanging like sentinels behind the three lit podiums.

Steve Rogers, a decorated veteran and fervent advocate for national security, adjusted his red tie. His jaw clenched between each pause.

Bruce Banner, an award-winning scientist and environmentally focused candidate, stood composed. His gaze was calm, though his fingers drummed nervously on the podium.

And at the center, between the two men, stood former senator Agatha Harkness. She wore a custom navy blue suit. Shoulders squared, chin raised, eyes cold and calculating like the tip of a queen.

Moderator Lisa Monroe addressed the camera:

“Good evening, America. We’re live at the University of Washington with the top three candidates for governor of the state of Washington.”

Turning toward the candidates, she asked:

“Candidates, homicide rates in Washington have risen 33% compared to last year. What is your solution… Candidate Rogers?”

Steve leaned into the mic. His voice was deep, confident, rehearsed.

“The answer’s simple, Lisa. We need to reinforce police presence. Authority. Order. When a hardworking citizen leaves for their job, they should know they won’t be mugged or killed, and that criminals will think twice before acting. I support increased police funding across the board. Peace must be kept by strength, and that’s a fact.”

Applause followed and Agatha resisted the urge to roll her eyes. God. Steve sounded like he lived in a comic book.

She tilted her head slightly, watching him like a strategist observing a move.

“Candidate Banner?”

Bruce took a breath, adjusting his glasses.

“I believe the problem is systemic. Violence stems from inequality, from abandonment. The solution lies in education, mental health, social reintegration programs. We don’t need more bullets. We need more teachers. More psychologists. Fewer overcrowded prisons and more real opportunities.”

Applause came from another side of the auditorium. Lisa then turned to Agatha, who had yet to speak.

“Candidate Harkness?”

She leaned slightly toward the microphone. Her voice was calm, low, yet it filled every corner of the hall.

“What my opponents offer are outdated formulas. On one hand, the heavy hand of repression. On the other, an educational utopia that overlooks the urgency of this crisis. I don’t believe in one-size-fits-all answers. The truth is… the problem is multifactorial and so must be the solution.”

She turned slightly to face the audience, her gaze locked on the main camera.

“I support the use of technology to map out high crime zones, increased presence of trained police with demilitarization protocols, and at the same time, grassroots public policy implementation. No investment in security should come without investment in prevention.”

Bruce tried to interrupt, but she raised her hand ever so slightly—not even touching the mic, just a gesture. And magically, he fell into a silence chocked with saliva.

“And before anyone accuses me of ‘administrative coldness,’ as they have before…” she said, turning now to Lisa, “Let me say this: coldness is ignoring hard data. Coldness is watching mothers bury their children while we debate academic theories or empty speeches about force. I am rational. I am pragmatic. And that’s what this country needs.”

A heavy silence lingered for a moment.

“And just to be clear, Candidate Rogers…” she turned to Steve, her eyes now nearly glacial, “Putting more officers on the street without questioning the culture of force and racism is like trying to put out a fire with gasoline. Your answer is disturbingly convenient for those who don’t want change anything.”

She gave a rehearsed, toothy smile.

“And to Dr. Banner…” she addressed Bruce, her tone a touch softer. “Your heart’s in the right place. But good intentions aren’t enough when there’s blood on the sidewalks of our cities.”

She finished with a slight nod. Applause erupted from every section of the auditorium.

Harkness was known for her pragmatic, urgent speeches. She understood that change was needed and she was willing to make it happen.

Lisa swallowed hard, visibly rattled.

“Well… let’s move on to the next topic.”

Agatha Harkness adjusted her blazer and leaned back slightly against the podium. She didn’t need physical strength, nor passionate outrage.

Her weapon was intellect.

Control.

Strategy.

In the game of power, she already knew she was winning. 

The debate continued, growing more heated. Behind the cameras, Barkley celebrated in silence, watching Agatha maneuver exactly as rehearsed.

When Lisa finally closed the debate, Jennifer made her way toward Agatha with the satisfied smile of someone already tasting victory.

Agatha removed the mic from her lapel and turned with surgical precision toward Jennifer Barkley, who approached like a Hollywood star crossing a red carpet.

“How is my champion?” Jennifer beamed, red lipstick matching her over-the-top confidence. “You annihilated them. Steve looked like a lost boy scout, and Bruce? A tired environmentalist. Honestly, a very elegant bloodbath.”

Agatha raised one brow, her expression as composed as ever.

“If that was a bloodbath, I hope someone cleaned the splatter. I hate mess.”

Jen laughed and threw an arm around the candidate’s shoulders, gently steering her toward the backstage exit.

“You need to relax. We’re celebrating at the new downtown bar. Stark will be there.”

Agatha paused, rolling her eyes like someone who’d just been told she had to share a flight with a talking pig.

“Tony Stark?” She sighed like she'd just heard a bad joke. “The mayor-entrepreneur-privatization messiah? The man who thinks good Wi-Fi solves structural inequality?”

Jennifer burst out laughing. “The one and only. But he’s got good connections. And let’s be honest, he is fun when he is drunk.”

“A radioactive orange can be fun too, Jennifer. And it doesn’t mean I want one floating in my drink.”

“You’re impossible, darling,” Jen said in a tone that suggested she was used to the acid. “But it’ll be good for you. Take a moment to enjoy your win. You’ll be with me—it will be amazing.”

Agatha didn’t reply. She merely tilted her head slightly, as if already accepting the inevitable.

Minutes later, alone in the dressing room, she pulled out her phone and called Nicky. It rang twice before his young, hoarse voice picked up.

“Hey, Mom. The debate’s over?”

“Yes." She said, her voice gentler now. “And now I’m going to a bar with Jennifer. It’ll probably be a long night. Don’t wait up.”

She heard him yawn on the other end.

“Okay. Good luck with your billionaire suit friends.”

She smiled, and for a moment, her eyes lost the steel they held in public.

“You know me too well.”

“I’m your son,” he replied. “Someone has to.”

A quiet pause followed— very heavy with unspoken affection.

She broke it first.

“I… I love you, honey.”

She loved Nicholas more than anything in the world, but saying it out loud still felt foreign.

Luckly, Nicky knew the mother he had.

“Love you too, Mom.”

As the call ended, Agatha stared at her own reflection in the mirror. Her face was unreadable, almost impenetrable — but beneath it there were always scars.

Thanos used to say she was a fortress. That he loved how firm, how decisive she was. And he truly did. He was a good man, generous—a businessman who read poetry and cried at weddings.

But Agatha never loved him.

And that was the silent tragedy of her life: marrying a good man and still feeling locked inside herself. The frustration of knowing her love was never meant to shape itself around softness.

Maybe that’s why she learned to love power, the only relationship that never disappointed her.

The bar was a showcase of carefully calculated excess— amber lighting, polished black marble, waiters who looked like magazine models. It was still empty at that hour, and the soundtrack played softly in the background. 

Agatha Harkness settled into a dark brown leather armchair, crossing her legs with the elegance of someone who knew everyone was watching and more importantly, knew how to use it.

As if it were the most ordinary thing: a gubernatorial candidate walking out of a debate into a bar.

She made a simple two-finger gesture to the waiter, her voice landing like a signature on fine stationery: “A martini. Dry ice.”

Jennifer laughed beside her, already sipping from a glass of sparkling wine that matched the gleam in her eyes. “Martini? Oh, dear. You really know how to have fun.”

Agatha raised an eyebrow, as if debating whether a response was worth it. She took the glass with a grace so sharp it almost hurt, and brought it to her lips without hurry.

“Fun is a subjective concept, Jen. I just drink something that doesn’t offend me.”

Jennifer let out a laugh a bit too loud for the still-empty room, tossing her hair back. The kind of woman who knew how to be loved and hated in equal measure and enjoyed both.

“You don’t relax even when you’re about to win, do you?”

Agatha turned her face toward the window, eyes sharp as she watched the first cars pulling up outside.

“Because I haven’t won yet.”

“But you will.” Jennifer smiled like someone already cashing in lottery winnings. “Washington is just the beginning. With Stark in your damn pocket and this campaign in your hands, babe… we’re shaping the fucking country.”

At the mention of the name, Agatha drew a slow breath, her eyes drifting into her glass as if searching for patience inside it.

“Tony Stark is a billionaire buffoon with an ego the size of the national deficit. If he could privatize air, he already would’ve.”

Jennifer laughed harder, tapping Agatha’s arm playfully. “But he has influence. And you need that. This bar, by the way, is his. It’s all networking, baby.”

Agatha looked around like a woman trapped in a play written by idiots. Even the sophistication of the place seemed to scream: new money, old power.

But she was there.

Because in the game of power, even lions must dance with clowns.

Speak of in the devil—Tony Stark walked in. Hair slicked back, beard trimmed to perfection. A long coat and an expensive suit.

Old money. Real money.

The room seemed to tilt slightly toward him—waiters straightened up, conversations dropped in volume, and even the lighting seemed to land better on him.

Agatha didn’t turn immediately. She could recognize Tony’s footsteps anywhere: Italian leather shoes, sharp, arrogant.

He was the kind of man who made sure to leave behind a trail of expensive cologne and unspoken promises wherever he went.

“Oh, the peacock’s arrived,” she murmured to Jennifer, without moving a single muscle on her face.

“Be nice,” Jen replied with a crooked smile. “He wants to see you in the Oval Office, Agatha. Not at the altar.”

Agatha let out a quiet snort. “Which would be worse, I wonder.”

Tony was already approaching, arms wide, wearing that half-smile he believed was charming but was pure performance.

“Well, if it isn’t the most feared woman of the evening,” he said, leaning in to kiss her cheek. Agatha tilted her chin slightly, accepting the gesture with the same indifference one gives to an inevitable, useless meeting.

“Tony,” she replied, voice low and sharp like polished glass. “Here to celebrate a victory I haven’t declared yet?”

“I’m a man of vision. I like betting on winners.” He sat beside her, ignoring Jennifer entirely. “And you, my dear Agatha, are a racehorse in a field of donkeys.”

Jennifer laughed, but Agatha only sipped her martini. “The problem with visionaries, Stark,” she said, “is that they mistake projection for reality.”

“Maybe. But reality, as we both know, is bendable.” He leaned in slightly, voice lowering. “Imagine the two of us. My capital. Your mind. We’d be unstoppable.”

She finally turned to him, smiling a smile that was all blade. “Tony, you talk like this is a marriage proposal.”

“And why couldn’t it be?”

“Because I don’t marry billionaires who use drones to deliver flowers.”

“It was meant to be romantic.”

“Oh. The NSA must be jealous, I’m sure.”

Tony burst out laughing. He loved this about her—the disdain, the coldness, the fact that she’d never kiss him—which only made him want it more.

Agatha knew that. 

She knew that to him, she was a trophy that refused to be displayed and she knew how to perform. She knew how to smile with just the right teeth, tilt her body at the right angle, laugh at the things that needed laughing—like a trained actress.

She pretended well.

Until she felt it.

Eyes.

Not the dull eyes of sycophants. Not the ones looking for power, or seeing her only as a candidate to be manipulated—a valuable piece in their dirty games.

No.

This gaze was something else.

Like the flame of a candle in a dark room—small, silent, but impossible to ignore. Its presence burned gently, yet more intensely than anything around.

Agatha turned her head with the calculated slowness of a woman who knows every move she makes could shift the gravity of a room.

And then she saw you.

Sitting on the other side of the bar, alone.

Your small frame looked fragile, hunched slightly forward, elbows resting on the edge of the counter. Your cheeks were flushed from the alcohol. The heavy makeup and short dress trying to make you look older.

The glass forgotten between your fingers. And your eyes—your eyes were watching her with a rare kind of intensity. Not political interest or fame.

Something more human, something more dangerous.

Curiosity.

Desire.

Defiance.

When your eyes met, you smiled. A short smile—not arrogant at all, but with a hint of shy provocation. And then, you looked away. Like someone casting bait... and waiting.

Agatha remained still, the martini glass still near her lips. One brow arched. The exchange was brief, but it left a hum.

Were you flirting?

She didn’t know what was more intriguing: the boldness of the gesture or the fact that, for a second, it worked. For a second, Agatha Harkness found herself... curious.

But before she could give it more thought, you stood up. Without haste. Without looking back. You walked through the golden bodies of the lounge like you belonged nowhere, and disappeared into the sea of people swelling as the night grew older.

Agatha followed the motion with her eyes, like watching something come unhinged. Jennifer said something beside her. Tony too. The bar pulsed now with louder music.

But Agatha wasn’t fully there anymore.

Who were you? she wondered.

She didn’t know your name. Didn’t know why your gaze had burned more than any compliment or political alliance proposed that night.

“Are you okay?”

The question slipped out before she could stop it. Cold. Direct. And almost robotic.

But the truth was, she didn’t know why she had followed you. She only knew she saw your body disappear through the back door, and something inside her—maybe some ancient impulse, maybe a stupid desire to feel something —had made her follow.

She hated when that happened.

The silence that followed her question was almost worse than any answer. She saw the faint nod, the way your expression tried to mask a pain she knew far too well.

A kind of sadness that lives in the corners of the mouth, in eyes that don’t want to be seen.

“I just needed some air.”

Your voice was fragile, and even so, Agatha felt the blow. She could recognize that sound — someone trying not to fall apart. And what infuriated her was how much it affected her.

She sat down. Not too close, but close enough to feel it.

It was always like this. Agatha approached danger carefully, with the stupid illusion that control was enough to stop the abyss from swallowing her whole.

But it wasn’t.

Your presence made her uneasy. Eyes too big, too sincere, too alive. As if they stripped away everything she’d spent her life trying to bury.

“Why are you here?” you asked.

And Agatha almost laughed at your boldness.

Why, indeed?

She didn’t know.

The answer she gave was the only honest thing to leave her mouth in weeks: “I saw you leave. And… I came.”

She didn’t know how to explain what that was. A heat that threatened to melt her logic. An absurd attraction born from absolutely nothing, like being pulled by something stronger than herself—and she hated feeling weak.

“I don’t usually do this.”

And that was true, too. She didn’t. Actually, Agatha never did. But there, with you in front of her, the never seemed to dissolve far too quickly.

“You’re… different,”

The word scorched her tongue like alcohol on open skin. She practically spat it out, hating every syllable. Every damn syllable and what they meant. Because it wasn’t just any difference, it wasn’t about style or looks. It was something she couldn’t name—and Agatha hated not knowing.

Her whole body was on alert, like you were a glitch in her control matrix.

And worst of all: a fascinating one.

And you asked. Oh, God. Of course you asked.

“What do you mean?”

Agatha felt a flicker of irritation, like you’d touched a part of her even she didn’t dare approach. A pout formed on her lips—an involuntary expression of frustration she hated revealing.

She didn’t know how to answer.

Worse: she didn’t want to answer.

But her eyes, always so disciplined, faltered. They dropped to your mouth.

Damn her body. She hated that. Hated you.

“I don’t know,” she said at last, her voice laced with something deeper. An unwanted recognition.

But the truth, raw and unbearable, was right in front of her: You destabilized her.

And Agatha hated being destabilized.

“But I despise it,” she confessed. The venom in her voice wasn’t for you, it was for herself. For this fucking weakness you had unearthed in her.

You were too young, too reckless, and you had no right.

“Why?” you asked, with that voice that felt like an invitation to disaster.

Agatha felt the blood throb harder, her jaw tightening.

She turned to you like someone bracing against an invisible threat — but on your face, there was only the war inside her.

A volcano of colliding urges.

Because everything in her was control.

Everything.

Even you.

Especially you.

“Because I hate losing control,” she said.

It was a warning, but it was obvious you’d choose to stay.

The wind blew hard, covering part of her face with her hair. She let it, because hiding was easier than letting you see what was burning inside.

But you saw it, and that terrified her.

“Maybe… maybe it’s not such a bad thing.”

Oh. Sweet illusion.

She let out a harsh, dry laugh. The laugh of someone who’d seen the end of the world and survived only to laugh at the ashes.

“You have no idea what you’re saying.”

And it was true.

Come on! you had no idea how bad this was, how dangerous. And still, ignoring everything you didn’t know, you stepped closer.

Then again.

And now, there was no more space left between you.

Agatha could feel the heat of your body like electricity against her skin. You burned her, and still… she didn’t move back.

Why didn’t she move?

Because of your fucking needy eyes that met hers, and something in her cracked. Because you saw. You saw what no one should ever see, and she hated you for that too.

“Then tell me,” you whispered. “Make me understand.”

The request was a blade—sly, needy—that cuts and makes you thank it for the blood.

“I can’t do that.”

Her voice faltered. God, her voice cracked.

She turned away. She needed to leave, she wanted to run and never see you again.

But she didn’t run. 

Fuck. Why didn’t she run?

Agatha stood there, hand on the doorknob, waiting for something she couldn’t even name.

You approached.

Slow and intentional.

As if you knew she had nowhere else to go.

When your fingers touched her hair, Agatha shivered. The sound that escaped her mouth—God. She wanted to hate you. Hate you so fucking much, but no. Agatha wanted this. She wanted you.

“Please…”

You whispered it against her skin, and it felt like an ancient spell.

She turned. Her back pressed to the door, eyes heavy with everything she tried to hide.

“What the fuck do you want from me?” she growled, voice torn. She stared into your eyes, pupils blown wide, begging for something—anything.

God, you were so aroused.

And without asking, you kissed her. Not her lips, but her neck. Slow, feverish kisses, damn near perfect.

“Please, please, please.”

The words echoed in her mind, burned onto the neck you just kissed. Branded like whispered promises on a dangerous night.

You rose, almost a real kiss.

Almost…

And when she leaned in, you pulled away, the absence hurting more than any touch, and in her eyes now, there was fire.

Primal, wild.

“Fuck.”

She kissed you.

Like someone surrendering, like someone sinning with full knowledge they’d burn in hell.

And it wasn’t gentle.

It couldn’t be.

Because you were different.

And she despises that.

Agatha knew, from the second you pinned her against the iron door, that she had crossed a line she should never have even approached.

You moaned softly into her mouth, your lips fitting with an old urgency—she felt everything.

Everything.

As if your taste was the secret key to a prison she’d locked herself in for decades. And for a moment, she wanted to be free.

The campaign, Jennifer and Stark. The politics, the numbers and cold calculations could go fuck themselves. 

None of it mattered.

Not there, with your fingers slipping lower and lower.

Agatha only wanted to feel worshiped. And you… You were young, and you did it with a devotion that bordered on blasphemy. The way your tongue surrendered and defied at the same time… Hell.

She hated herself for loving it. For finding pleasure in being kissed by someone who shouldn’t even belong in the same world as her.

Her hands grabbed you like iron, and you—so insolent, brave, stupid— let yourself be marked, as if belonging to Agatha was the most natural thing in the world, as if you knew you were made for it.

Why? Why was it so easy for you to give in??

That’s what threw her off.

Agatha had always been cold, frigid. That’s how Thanos used to put it, even when trying to sound kind. That’s what the men in parties called her behind her back. That’s how she saw herself for years: a woman who knew how to use her body, but never actually felt anything.

But now? Now, with you… She was burning like fire. Because the heat was coming from you. From a young, unruly, disobedient body.

And fuck... that was dangerous.

Because feeling was dangerous. Feeling meant stripping down and stripping down meant dying in her world.

The heat in her thighs. The pulsing in her wrist. The sweat at her nape.

Everything was too alive. Too real. You made her feel, and that was a fucking problem.

She tried to control it. Tried to take back control. Pulled away from the kiss. Said “no” with her forehead still pressed to yours.

But you leaned in again.

You licked your lips and promised you’d take care of her. Your scent was everywhere driving her insane.

That sentence…

“I can do this for you.” 

Would be the death of her.

And the worst part?

 You did.

Agatha moaned, yes. Loud and shamefully. Her body trembled. Heat rose through her legs, gathered at her center, pounded in her chest.

With your fingers. With that pretty mouth of yours. With your doe eyes. With the fucking way you begged her to feel it.

You whispered promises and sweet words like poison while you explored her—mouth, fingers, eyes.

She lost her breath, lost her grip.

“Fuck! It’s been so long!” she cried, bouncing shamelessly on your fingers.

It had been ages since she let anyone give her pleasure. But it happened... in a dirty, cramped emergency exit. With a stranger young enough to be Nicky’s friend.

And you knew exactly what to do. How did you know? How could someone so young touch her with that much reverence and filth at the same time?

Fuck… she was lost.

And when you whispered: “I’m a good girl.”

That phrase. That fucking phrase pushed her to the edge of her own madness. It shook her. 

She wanted to laugh because you were so pathetic and cry because she tightened around your fingers. Agatha came, clinging to you like you were the only thing anchoring her to reality.

And that’s when she understood the real danger.

She needed to pull herself together. Fast. Return to herself. To the real world.

“This never happened.”

The words were cold. Sharp and ruthless. But even as she said them, your taste was still on her lips. Her breath still came in gasps, her panties still damp.

She told you that you meant nothing, because that’s what you should be. However her still-shaking body betrayed her.

“Go fuck yourself,” you said.

The way you said it, the way your eyes pierced through her… 

Agatha felt the floor vanish beneath her. She didn’t answer, she couldn’t. She just swallowed hard, jaw clenched, fighting the rising panic beneath her polished surface.

And then, you moved.

Not back, you didn’t leave in that scenario. In this time you moved forward, with your doe eyes transformed into blood.

Something glinted under the harsh corridor light. 

Too fast.

Too sharp.

A silent snap, the sound of metal breaking skin. And for a second, Agatha didn’t understand what was happening.

She just felt the stabbing pain.

The heat blooming in her abdomen.

The blood.

Warm.

Sticky.

Red.

The knife was in your hand and it was inside her.

Agatha dropped to her knees with a choked, raspy groan. Looked down and saw blood slipping between trembling fingers.

Her blood.

But you were already turning away.

“What… what did you do?” she whispered, eyes wide.

Her face pale, frozen in panic.

And you left. So calm and innocent like a child, as if nothing had happened.

The sound of distant alarms exploded in her head. 

A distorted noise, like sirens tearing at her ears.

A buzzing. A scream. A torn memory.

The floor spun, and Agatha woke up with a gasp caught in her throat, chest heaving like she was drowning.

She was in bed.

Her bed.

Sweat ran down her temple. Her hands were shaking. The sheets were soaked. Her heartbeat erratic. She clutched her stomach in terror, but there was no wound.

No blood. No knife.

Just the ghost of everything.

But the taste of your mouth, the echo of your bitter laugh—still felt real. She stayed there for long minutes, trying to convince herself it had only been a dream.

Just a dream.

Morning light stabbed through the curtains, and for a moment she felt like she hadn’t truly woken up. Like she was still in that cold hallway, blood running down her belly, watching you walk away like you'd stolen a part of her.

But the sound of the news on TV, the smell of coffee, the crackle of cereal broke the spell.

She was home.

Safe.

Alive.

She stood up with effort. The floral robe slipped over her shoulders. Agatha tried to look composed before walking into the kitchen, even if she was shattered inside.

“Good morning.” Her voice came out hoarse, scraped raw by a nightmare that hadn’t fully left her.

Nicky looked up from his phone, spoon frozen mid-air. He studied her for a second, brow slightly furrowed. 

 “Damn… you slept in.”

She forced a smile—the kind that hurt the muscles in her face. Ran a hand through her tangled, wild hair, as if the distracted gesture could erase the chaos of the night before.

“Had a long night.” Her voice was low, tired.

She sat at the table. Picked up the mug of lukewarm coffee like it could anchor her back to reality—a caffeine and routine anchor against an ocean of delirium, sex, and blood.

She tried to seem like a mother. Just for a moment. Tried to pretend she still remembered how to be one.

“Did you check the news?” she asked, feigning casual. “Anything about last night’s debate?”

Nicky shrugged, chewing slowly. “Just the usual… old dudes freaking out ‘cause you humiliated Rogers and Banner live on air. You’re trending, by the way. A bunch of people calling you a milf.”

Agatha raised an eyebrow. “Milf?”

“Don’t pretend you don’t know, Mom.”

She let out a sound between a laugh and a sigh. “Oh god, why are you young people like this?” She rolled her eyes. “Does everything have to be sexual?”

“You’re kinda scary sometimes, you know that?” he said suddenly, with a crooked smile. “I think that’s what attracts the porn-addicted young guys or whatever.”

She pressed her lips together, almost laughing for real. Almost.

“Why are we talking about this so early?”

“It’s almost nine, Mom.”

Agatha raised a brow.

“Exactly. Early.” she muttered playfully, making Nicky stifle a chuckle.

For a second, she wanted to just be there.

With him. With her Nicky. The only real tether she still had to the world.

But her mind was a feral bitch and it always came back.

The nightmare.

The taste of your mouth.

The blood.

Your shy gaze that clashed with the brutal confidence of the way you fucked her.

You.

Again, you.

She ran a hand over her forehead, trying to push the image away.

Fuck.

"Someone from the security department called," Nicky said casually, scrolling through his phone.

The world stopped.

Agatha tried to keep her expression neutral, but her heart was pounding.

"Oh, really?" she asked, her tone deliberately flat.

"Yeah," he replied, already standing and throwing his backpack over one shoulder. "I told them you weren’t in, but that you’d call back as soon as possible."

Agatha nodded slowly, as if she needed to sync her thoughts before they spilled out through her eyes. “You’re so clever, sweetheart.” She stood and walked over to him. “So… how’s the studying for Harvard going? It was medicine, right?”

Nicky swallowed hard, clearly uncomfortable. “Studying’s fine. I ranked fourth on the class mock test.”

“Hmm, not bad.” She adjusted the collar of his shirt, even though it was already perfectly aligned. “But we can always do better, can’t we?”

“Of course, Mom,” he muttered under his breath.

Agatha leaned in and kissed his forehead. “Study hard, sweetheart.”

He gave a small nod, not too enthusiastic, and walked out. The door clicked shut softly—but to Agatha, it sounded like a gunshot.

As soon as she was alone, her posture collapsed. Her shoulders sagged. The composed look in her eyes dissolved into something close to panic.

Now that she was alone, she could finally breathe. She picked up the phone and called Peggy.

“Harkness. To what do I owe the pleasure?” the woman answered, casual as always.

“Any updates on what I asked?”

“Straight to the point, huh?” Peggy teased, her voice playful. Then silence. “Alright. The name you sent me… Melinda Nox, right?”

Agatha kept her chin up, eyes fixed on the untouched coffee mug on the counter. The white porcelain stood in stark contrast to the dark polish on her nails.

“And?” she pressed, her voice colder than she intended.

“She doesn’t exist,” Peggy said bluntly. “I mean, the ID exists... but it’s not official. No entry in the database. It’s like it was made on the side. A fake identity. And a sloppy one, at that.”

Agatha went silent and Peggy went on.

“I’m digging into whoever’s been distributing these. Something’s off, Agatha. And if I’m right, you’re tangled up with someone way more dangerous than they seem.”

Agatha narrowed her eyes.

She could still see her face —or rather, the face of the woman calling herself Melinda. The way her lips curled when she smiled—it was real, seductive.

Agatha had spent days trying to rationalize what happened, convincing herself it was just a lapse. Just desire.

But now...

Now Melinda had vanished. No trail. No trace. Like a ghost.

You were a lie.

You fucked her—and lied.

You were a fucking lie.

You could ruin her entire career with a single click.

And it was ruining her.

“Any idea who might’ve issued this kind of identity?” Agatha asked, arms crossing tightly.

“Maybe,” Peggy replied, evasive. “But I’ll need to dig deeper. This could involve big names. And you know how big names hate being dug into.”

“Dig anyway.” Agatha hung up before she could respond.

She stood still for a moment, staring at her blurry reflection in the kitchen window. The sky outside was gray — just like her mood.

Melinda Nox.

That name spun like a knife in her mind, and no matter how hard she tried to pretend she didn’t feel it, it was already seared into her.

Agatha didn’t know who you were. But the fact you dropped that identity… it felt deliberate. Like deep down, you wanted to be found or like you knew exactly what you were doing to her.

And now that you weren't you?

It made her furious.

Because Agatha Harkness hates not knowing.

[...]

Running her hands down the navy blazer with the precision of someone adjusting armor before a war, Agatha took a deep breath. The elevator dinged open with a metallic chime, and she stepped into the office hallway like she owned the floor — which, in many ways, she did.

The chaos was almost comical. Staff yelling into phones, rushing around with clipboards, dropping papers, tripping over their own feet. The tension in the air was thick. The night’s debate still echoed through the corridors like a post-impact earthquake. And Agatha, of course, was the epicenter.

“Ms. Harkness. Hi!” A young assistant greeted her with a rehearsed smile. “Jennifer’s already waiting for you in the conference room.”

Agatha followed the young woman —far too green to be working for a shark like Barkley.

Jennifer didn’t even look up when Agatha entered. In a way, it was the greatest show of respect Agatha could receive. Her image director was pacing, deep in an intense phone call. She signaled for Agatha to wait.

“I know,” Jennifer was saying, pacing like a caged lioness. “I know. But something came up, and we won’t be able to receive the interns today.”

Agatha crossed her arms and leaned against the wall, a faint smile dancing on her lips. 

Jennifer was good.

A monster, but a brilliant one.

“I know it’s in the contract!” Her voice rose slightly, before softening with a plastic smile. “Watson, you know I’m in the middle of a major campaign and—”

A muffled voice on the other end, followed by tense silence. Then Jennifer stared at the phone and sighed. “Shit.”

She finally turned to Agatha, forcing a smile.

“Sorry, darling.” She smoothed her blonde hair, clearly exhausted. “The office committed to hosting and training interns from the UW. You know… all that performative nonsense about inclusion, youthful spirit, building bridges with the next generation… It's so exhausting.” She rubbed her temples.

Agatha crossed her arms, blazer pristine.

“Good,” she said dryly. “Maybe one of them will actually be worth it.”

“Let’s hope so.” Jennifer sighed, dialing the internal line on her desk. “Ready for the meeting, darling? We’ve compiled some key points after Friday’s debate.”

As she spoke, the rest of the team entered, adjusting slides, firing up the projector, arranging charts.

Once everything was in place, it began:

“Ms. Harkness, good morning.” Said one of the assistants formally, Agatha responded with a simple nod. “Let’s get straight to it. Here’s the updated overview of voter intent for the state governor’s race.”

The screen flashed, displaying a detailed map of Washington State, shaded in blue, red, and gray.

“As we can see,” he began, “you’re leading in 43% of the metropolitan districts, especially Seattle, Bellevue, and Tacoma. Your progressive stances on gun control, environmental policy, and educational investment have struck a chord.”

He clicked again, and a bar graph appeared.

“Your strongest demographic is the 35 to 65 age group. Liberal professionals, small business owners, middle-aged moms, teachers. They see you as a firm, modern leader. Authoritative, but forward-thinking. A direct contrast to Rogers’ outdated conservatism and Banner’s emotional intability.”

Jennifer leaned in to whisper, clearly pleased. “You’re the woman they respect, maybe even fear. And they like that.”

But before they could continue, there were three knocks on the door.

“Excuse me…”

“Sonya, what is it? This better be urgent.”

Jennifer closed her eyes for a brief moment before replying, as if begging for one last second of peace.

“It’s… the interns. They’ve arrived.”

Jennifer took a deep breath, sinking into her chair, summoning patience.

“Fucking Watson.” She cursed the man—the phone call man. “Sorry, darling.” She turned to Agatha. “But I believe the sooner we get this over with, the better, right?” Jennifer shrugged and adjusted her skirt.

The sound of Agatha’s heels echoed sharply against the marble floor of the hallway. She stepped out of the conference room, her mind still buzzing with charts, numbers, and meticulously crafted strategies.

But none of that prepared her for what she saw as she turned the corner.

The interns were lined up in the main hall, waiting to be greeted. Some whispered nervously to one another, others tried to look effortlessly cool.

And there, among them, was that same body shape, the same height. The hair that, just two weeks ago, had been tangled between her fingers—now perfectly in place, but still the same shade she remembered. The same face with full cheeks. The same eyes with lashes far too long for their own good, and that wide smile, looking genuinely happy to be there.

Agatha couldn’t believe it.

It was you.

Her stomach twisted, like a punch to the gut.

No.

It couldn’t be.

Her gaze locked on you—on every detail of your face, on your tense shoulders, on the posture trying to appear confident. But she knew better. That same young confidence that, just weeks ago, had left her panties soaked against the emergency exit door.

She felt completely obsessed and unhinged.

Agatha blinked, heart pounding in her chest.

“Ms. Harkness?” one of the assistants asked. “Is everything alright?”

She didn’t answer, just kept staring.

Anger rising. Hot, sudden, raw.

You lied.

You fucking lied to her.

How dare you?

Who even were you?

“Who is that girl?” Agatha asked, eyes never leaving your face.

The assistant hesitated. “Oh, right. One second.” She turned toward the reception desk and pulled out an ID folder. “Here. One of the top students at UW. Really impressive. Very mature for her age and—”

But Agatha wasn’t listening anymore.

She snatched the folder from the assistant’s hands with a sharp, almost feral motion. The papers inside trembled as her eyes scanned the first page.

And then, she saw it.

Your real fucking name.

Your real fucking age.

20 years old.

“Twenty...?” she whispered, choking on the word, as if each syllable scraped its way up her throat.

Fuck.

Agatha’s mind exploded into a dizzying storm of rage, guilt, disbelief, and repressed desire.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

You hadn’t just lied.

You were underage.

Too young to be in that bar.

Too young to be drinking.

Too young to touch her the way you did.

And yet… you had done it all.

Agatha ran a trembling hand through her hair. The folder shook in her hands like a bomb about to go off. She turned slowly. Wished you’d disappeared. That it was a delusion.

But you were right there.

And when your eyes met hers—wide, yes, but not exactly surprised—something inside her collapsed.

Shame.

Desire.

Guilt.

Hatred.

A kind of regret she didn’t dare name.

She had to get out of there.

Or make you leave.

For the first time in a long time, Agatha felt completely out of control. Like the game had finally slipped from her grasp.

Because in the end, it wasn’t power that was in check.

It was her.

The woman who had always known how to move every piece flawlessly. Who had sacrificed everything to remain untouchable on the board.

The queen was exposed.

Lost.

And, for the first time, unsure of her next move.

~*~

I think we all need this after last chapter, huh? How about we druve the governor all little crazy?

Tag List <3

@vyvvycg @rosekjsses @3liyuh @indentity0018 @beggingonmykneesforher @reginassecretlover @trying-to-do-good @imjustvibingsworld @mbxoxo @jazzyxqzl @eternallyconfuzed @ctrlaltedits @sheriffhaughtearp @lesbiansweet @i-luv-w1men @htinha157 @syssmin @wandasslut3000 @fuzzygiantlamphorse @imaginaryblogger01 @aboutcustardcreams @upsidedowndanvers @starbucks-06 @absolute-memegarbage @trinity2k @greyella @angel-kitten-babygirl-u-choose @whitelotus00 @dandelions4us @creaturesaphique @warpdrive-witch @sweetmidnights @dingdongthetail @mommy-mommy-mommy-hi @milfovers4 @jaylie-bee @holystrangersalad @chlondykebar @natashashill @harknessshi @whoreforolderfictionalwomen

[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.)

[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.

[sophieinwonderland]

Trump: *receives various charges and is likely to become a convicted felon*

Me, a European: "Guess he won't become president a second time. Nobody would vote for a convicted felon where I'm from as even receiving such charges almost always completely destroys the politician's reputation to the point where even the parliament is going to express distrust in the president."

Trump: *Wins and receives almost 80 million votes*

Me: *insert confused Jackie Chan meme here*

Y'all have some very.... interesting tastes in presidents...

Ghost: I'm going to take this since I was politically involved before Soph existed. I had an unusual childhood, homeschooled by a mom who was a conspiracy theorist. While the word conspiracy theorist has a lot of negative connotations, I learned a lot about politics at a young age. Some of the more out there stuff, I might have had to unlearn later. But amidst the wrong conspiracies, my mom was also ahead of the game when it came to predicting that the weapons of mass destruction in Iraq weren't real. I was taught critical thinking and to question everything.

These modern conspiracy theorists are not critical thinkers. They are a cult. They don't question. They believe blindly whatever they are told.

My point is that when I was young, I was watching while Americans gave up their freedoms after 9/11. We claim to be the country of the free, but one little attack and so many of us rushed to give up the liberties that we build our culture around. That past Americans fought and died for! Or maybe I should say we rushed to take away the liberties of others. Americans were fine with illegal wiretaps as long as we believed that it was only other people being wiretapped. We were fine with massive wars that killed countless innocent civilians as long as they were on foreign soil. We were fine with human rights abuses at Guantanamo Bay as long as it was only the brown people who suffered.

I was a Christian child raised by Christian parents, but I was never able to fathom why so many other Christians would rush to take the freedom enshrined in the First Amendment away from others. I watched conservatives try to argue that Islam wasn't a religion so that they could justify preventing mosques from being built. They lost those court cases, but it is appalling that those cases were brought to begin with. Liberty and justice has always been held by a thin thread. And there are a lot of Americans who don't support those values and want to see that thread clipped. They will pretend to support those values as long as they can be the only ones who benefit from them. But they do not support equality for everyone. They do not support other people sharing their rights.

The fact that the same people who fought to illegally prevent a mosque from being built would also elect a criminal for president, and in the same breath claim that they support law and order, doesn't surprise me in the slightest.

I also saw the debates happening when we were trying to legalize gay marriage. I saw the vitriol from the conservative right towards gay people. And when the courts ordered that gay marriage be legalized, I watched them hold up the criminals who refused to certify gay marriages as heroes.

There are going to be people who will tell you that Donald Trump doesn't represent America. Because there are a lot of other people who voted against him. But he does represent a significant portion of America. And I think that he represents those people better than past presidents and past presidential candidates.

For all of the war crimes that George w. Bush committed, I don't think that he embodied the hatred of the Republican party. I don't think that he represented that aspect of them. John McCain didn't either. Neither did Mitt Romney. The Republican party has long since been more aligned with the values of Trump. Some people have just refused to see it.

Democrats keep thinking that if they just wait it out, this will go away. The Republicans will see the light and realize that they don't actually want a dictatorship. That they don't actually want to take away people's rights. That deep down, the Republicans are good people who will come to do the right thing. And so we keep trying to play moderate. We keep trying to unite the country. We still don't understand that there is a group of people who are just driven entirely by hate and that they don't actually care if they tank the economy or make lives worse for everyone just so they can hurt marginalized communities who are different from them.

If you paid attention to the Republican party during the Obama years, when they were spreading their baseless racially motivated birther conspiracy theories and stressing his middle name to make people associate him with Muslims, someone like Trump coming to lead to the Republican party seems inevitable. Nobody represents their party better than he does.

Maybe if we have another fair election, Trump will end up losing. But even if he does, I think that he still represents a significant portion of America. A portion of America who will claim to be about the law, will proudly elect a convicted criminal, and advocate for people to be imprisoned and denied their rights and due process.

This is what America is.

It is hateful and petty and vindictive. We are the country of slavery! We are the country of Jim Crow laws and sundown towns! We are the country of the Tulsa race massacre! We are the country of Japanese internment, because we couldn't let Hitler be the only one making concentration camps during World War II! We are the country that has committed genocide against Native Americans, doing our best to wipe out their culture and their people permanently and building our culture over their bones! We are the country of overthrowing democratically elected world leaders and installing dictators who are more aligned with our interests! We are the country of MK ultra, where we performed illegal experiments on our own citizens and then tried to cover it up!

And if any American tries to tell you otherwise, it's because we are a country that brainwashes our children, forces them to recite the creepy cult-like pledge of allegiance in our schools to a piece of fabric everyday, and erases or minimizes the worst parts of our history from our school curriculum!

[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

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Jay Kuo at The Status Kuo:

The Trump regime’s war on our democracy began with a war on truth, and that fight is continuing apace. They currently have a clear goal: turn public opinion against migrants and anti-ICE protesters to justify a police state in Democratic cities. They’re deploying three key messages to achieve this.

First, they’re falsely labeling all undocumented immigrants as criminals in order to telegraph to the nation that they deserve what’s coming to them. Second, they are grossly exaggerating the scope and nature of the anti-ICE protests in order to deploy even more federal troops. Third, the White House is brazenly conflating peaceful protestors with violent rioters and “insurrectionists” in order to suppress First Amendment freedoms. When we hear and read the regime’s statements, they usually fall into one of these three buckets. To form a coherent response, we need to be disciplined about identifying their lies, exaggerations and conflations where we see them. And as members of the public, we all can help get the truth out there to counter their propaganda.

Immigrants aren’t criminals

The playbook of the White House is neither inventive nor unfamiliar. From his very first speech as a candidate after coming down the golden escalator at Trump Tower, Donald Trump has labeled whole immigrant communities as rapists, drug dealers and murderers in order to dehumanize them; turn the public against them; and weaponize fear, bigotry and division.

Republicans habitually exploit instances like the tragic murder of Laken Riley to paint all undocumented immigrants as murderous gang members. Democrats unfortunately are pretty terrible at responding to these attacks. They often even feel powerless to vote against draconian legislation (intentionally named after victims like Riley) because they worry they’ll be viewed as soft on “migrant crime.” Republicans learned long ago that it’s far easier to tar an entire community with the actions of one person than it is for Democrats to prove a negative and demonstrate how the vast majority of immigrants are law-abiding and hard-working. But the White House has recently made a series of mistakes borne of overconfidence, and they have taken things too far. That presents a solid opportunity for concerted response. Recently, for example, the White House crudely photoshopped an image of Kilmar Ábrego García in order to claim he’s a gang member. Donald Trump even pulled the picture out to show the world his “proof,” getting fact checked and ridiculed in the aftermath.

And this week Kristi Noem called the entire city of Los Angeles a city of criminals, not a city of immigrants, while Stephen Miller got called out in reporting by the Wall Street Journal for ordering I.C.E. not to round up actual criminals but to target immigrant workers outside of Home Depot. The best way to handle habitual liars is not just to challenge each and every lie, though that is important. They must also be labeled as liars whose credibility is worthless, tinged with animus and never to be trusted. This approach leverages how normal people’s brains actually work. If someone lies to you once, you might wonder what they’re after or hiding from you. If they lie to you repeatedly, you learn to not trust a thing they say. (MAGA appears to be an exception to this, with cognitive dissonance and cultish obedience dominating over critical thinking.)

[...]

L.A. is not “ablaze.”

If you were to watch Fox coverage of the protests for any length of time (and I’d not advise that for anyone) you’d start to notice something. The same video images of burning Waymo cars and tear gas filled streets, complete with rock throwing protestors, are being broadcast on repeat. This has two effects. First, it gives the distinct impression that there is massive danger, chaos and destruction happening. Second, it suggests, falsely, that the entire city of Los Angeles looks this way. From this, we wind up with tweets from Republican senators like Marsha Blackburn of Tennessee, who claimed Gov. Newsom caved to the “radical left” and “illegals” while the “largest city of California was set ablaze.”

Marsha, Marsha, Marsha. So the entire city of Los Angeles is on fire now, is it? Can you name a single building? Which district is it in? The GOP and its media allies of course did this before. During the George Floyd protests, particularly in places like Portland and New York City, there was a widespread but false belief that both cities were “ablaze” and in total chaos. Fox News watching parents and grandparents called to make sure their adult children were okay. But like the L.A. protests of today, the conflicts in 2020 were contained to small areas. The National Guard wasn’t needed then, and it’s certainly not needed now.

[...]

Protestors are not rioters or insurrectionists

If you listen to the rhetoric coming out of the White House, as I am sadly forced to daily, you begin to notice patterns. Suddenly, the anti-ICE protests of last weekend, which were by and large peaceful, were dubbed “insurrections” against the government—even when they were simply crowds of people protesting ICE abuses.

[...] People have a right to peaceful assembly in this country. A crowd approaching an ICE facility is not an insurrection.

Jay Kuo wrote in his Status Kuo blog that the Trump Regime’s fascist lies about migrants and ICE protests serve a purpose: to justify the enacting of a police state to suppress dissent against Tyrant 47 and his allies.

See Also:

The Contrarian: Trump won’t stop with California

[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]

[literarynerd]

Dear Tumblr,

I know we are often overlooked, but Canada is having a federal election today, Monday, April 28th, 2025. And it is a big one. We have our own Trump-like candidate representing the Conservative Party.

It is not an exaggeration to say that his aims are very similar to Trump. And it isn’t an exaggeration to say that Canada’s very existence, or at very least its identity, is at risk.

When I entered this election season I really thought the “Maple MAGA” descriptions of Pierre Poilievre were exaggerations. But in the quest to become informed, by reading the Conservative Policy Declaration, by reading his platform last week, by watching his speeches, the debates, interviews, and his rallies - I found that there is no exaggeration. And that he poses an existential threat to Canada.

His policies mirror Trump’s because they are all playing from the same playbook, coordinated by mutual cooperation, with the goal of electing as many far-right governments as possible, overseen by the IDU with former Canadian Prime Minister Stephen Harper at the helm. All publicly available information, on the IDU website.

The policies that the Canadian Conservatives are offering? A housing plan straight from real estate investment lobbyists, an environmental plan straight from the oil industry, virtually no health care plan, and crime plan that is unconstitutional, a plan that criminalizes homelessness, and a DOGE like plan to rid the public service and university of influence who are “spreading the Woke Liberal Agenda”, and to cut all regulations by 25%.

The sad fact is, that a lot of these policies were enacted by Stephen Harper when he was in power, before the “lost Liberal decade” PP likes to complain about. Stephen Harper spent a huge amount of time and government money trying to push through his crime bill, which was eventually overturned by the Supreme Court.

Under Harper poverty was 50% higher. The federal tax rate was higher. Services like medical care, Old Age Pension, CPP, EI, and Veterans benefits were underfunded, staffing was cut, offices were closed, the retirement age was raised, and a lot of people were left without supports that they needed.

The truth is that when Stephen Harper was in power he entered office with a large surplus in the budget and very quickly ran up huge deficits by cutting taxes on corporations and the wealthy. Towards the end of his term he “balanced the budget” by selling off Canadian resources like oil sands, and the wheat board to foreign corporations, and he signed a 30-year disadvantageous contract with China without parliamentary debate or approval.

He also gagged the Canadian scientific community, and didn’t allow them to research subjects like climate change if they wanted any federal funding. He restricted abortion access by shutting down clinics.

And in 2015, Canadians gathered together and voted strategically and got him out of office.

PP is looking to do all this again, but he is even more extreme. And that isn’t even taking into consideration the threats coming from Donald Trump, who would like nothing more than to take ownership of our land and resources. And who is “more in sync with Pierre Poilievre”.

I can tell you that the budget proposed in the Conservative platform only makes sense if the income generated from the retaliatory tariffs stay in place - which is paid by Canadians, or if Canada signs a very advantageous deal with the US pretty much immediately. The majority of the economic reviews I have read about it say it really doesn’t make sense, and it is wildly optimistic.

If the tariffs stay in place, and he doesn’t use them to help the affected industries, it will make the economic fallout from the trade war even worse. And he hasn’t said or indicated he will use the tariff revenue to help anyone. And his platform includes no economic relief from the trade war, it really will be every man for himself.

PP has also pledged to end foreign aid, specifically parroting Israel’s talking points and vowing to end funding to UNRWA, the primary organization working in Gaza. He has said that all truly decent people support only Israel. He will not offer any relief to the Palestinians, he will not work meaningfully towards any kind of ceasefire. Netanyahu is another member of the IDU.

On the flip side, the other candidate who has a good chance of being the Prime Minister is Mark Carney. He was the Governor of the Bank of Canada, he then went and was the first non-British citizen appointed as the Governor of the Bank of England. In both positions he specifically was appointed to deal with complex economic situations - the 2008 financial crisis in Canada, and Brexit in the UK. In both positions he was asked to stay on longer than his initial appointments. Both tenures are considered a success, despite what the conservatives are trying to claim.

He was appointed as a special envoy to the UN on climate change and finance. He has been an advocate of developing clean energy, and the economic realities that will come with it. He has been warning Canadians about the risks of being so integrated with the US since at least 2019, and he has been warning about the risks of the global economy being based on the US dollar.

In an interview with Radio Canada he said that Palestinians need territorial integrity, and self-determination - he drew parallels between Gaza and the fight in Ukraine as both fights for territorial integrity. He has called on Israel to end the blockade and pledged funds for the UN Food Programme. He will not cut aid to Palestine, and he will work towards a ceasefire.

The Liberal housing plan was rated by More Homes Canada to be the best out of all the parties. The Liberal Health Care Plan was given the stamp of approval by the Canadian Medical Association, particularly noting that it included several policies they have been advocating for. It includes investments in hospitals, clinics, medical schools, mental health funding for young people, and making credentials universal across Canada.

I could go on, but point being, unlike the Conservative platform - which was literally at least 25% photos of PP, and it was already half as long - the Liberals didn’t phone it in. It actually includes a lot of policies and plans that Mark Carney has been talking about, and writing about, for years. He has spent a lot of time thinking about how to take Canada into the future, and making it a more equitable place for Canadians. And it only includes one photo of Mark Carney, just noting for comparison.

I could go on, because I have literally spent the majority of the last month researching, but there are some fundamental freedoms at risk - abortion access, marriage equality, the trans community it being targeted (probably the most at risk in Canada), freedom of thought and expression.

And that doesn’t even cover everything if the Conservatives get in power and enact the Notwithstanding clause which allows PP to override the Charter of Rights and freedoms - which he has said he will do. Not even the Supreme Court can overturn that.

Now, this election really is a two-party race when it comes to who will be Prime Minister. But it isn’t a two-party race within the ridings, and MPs. I appreciate the influence of both the NDP and the Green Party, especially in helping pass dental care and pharmacare. I have been an NDP voter in the past, but in my riding the only real shot this election is with the Liberal candidate.

I want to make something clear, that despite that Jagmeet Singh keeps claiming, even after the full costed platform came out, there are no cuts to services, to health care, to pharmacare, and to dental care in the Liberal platform. The planned expansion of dental care is in the platform. I’m not sure why Jagmeet keeps insisting otherwise, but it isn’t based in reality.

In order to beat the Conservatives in this election, we need to vote strategically. That means voting for the best candidate who can beat the conservative candidate in your specific riding. In my riding that is the Liberal candidate, but in yours it might be the NDP or the Green Party candidate.

I know it sucks, but that is the reality of the first past the post system we have. Splitting the vote is a constant problem in our elections because the majority of our voters are on the centre-left of the political spectrum, and we are split between three parties federally.

We need to be smart about this.

We are at risk, and Canada needs to be protected. The situation is dire, and despite what some politicians say, a Liberal win is not a sure thing if people don’t show up to vote and vote strategically. We need to protect our vulnerable and at risk populations by keeping Pierre Poilievre out of office.

It really is that important.

Please vote strategically for the best candidate in your riding to beat the conservative candidate. If we all vote strategically we will have more NDP and Green candidates than currently projected. Let’s not make the same mistake they made in the US last year, they are all paying for it now.

Smartvoting.ca

Votewell.ca

Check your riding and vote accordingly.

🍁

TLDR (Understandably) - Pierre Poilievre is very Trumpy with Trumpy and DOGE-like policies.

Vote strategically for the candidate in your riding who has the best chance of beating the conservative.

As someone who’s riding has had Conservative MP for 32 years, I feel your pain if it just isn’t a possibility. I’m hoping this year will be different.

Let’s stop this asshole.

Thanks for reading.

@allthecanadianpolitics if you care to share, no pressure.

[emilysidhe]

MST3Knitathon, watching the top 100 episodes of Mystery Science Theater from bottom to top while knitting:

77. Episode 504 Secret Agent Super Dragon

Summary: Interestingly, this movie reads a bit like a sequel to a movie that was never made. After presumably an amazing high stakes mission in which he saved the world (not pictured), America’s best spy (code-named Super Dragon) has retired from espionage and is enjoying the good life in his mansion when a beautiful lady spy from his past tracks him down for a new mission: college students in small town Michigan appear to be being drugged with some new substance without their knowledge, as if an unknown syndicate is testing a product. Super Dragon won’t take the case until he learns that a former colleague has been killed investigating it. He negotiates a work release for his Q (a former mob safe-breaker in jail for his crimes), and heads to Michigan, where he uses secret notes his spy predecessor has left on mirrors in key locations* to track the drugs to doped chewing gum at the movie theater’s candy counter, then to Amsterdam where the mysterious syndicate is planning to take over the world by shipping the drugs everywhere.** The beautiful Dutch lady spy he works with in Amsterdam turns out to be an unwilling double-agent, having been addicted to the drug by the syndicate, but she double-crosses the bad guys and dies in the hero’s arms. The beautiful American lady spy wants him to come home and receive honors, but he and not-Q are going to stay in Holland while he makes time with a beautiful lady restauranteur who flirted with him when he briefly questioned her earlier in the movie. Fin.

This movie was filmed in Italian and awkwardly dubbed into English, with voice actors speaking too quickly and occasionally talking over each other trying to match the actors’ lips. There are also some extremely abrupt cuts that I assume were introduced in the dubbed version.

*Actually, the secret mirror messages thing is never explained. I’m guessing they were written by the previous spy because he’s basically the only candidate, but that doesn’t fully make sense because Super Dragon also finds them in Amsterdam and it doesn’t seem like previous spy made it that far before getting killed. shrug emoji

**the master plan is never fully explained either, but since withdrawal from the drug is 100% fatal without an antidote only they possess, we can infer that they mean to control people by getting them involuntarily addicted and holding the cure ransom

MST3K lore or notable moments: we get so little background on Gizmonic Institute or the world it inhabits that I suppose it counts as lore when Dr. Forrester says that he studied super-villainy as an undergraduate.

What do I think about it’s place on the list? I’m actually really glad I started this project, because I feel like knowing that I have to write about them is making me pay more attention and therefore appreciate the episodes more, so I’m having a lot of fun watching these. I’m not sure if this is retained from the original or introduced by the dub, but the way this movie lays out information is somewhat hard to follow. Things are always happening, but we don’t always know how one scene is related to another. It’s a very fun episode though, and in addition to the riff, I also really enjoyed the sketches about Crow’s script for a spy movie “for the nineties” where the hero talks in therapy speak, and Joel’s guide to spy murder puns (when you throw someone out of an airplane, you have to say, “They just stepped out.”) I continue to agree that each episode on this part of the list is just a bit better than the previous one. No change.