#Wealth and Gift Tax

[dcxdpdabbles]

DCxDP Fanfic Idea: Tax Brackets

Samantha Manson didn't have the best relationship with her parents. Not that she hated them or that they mistreated her, but they were constantly butting heads. They had an idea of what they wanted their daughter to be like, and Sam always fell short.

She won't surrender who she was just to make them happy, but sometimes, when she watched the way Danny's parents supported him, or when Tucker's mother gave her son complete attention when he spoke of his interest, she was tempted.

How would it feel to have her parents be proud of her? To smile when she showed off an outfit or listen to her passions? How could Danny and Tucker not see how lucky they were?

Sam loved her parents, but she also hated being around them. It was hard to put into words- the way she would die for them and avoid them at all costs. The air was always thick with tension around them, as they watched her every word, just so they could get through one conversation without someone snapping, and yet still they found some way to "fix" her.

Her room was her only safe space in the whole house. It was the one place her parents didn't bother to touch or change, even if they went into it to try to convince her to change her ways. Her mother made a habit of waking her with a dress that she had seen one of her friend's daughters wear, and thought This one will be the one to show Sammy-kins the light or some other nonsense.

Sam always made adjustments to the dresses, painting them black, cutting off the frills, and sometimes just accessorizing correctly, but she never threw them out. Perhaps it was sentimental of her; maybe she wanted to keep the gifts her mother had given her, or maybe she just liked watching her mother's face when she "fixed" the dress in the same way the older woman had wanted to fix her.

It was hard to say.

Even harder to defend when Danny and Tucker were at her house, looking through her closet, and finding all the dresses. Her friends started to spend more time at her place whenever she knew her parents wouldn't be home.

Of course, she asked for permission, but she made sure to time it with events they couldn't afford to miss. Her family was wealthy, but they were very much new money, and they needed connections, although establishing them with the other rich families was challenging, given their generations of experience managing their funds. Despite being comfortable in life due to her grandfather's invention, it was apparent that the family's wealth wouldn't last long.

Sam's parents depended on their rental properties. Neither bothered to work a nine-to-five job; instead, they merely bought houses and storefronts throughout Amity Park and rented them out to their new neighbors.

There was a reason Sam was able to hide her wealth.

When her parents moved to Amity Park, it was because they wanted to find a place that was affordable enough to buy multiple properties, yet still populated enough that it wouldn't be difficult to find renters. The family still received royalties from the deli toothpick cellophane-twirling device, but that would one day become obsolete, especially with the rapid advancements in technology.

It was their financial advisors who saw the end of their wealth in the future if they didn't act fast.

Her parents settled with a fixed budget, moving to Amity Park and ensuring the family's wealth grew if they lived as upper-middle-class, compared to the way they were both brought up, i.e., the ultra-rich.

Sam was only in the second grade, so she didn't really feel the shift from the two classes, but her parents certainly did. They couldn't do too much to the outside of their home, but they made up for it by making the inside so lavish. While inside the Manson home, they could pretend they were spending millions and millions as they once had, instead of staring worryingly at the number in their bank account.

Personally, Sam thought they were fine. It's not like they were anywhere near in danger of being homeless or even stressed about money, but her parents didn't see it that way. Sam and Grandma Ida weren't raised like them, where they had enough to be comfortable, not worry about being poor, but never at the bottom of the ultra-rich barrel.

Her mother and father had fallen from that tax bracket, and it killed them inside. The rentals in Amity Park would save them, that's what her father claimed; Sam only had to endure a few years of this lifestyle before they could reestablish a healthy cash flow and return to the ultra-rich.

Sam always rolled her eyes, thinking it was all too dramatic. Her life wasn't hard. In fact, it was one of the best in the entire zip code. She never had to worry about bills like Danny, never had to count coins for things like Tucker, never had to watch everything fall apart like Valerie, and she certainly never had to work a day in her life.

Then, the summer right before senior year arrived, and her parents burst into her room, carrying a new outfit they wanted her to wear. This time, she couldn't make adjustments. The reason?

It was a school uniform.

Sam's parents had finally saved enough money to escape Amity Park, the middle of nowhere. They had secured an investment with a few minor companies that were generating much-needed cash, and they had expanded their rental properties to three other states.

They were finally in the upper tax bracket that they had both been in during their childhood.

Jeremy's eyes were sparkling as he watched Sam pinch the cloth between her fingers as if it were something foul. "I was able to get you into Gotham Academy for your senior year. Only the wealthiest of children attend there. It's a dream come true!"

"Your dream," Sam hissed, throwing the uniform onto her bed. "I don't want some stupid snobby rich kid school. All my friends attend Casper High, and it's my senior year! This is when high school actually gets fun."

"Sammy-kins, Casper High was only meant to be temporary. You will be going to Gotham Academy, or you can forget your trust fund," her mother warned in that same no-nonsense tone of hers. It was the one Sam heard whenever she got a cold, and her mother panicked, hiring an entire medical staff team.

Sam doesn't think she will be able to outstubborn the woman on this.

"Oh come on, Mom, don't be so dramatic-" Sam starts only to have her mother cut her off with a hiss from behind her teeth. Jeremy wisely stepped away from his wife and daughter, giving them some space but not leaving the room.

"Do you know what I wouldn't have given to be allowed an education of this level? At an institution like this?" Pamela's eyes watered slightly with bitter tears. Sam froze at the sight of them. "My Father didn't believe women had a right to study, Samantha. It was literally tied into my trust fund that if I chose any higher education, I would be out on the streets. I didn't have the chance. You have this chance."

Pamela picks up the uniform, holding it out to Sam, one feminist to another, painted in different shades but sisters in arms all the same. "You're going to Gotham Academy."

Sam swallowed, taking the uniform with a shaking hand. "Okay, Mom. For you."

She rages, and sobs, and crashes when they leave her room. So many emotions swirling around her mind, but she was unable to let them out. After a while, she can't take it and rushes out of the house, riding her motorbike to Danny's place.

She texted her best friends to ask for emotional support outside her house, and within ten minutes, both agreed to meet. She doesn't pay mind to the movers - apparently, her parents weren't going to give her a warning that they were leaving Amitly Park that very week - but she does have to stop every little bit to wipe her eyes.

When she gets close enough to Fenton Works, she stops a bit to let the neon sign glow on her for a few seconds, realizing she won't see it for a very long time. Not if her parents have any say.

They had always wanted to forget they had to resort to this little town, but to Sam, this was her home, her upbringing. Her two best friends in the whole world were here. All her trials and triumphs, all her petty rivalries and endless memories.

All of it was right here in this small city.

She would be gone by Saturday if her father were to be believed. She only had three days left.

She knocked on the Fenton front door with tears slipping down her face. Jazz, who was visiting from college, opened it with a smile, but the second she registered Sam's devastation, the older woman dragged her into a hug without comment.

Two summers ago, when Danny and she broke up, Jazz had done the same thing. She might have been Danny's sister, but she was also Sam's friend, and despite the two being avoiding each other after a nasty breakup, Sam had missed her best friend like a lost limb.

Jazz had been the one to take her to get ice cream, the one who chatted softly about people just not working out romantically, and Jazz had been the one to help Sam mend the bridge between her and Danny.

Now it was Jazz that held her and promised to make her senior year great, even if Jazz was at Gotham U instead of Gotham Academy.

"On the plus side," Jazz joked after brushing Sam's hair out of her eyes, cuddling up together on the couch. Danny and Tucker had been attracted by the noise, both now sitting on the floor near Sam's feet. "You'll likely have a Wayne in your year. Free eye candy."

"Yeah, Tim Drake-Wayne, that boy could hit it," Danny jokes, patting Sam's feet. His eyes are red from his own tears, but his smile is still the same boyish, shy grin that attracted her attention all those years ago. "Maybe you can turn him Goth?"

"If you do, you've got to send me pictures," Tucker adds, placing his head on the couch cushion. "I bet it would be hilarious. In fact, I'll see that in person. How far is Gotham anyway? We could do some road trips whenever we get a chance."

"Great idea, Tuck!" Danny beams, turning to his sister, "Can we crash at your place when we get up there?"

"Of course. Just as long as you're okay sleeping on an air mattress in my one-room apartment."

Sam's world was falling apart, but at least she had her friends as a safety net; no matter what tax bracket she was in, they would always treat her as Sam and nothing else.

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Retiring the US debt would retire the US dollar

THIS WEDNESDAY (October 23) at 7PM, I'll be in DECATUR, GEORGIA, presenting my novel THE BEZZLE at EAGLE EYE BOOKS.

One of the most consequential series of investigative journalism of this decade was the Propublica series that Jesse Eisinger helmed, in which Eisinger and colleagues analyzed a trove of leaked IRS tax returns for the richest people in America:

https://www.propublica.org/series/the-secret-irs-files

The Secret IRS Files revealed the fact that many of America's oligarchs pay no tax at all. Some of them even get subsidies intended for poor families, like Jeff Bezos, whose tax affairs are so scammy that he was able to claim to be among the working poor and receive a federal Child Tax Credit, a $4,000 gift from the American public to one of the richest men who ever lived:

https://www.propublica.org/article/the-secret-irs-files-trove-of-never-before-seen-records-reveal-how-the-wealthiest-avoid-income-tax

As important as the numbers revealed by the Secret IRS Files were, I found the explanations even more interesting. The 99.9999% of us who never make contact with the secretive elite wealth management and tax cheating industry know, in the abstract, that there's something scammy going on in those esoteric cults of wealth accumulation, but we're pretty vague on the details. When I pondered the "tax loopholes" that the rich were exploiting, I pictured, you know, long lists of equations salted with Greek symbols, completely beyond my ken.

But when Propublica's series laid these secret tactics out, I learned that they were incredibly stupid ruses, tricks so thin that the only way they could possibly fool the IRS is if the IRS just didn't give a shit (and they truly didn't – after decades of cuts and attacks, the IRS was far more likely to audit a family earning less than $30k/year than a billionaire).

This has become a somewhat familiar experience. If you read the Panama Papers, the Paradise Papers, Luxleaks, Swissleaks, or any of the other spectacular leaks from the oligarch-industrial complex, you'll have seen the same thing: the rich employ the most tissue-thin ruses, and the tax authorities gobble them up. It's like the tax collectors don't want to fight with these ultrawealthy monsters whose net worth is larger than most nations, and merely require some excuse to allow them to cheat, anything they can scribble in the box explaining why they are worth billions and paying little, or nothing, or even entitled to free public money from programs intended to lift hungry children out of poverty.

It was this experience that fueled my interest in forensic accounting, which led to my bestselling techno-crime-thriller series starring the two-fisted, scambusting forensic accountant Martin Hench, who made his debut in 2022's Red Team Blues:

https://us.macmillan.com/books/9781250865847/red-team-blues

The double outrage of finding out how badly the powerful are ripping off the rest of us, and how stupid and transparent their accounting tricks are, is at the center of Chokepoint Capitalism, the book about how tech and entertainment companies steal from creative workers (and how to stop them) that Rebecca Giblin and I co-authored, which also came out in 2022:

https://chokepointcapitalism.com/

Now that I've written four novels and a nonfiction book about finance scams, I think I can safely call myself a oligarch ripoff hobbyist. I find this stuff endlessly fascinating, enraging, and, most importantly, energizing. So naturally, when PJ Vogt devoted two episodes of his excellent Search Engine podcast to the subject last week, I gobbled them up:

https://www.searchengine.show/listen/search-engine-1/why-is-it-so-hard-to-tax-billionaires-part-1

I love the way Vogt unpacks complex subjects. Maybe you've had the experience of following a commentator and admiring their knowledge of subjects you're unfamiliar with, only have them cover something you're an expert in and find them making a bunch of errors (this is basically the experience of using an LLM, which can give you authoritative seeming answers when the subject is one you're unfamiliar with, but which reveals itself to be a Bullshit Machine as soon as you ask it about something whose lore you know backwards and forwards).

Well, Vogt has covered many subjects that I am an expert in, and I had the opposite experience, finding that even when he covers my own specialist topics, I still learn something. I don't always agree with him, but always find those disagreements productive in that they make me clarify my own interests. (Full disclosure: I was one of Vogt's experts on his previous podcast, Reply All, talking about the inkjet printerization of everything:)

https://gimletmedia.com/shows/reply-all/brho54

Vogt's series on taxing billionaires was no exception. His interview subjects (including Eisinger) were very good, and he got into a lot of great detail on the leaker himself, Charles Littlejohn, who plead guilty and was sentenced to five years:

https://jacobin.com/2023/10/charles-littlejohn-irs-whistleblower-pro-publica-tax-evasion-prosecution

Vogt also delved into the history of the federal income tax, how it was sold to the American public, and a rather hilarious story of Republican Congressional gamesmanship that backfired spectacularly. I'd never encountered this stuff before and boy was it interesting.

But then Vogt got into the nature of taxation, and its relationship to the federal debt, another subject I've written about extensively, and that's where one of those productive disagreements emerged. Yesterday, I set out to write him a brief note unpacking this objection and ended up writing a giant essay (sorry, PJ!), and this morning I found myself still thinking about it. So I thought, why not clean up the email a little and publish it here?

As much as I enjoyed these episodes, I took serious exception to one – fairly important! – aspect of your analysis: the relationship of taxes to the national debt.

There's two ways of approaching this question, which I think of as akin to classical vs quantum physics. In the orthodox, classical telling, the government taxes us to pay for programs. This is crudely true at 10,000 feet and as a rule of thumb, it's fine in many cases. But on the ground – at the quantum level, in this analogy – the opposite is actually going on.

There is only one source of US dollars: the US Treasury (you can try and make your own dollars, but they'll put you in prison for a long-ass time if they catch you.).

If dollars can only originate with the US government, then it follows that:

a) The US government doesn't need our taxes to get US dollars (for the same reason Apple doesn't need us to redeem our iTunes cards to get more iTunes gift codes);

b) All the dollars in circulation start with spending by the US government (taxes can't be paid until dollars are first spent by their issuer, the US government); and

c) That spending must happen before anyone has been taxed, because the way dollars enter circulation is through spending.

You've probably heard people say, "Government spending isn't like household spending." That is obviously true: households are currency users while governments are currency issuers.

But the implications of this are very interesting.

First, the total dollars in circulation are:

a) All the dollars the government has ever spent into existence funding programs, transferring to the states, and paying its own employees, minus

b) All the dollars that the government has taxed away from us, and subsequently annihilated.

(Because governments spend money into existence and tax money out of existence.)

The net of dollars the government spends in a given year minus the dollars the government taxes out of existence that year is called "the national deficit." The total of all those national deficits is called "the national debt." All the dollars in circulation today are the result of this national debt. If the US government didn't have a debt, there would be no dollars in circulation.

The only way to eliminate the national debt is to tax every dollar in circulation out of existence. Because the national debt is "all the dollars the government has ever spent," minus "all the dollars the government has ever taxed." In accounting terms, "The US deficit is the public's credit."

When billionaires like Warren Buffet tell Jesse Eisinger that he doesn't pay tax because "he thinks his money is better spent on charitable works rather than contributing to an insignificant reduction of the deficit," he is, at best, technically wrong about why we tax, and at worst, he's telling a self-serving lie. The US government doesn't need to eliminate its debt. Doing so would be catastrophic. "Retiring the US debt" is the same thing as "retiring the US dollar."

So if the USG isn't taxing to retire its debts, why does it tax? Because when the USG – or any other currency issuer – creates a token, that token is, on its face, useless. If I offered to sell you some "Corycoins," you would quite rightly say that Corycoins have no value and thus you don't need any of them.

For a token to be liquid – for it to be redeemable for valuable things, like labor, goods and services – there needs to be something that someone desires that can be purchased with that token. Remember when Disney issued "Disney dollars" that you could only spend at Disney theme parks? They traded more or less at face value, even outside of Disney parks, because everyone knew someone who was planning a Disney vacation and could make use of those Disney tokens.

But if you go down to a local carny and play skeeball and win a fistful of tickets, you'll find it hard to trade those with anyone outside of the skeeball counter, especially once you leave the carny. There's two reasons for this:

1) The things you can get at the skeeball counter are pretty crappy so most people don't desire them; and ' 2) Most people aren't planning on visiting the carny, so there's no way for them to redeem the skeeball tickets even if they want the stuff behind the counter (this is also why it's hard to sell your Iranian rials if you bring them back to the US – there's not much you can buy in Iran, and even someone you wanted to buy something there, it's really hard for US citizens to get to Iran).

But when a sovereign currency issuer – one with the power of the law behind it – demands a tax denominated in its own currency, they create demand for that token. Everyone desires USD because almost everyone in the USA has to pay taxes in USD to the government every year, or they will go to prison. That fact is why there is such a liquid market for USD. Far more people want USD to pay their taxes than will ever want Disney dollars to spend on Dole Whips, and even if you are hoping to buy a Dole Whip in Fantasyland, that desire is far less important to you than your desire not to go to prison for dodging your taxes.

Even if you're not paying taxes, you know someone who is. The underlying liquidity of the USD is inextricably tied to taxation, and that's the first reason we tax. By issuing a token – the USD – and then laying on a tax that can only be paid in that token (you cannot pay federal income tax in anything except USD – not crypto, not euros, not rials – only USD), the US government creates demand for that token.

And because the US government is the only source of dollars, the US government can purchase anything that is within its sovereign territory. Anything denominated in US dollars is available to the US government: the labor of every US-residing person, the land and resources in US territory, and the goods produced within the US borders. The US doesn't need to tax us to buy these things (remember, it makes new money by typing numbers into a spreadsheet at the Federal Reserve). But it does tax us, and if the taxes it levies don't equal the spending it's making, it also sells us T-bills to make up the shortfall.

So the US government kinda acts like classical physics is true, that is, like it is a household and thus a currency user, and not a currency issuer. If it spends more than it taxes, it "borrows" (issues T-bills) to make up the difference. Why does it do this? To fight inflation.

The US government has no monetary constraints, it can make as many dollars as it cares to (by typing numbers into a spreadsheet). But the US government is fiscally constrained, because it can only buy things that are denominated in US dollars (this is why it's such a big deal that global oil is priced in USD – it means the US government can buy oil from anywhere, not only the USA, just by typing numbers into a spreadsheet).

The supply of dollars is infinite, but the supply of labor and goods denominated in US dollars is finite, and, what's more, the people inside the USA expect to use that labor and goods for their own needs. If the US government issues so many dollars that it can outbid every private construction company for the labor of electricians, bricklayers, crane drivers, etc, and puts them all to work building federal buildings, there will be no private construction.

Indeed, every time the US government bids against the private sector for anything – labor, resources, land, finished goods – the price of that thing goes up. That's one way to get inflation (and it's why inflation hawks are so horny for slashing government spending – to get government bidders out of the auction for goods, services and labor).

But while the supply of goods for sale in US dollars is finite, it's not fixed. If the US government takes away some of the private sector's productive capacity in order to build interstates, train skilled professionals, treat sick people so they can go to work (or at least not burden their working-age relations), etc, then the supply of goods and services denominated in USD goes up, and that makes more fiscal space, meaning the government and the private sector can both consume more of those goods and services and still not bid against one another, thus creating no inflationary pressure.

Thus, taxes create liquidity for US dollars, but they do something else that's really important: they reduce the spending power of the private sector. If the US only ever spent money into existence and never taxed it out of existence, that would create incredible inflation, because the supply of dollars would go up and up and up, while the supply of goods and services you could buy with dollars would grow much more slowly, because the US government wouldn't have the looming threat of taxes with which to coerce us into doing the work to build highways, care for the sick, or teach people how to be doctors, engineers, etc.

Taxes coercively reduce the purchasing power of the private sector (they're a stick). T-bills do the same thing, but voluntarily (they the carrot).

A T-bill is a bargain offered by the US government: "Voluntarily park your money instead of spending it. That will create fiscal space for us to buy things without bidding against you, because it removes your money from circulation temporarily. That means we, the US government, can buy more stuff and use it to increase the amount of goods and services you can buy with your money when the bond matures, while keeping the supply of dollars and the supply of dollar-denominated stuff in rough equilibrium."

So a bond isn't a debt – it's more like a savings account. When you move money from your checking to your savings, you reduce its liquidity, meaning the bank can treat it as a reserve without worrying quite so much about you spending it. In exchange, the bank gives you some interest, as a carrot.

I know, I know, this is a big-ass wall of text. Congrats if you made it this far! But here's the upshot. We should tax billionaires, because it will reduce their economic power and thus their political power.

But we absolutely don't need to tax billionaires to have nice things. For example: the US government could hire every single unemployed person without creating inflationary pressure on wages, because inflation only happens when the US government tries to buy something that the private sector is also trying to buy, bidding up the price. To be "unemployed" is to have labor that the private sector isn't trying to buy. They're synonyms. By definition, the feds could put every unemployed person to work (say, training one another to be teachers, construction workers, etc – and then going out and taking care of the sick, addressing the housing crisis, etc etc) without buying any labor that the private sector is also trying to buy.

What's even more true than this is that our taxes are not going to reduce the national debt. That guest you had who said, "Even if we tax billionaires, we will never pay off the national debt,"" was 100% right, because the national debt equals all the money in circulation.

Which is why that guest was also very, very wrong when she said, "We will have to tax normal people too in order to pay off the debt." We don't have to pay off the debt. We shouldn't pay off the debt. We can't pay off the debt. Paying off the debt is another way of saying "eliminating the dollar."

Taxation isn't a way for the government to pay for things. Taxation is a way to create demand for US dollars, to convince people to sell goods and services to the US government, and to constrain private sector spending, which creates fiscal space for the US government to buy goods and services without bidding up their prices.

And in a "classical physics" sense, all of the preceding is kinda a way of saying, "Taxes pay for government spending." As a rough approximation, you can think of taxes like this and generally not get into trouble.

But when you start to make policy – when you contemplate when, whether, and how much to tax billionaires – you leave behind the crude, high-level approximation and descend into the nitty-gritty world of things as they are, and you need to jettison the convenience of the easy-to-grasp approximation.

If you're interested in learning more about this, you can tune into this TED Talk by Stephanie Kelton, formerly formerly advisor to the Senate Budget Committee chair, now back teaching and researching econ at University of Missouri at Kansas City:

https://www.ted.com/talks/stephanie_kelton_the_big_myth_of_government_deficits?subtitle=en

Stephanie has written a great book about this, The Deficit Myth:

https://pluralistic.net/2020/05/14/everybody-poops/#deficit-myth

There's a really good feature length doc about it too, called "Finding the Money":

https://findingmoneyfilm.com/

If you'd like to read more of my own work on this, here's a column I wrote about the nature of currency in light of Web3, crypto, etc:

https://locusmag.com/2022/09/cory-doctorow-moneylike/

Tor Books as just published two new, free LITTLE BROTHER stories: VIGILANT, about creepy surveillance in distance education; and SPILL, about oil pipelines and indigenous landback.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/10/21/we-can-have-nice-things/#public-funds-not-taxpayer-dollars

[qqueenofhades]

oh god is biden dropping out? i don't know what happens then

Jesus effing Christ.

Few thoughts:

The billionaire Democratic donors got their way, apparently. All I saw was that the big-dollar donors were secretly putting pressure on the rank-and-file Democratic elected officials (i.e. House and Senate) to denounce Biden or not get any more money, and other shameful backroom maneuvering to knife Biden. I will refrain (lol, no I won't) from speculating that billionaires of any political stripe feel threatened by Biden's increasingly progressive tax/wealth redistribution policies, and saw their chance after the bad debate performance to knife him. Because until further notice, I'm going to think that was the biggest factor.

I don't know if there's an actual health condition that made Biden agree it was the best time (in fucking July) to step down, but if this was an issue, there needed to be planning last year, at the earliest, to prepare for a new successor. I don't know what's going on. This is a clusterfuck on many, many levels.

However: it is true that this does change things and not necessarily only for the worse, as long as Harris is immediately confirmed as the new nominee and this stupid Democrats In Disarray nonsense, which is giving the media exactly what they want, is put to a fucking end. If Harris is also swept aside and the billionaire donors try to install their preferred "Centrist!!!" candidate (lol Manchin or some shit) with an equally antidemocratic closed-door Star Chamber convention, then yes, we're fucked. Because the Congressional Black Caucus and African American voters saw exactly what the rich white man billionaires were trying to do by torching Biden and then Harris, and they are not going to play ball with some Magical White Man replacement.

If Harris is immediately confirmed as the new nominee (and to the best of my knowledge Biden has endorsed her), then she has a chance of reinvigorating the race. There were a lot of Americans who did not want either Biden or Trump. I suspect they were fucking braindead, but so be it. Harris has apparently polled pretty and increasingly well in recent days (in some cases actually better than Biden) and again, there is no remotely small-d democratic alternative to her. The billionaire donors already trashed the duly elected (by the primary process) Democratic nominee. If they do the same to Harris, then yes. We will have Trump and there won't be any more democracy in this country on either side, because the Republican big-bucks donors will gleefully pick up where the Democratic big-bucks donors left off.

Jesus fucking Christ.

The message needs to be "Harris is Joe's successor, she is younger and already has four years of experience and is the only candidate." Anything else is a fucking gift from god to the Republicans, once more getting trashed after Trump's terrible RNC speech. Maybe she can then pick Whitmer or Shapiro (both popular and effective Democratic governors of swing states, MI and PA respectively) as a running mate, but the nominee has to be Kamala. There is no other fucking choice. This is already enough of a mess.

If that can happen, and the fucking donors can refrain from fucking it up, then... okay. It's not great, but it does change things. It makes the ticket younger. It makes it historic (first Black female president beating Trump would be amazing). It could reach people disenchanted with the current two-old-white-guys setup.

This is an incredible sacrifice on Biden's part and I only wish that I could believe he did it voluntarily, rather than being forced out by a small class of rich people worrying about his policies getting too progressive.

I wish him only the best and I recognize this decision was taken under extreme pressure. If we then lose to Trump, I hope everyone who forced Biden out burns in hell.

I was a diehard Biden supporter not because I loved the guy personally, but because he was the only choice for preserving democracy in America. The essential stakes of the election have not changed, even if the billionaires just knifed us in the fucking back, possibly to nobody's surprise, because R or D, they are not our friends.

Kamala is the only choice. I will now have to defend her as hard as I did for Biden. She needs to beat Trump. There is nothing else to it. If you think she can't, then you need to work at helping her do that. There is already enough calamity and doom. We do not have a choice. We cannot lose sight of what is at stake here.

Kamala Harris/Whitmer and/or Shapiro and/or Buttigieg 2024.

The end.

[scoupsleftcheekdimple]

The Best Gift

starring: svt leader and husband! seungcheol x wife! reader

aus: fluff, angst if you squint

warnings: none

synopsis: after a day out with her friends, Y/N can’t help but notice how beautiful they all looked with their luxury jewelry and bags. she’s not sure that she deserves such things… but her husband knows that she does.

word count: 693

A/N: this stemmed from my own longing for the Clair D Lune Christian Dior collection…

—

The faint glow of the screen reflected against Y/N’s face. She let out a soft sigh while scrolling, the prices only becoming more and more absurd as she reached the bottom of the Christian Dior page. 

But I suppose… beauty is expensive, she mused. 

Her mouse hovered over the Clair D Lune necklace. It was a simple piece, a thin silver chain with the signature CD, studded with diamonds, on it. But the price… $540.00. 

She let out another sigh. She wasn’t usually like this, but, after spending the day catching up with her friends, Y/N couldn’t help but notice how seemingly all her friends had the most recent Louis Vuitton, Gucci, Celine, and Prada bedazzled their fingers, ears, and even their feet. As much as she was happy for them to be enjoying such things, there was a slight twinge in her heart as she returned home. Because a small part of her wanted to be able to find the freedom to just splurge as well.

She knew that money was not the issue… Seungcheol reminded her of that almost constantly. She simply wondered if she had the right to flaunt such jewelry, so openly. Even after getting married to one of the most famous and rich idols in the world, wealth was not something that Y/N was accustomed to. 

She had grown up witnessing her family working hard for all that they had, with her dad working long, odd hours, and her mother rushing to make sure the household was maintained. 

Before Y/N could delve deeper into her thoughts, the house lock beeped, signalling Seungcheol’s return home. She immediately slammed her laptop shut, not wanting Seungcheol to know what she was looking at. 

“Cheol! You’re home!” she exclaimed as she made her way towards him.

He was still taking off his shoes as she approached, but, as soon as he was done, his arms wrapped around her waist, lifting her off the ground. Y/N let out a giggle before gently slapping him to signal to him to put her down. 

“What were you looking at?” he whispered while nudging his head into her shoulder.

“Nothing, nothing important… taxes,” she muttered.

He hummed before following her into the kitchen but not before taking a mental note to check her laptop. 

—

As soon as Y/N fell asleep, Seungcheol snuck back out to the living room. He sat down and opened her laptop, adjusting his glasses as he did so. He chuckled as he saw what website she was open to. 

He had always tried to convince her to spend his money; now, he finally knew what she actually wanted.

—

A week later, Y/N made her way home after a long day of work. Her feet hurt, her arms ached, and all she wanted was to crash on the couch for a couple hours. 

To her surprise, Seungcheol was already home. She smiled softly at seeing his relaxed state. As she approached, she noticed a small smirk on his face before he suddenly stood up and ran to the counter. Her eyes followed him to see him grabbing a rather large bag. 

“Seungcheol?” Y/N mused with a small smile. “What are you doing?”

He simply smiled, both lovely dimples on display before grabbing her wrist and setting her down on the couch. 

“I have a surprise! For you!” he practically squealed.

Y/N rolled her eyes, exhaustion apparent. “Seungcheol, please. I’ve had a long day, and I haven’t even had the chance to change—”

Before she could finish her sentence, Seungcheol practically shoved the bag into her lap. As her eyes focused on it, she noticed the emblazoned gold ‘DIOR’ shining on the white bag. 

“Seung- Seungcheol? Is this…?” Y/N whispered.

“You deserve it. More than anyone I know,” he said with a soft smile.

As Y/N opened the bag, she noticed that it was more than one luxury item… Seungcheol had gotten her the whole collection: the necklace, the bracelet, the two earrings, and even a ring! But as she looked at him, she realized that the best gift? It was him.

tag list: @seungkwansflower @reiofsuns2001

check out my masterlist !

[eatmangoesnekkid]

I don’t live my life thinking a lot about money, trying to ‘get’ more money, or not having enough money yet I am not motivated by money either. The act of receiving more money does not make me rush to hurry up and finalize my books or open up my school. I can’t remember the last time I worried about money because having money is an intimate frequency and energy of FREEDOM. You have to break the frequencies of constantly penny-pinching, being stingy, allowing how much money you have in the bank to dictate your mood or living afraid to buy the very things that you need that will expand or evolve you, which is not the same thing as shopping all the time as a coping mechanism for being human, incurring consumer debt or being irresponsible and reckless with your money. And your life force will never thrive when you are a slave or prisoner to money.

The Practical and Spiritual Journey to Making More Money —You Must Enlist Your Warrior and Your Energy

You have to look at earning money like a game and enjoy growing your money and playing the game or else you never win. Not just saving or hoarding it away in your bra but allowing your money to work for you while you sleep like putting it in stocks. I have a degree in Accounting and have always believed that women were born to be skilled in financials but we are socialized to perceive ourselves not. But when you were born with a womb, you are naturally gifted at multiplying a seed into something much larger and intelligent like a whole baby. You are a natural amplifier, nourishing and growing what has been received. Be willing to look into investments and not be afraid of accumulating “healthy debt” and learn to move your money around in order to grow it. Look to investing part of your earnings into different funds, even if it is just cutting back on buying coffee and putting that money you would have paid for a daily coffee into a savings that will accrue and be used to invest in the future. If you already have cash flow, getting rental property to airbnb or sell (everyone I know that is quietly wealth-oriented owns at least 2-3 homes) which can be overwhelming to think about when living pay check-to-pay check but just beginning to think about how you can earn more money from your own money passively gets the ball rolling in your consciousness like what would it be like to open up a laundry mat, build it up and sell it in a few years for huge profit? Laundry mat ownership is such a fast lucrative business, just like what you see in the hood in movies. Or buy a raggedy house, build it up and sell it for a higher cost and incredible profit. Some of you straight and bi women entrepreneurs who are ready for good lovers must find love and attraction with lovers who are builders and handymen and can help to upscale and modernize your home that you can then resale for great profit and stop messing with dusties who have zero skill sets and create more stress on your life. 🙏🏿 Because when you live a highly stressful, parasympathetic, flight or fight life, the first thing you lose is your sexual desire or libido i.e. your umlimited creative power. No thank you!

If you have a spiritual business like me, you can do deals underneath the table but also work towards a LLC to legitimize your company which gives you tax breaks and allows you to earn more money. Something about going through the channels to make something official moves it from just being a hobby to a legit business. As magical spiritual woman, your power move is to attract someone willing to invest in your work as a start-up. If you do, you must cherish this person, love this person with all your heart, hips and soul (if the relationship is romantic but of course it can also be platonic or familial, either way, love this person), adore them deep and true. The person, this angelic being, this God, is saving you massive stress and headache. Their presence in your life serves a larger purpose —you must help them to understand this because our world teaches us to be so fearful and suspicious of being helped or helping someone rather than gracious and honored. Too many people are missing out on great blessings of interdependence because they live afraid and suspicious of the big heart of another human. So sad that many amazing beautiful people are stuck in their little corners hoarding away and missing out on healing, thriving, and experiencing the gifts and/or talents of another human because of how we have been wired to perceive the desire to meet one another’s needs and desires by status quo culture. To be a woman who can love someone in ways that relax their body so deeply that they can finally get out of their head and rest well and regenerate their tissues at night is incredibly priceless.

**This is not the same thing as looking for a handout, walking around broken like the world owes you something or hoping someone will help because you tell a victimization story. It is about being mature and resourceful and consciously manifesting what is needed and not simply what would be cool or cute potentially through love and loving.

But not every woman is ready or qualified for the aforementioned experience because you do have to develop skills that will be greatly useful, nourishing, nurturing, decompressing, relaxing or expansive or beneficial in other ways to another person. You can’t just be attractive or whatever. You have to be a woman who has developed a certain ease and peace in her body and life first and and that is what joining my school and online temple will help you master. And I personally believe you must also really love someone if the harmony is right because 1. love is incredible and healthy for the body to experience for however long it lasts 2. love is essential for the brightest sustained outcome. I’m not talking about the “sprinkle, sprinkle“ foolishness being promoted online. I am advocating for more love between people and all that comes with truly loving someone.

Be so skillful in your mature womanhood that you don't run from challenges, but face and engage them head on, and refine, recalibrate, and evolve beyond them. Never lose the boundaries that you are running a business albeit a spiritual one but still a business. Stay devoted and disciplined, both are essential. Work towards hiring people who can help you scale and grow eventually.

The Spiritual Journey to Making More Money—You Must Invoke Your Lover

The key to having more money is to learn to surrender and trust and truly allow the universe to be your provider, which is not an intellectual idea but a frequency of feminine energy. This is less about gender and more about the willingness to live a little bit beyond the egoic surface layer of reality of urgency that tells you to hurry and produce, to hoard or take or trigger you to constantly need to check off a to-do list, always needing to plan or to cross your t’s and dot your i’s which will allow you to buy that nice house and cute car eventually, but could greatly inhibit your energy from flowing where you never really can feel the joy of a simple moment pulse up your spine because you live in stress and overwork for external things that never make you fully truly happy.

No matter what stage of life you are, the undercurrent of your reality must feel like more relaxation and freedom if you want to have more money but not exhaust yourself in rigorous pursuit and constant labor for it.

I had to learn to draw in the frequency of freedom—to laugh at myself, to play, to rest, to relax, to do silly shit like twirling throughout my day —when life was very stressful, drama was high, and money was low. Neighbors would see me twirling. I would sometimes twirl for customers whose shopping totals were over 200 dollars. Because changing frequencies or weaving new realities is most potent when life is hard. You have to discover strategic ways to do the things you really want to do in life but was told you couldn’t afford. You must also have this hunger and desire to play the game of life to win while laughing at yourself along the way as you refine more and more and develop intimacy with the currencies of relaxation, love and freedom, which naturally include having more money.

But do not just copy and paste and take from others. Give. —India Ame’ye

Keep me away from the wisdom which does not cry, the philosophy which does not laugh and the greatness which does not bow before children.

Kahlil Gibran, Mirrors of the Soul

Chapter: The Money Drop (unedited)

[thaleleah]

𝓖𝓸𝓭𝓵𝓮𝓼𝓼 (𝓟𝓪𝓻𝓽 𝓞𝓷𝓮)

Pairing: Billy The Kid x Fem!Nun!Reader

Warnings: ***NON-CON***, Dub-Con, Dark!Billy, Virgin!Reader, Oral (female receiving), Fingering, P in V, Corruption Kink, Creampie, Possessive Behavior, Masturbation, Wet Dreams/Sex Dreams, Seduction, Emotional Manipulation, Religion and Religious Beliefs, Explicit talk of gunshot wounds, blood, and the bullet's removal (kinda? Idk if it's explicit explicit, but its a little more than just mentioned), Mention of physical abuse/child abuse (not from Billy), Childhood Trauma, Mention of alcoholism, Moral/Religious conflict within one's self, My bad Spanish, Nun breaking her vows, Probably too quick of a healing process to be fucking someone but I'm not a doctor so 🤷🏻‍♀️, Using the word "drawers" instead of "panties" which is kinda cringe to me but I wanted to be somewhat accurate

Word Count: 9.6K

A/N: Billy's passed out for most of this but I hope y'all like it anyway. Please know I'm posting this and then running away. Okay, byeeeeeeeeee

Summary: When Billy stumbles into your clinic, hurt and in desperate need of care and refuge, you don't hesitate to help him. Perhaps this is God's will. Perhaps He has brought him into your life to help heal the parts of him that the cruelness of the world has soiled and broken. You are a healer by trade, both of the physical body and of faith. If this is to be God's mission for you, then it shall be done. How could you have possibly known that the young man who begged for help that fateful night would turn out to be the devil himself?

Next >>>

Translations:

Por Dios - Oh my God

Que Dios te bendiga - May God bless you

Qué sorpresa! - What a surprise!

Y él no quería que su mamá lo supiera. Así enterró la carne en el jardín - And he didn't want his mom to know. So he buried the meat in the garden

Pero el perro la desenterró y ella se descubrió de todos modos. Tuvo que lavar platos él solo por dos meses - But the dog dug it up and she found out anyway. He had to wash the dishes by himself for two months

Ese niño - That kid/child

Parece que era un buen amigo - Seems like he was a good friend

Sí, él era - Yes, he was

De nada - You're welcome

Gracias, Hermana - Thanks, Sister

They say the devil can take on many forms.

He is a demon figure - with the face of a goat, horns, hooves, and a blade pointed tail.

He is a great dragon - large and terrifying, destructive and formidable in the power he holds.

He is a roaring lion - hungry and fierce as he stalks God’s children, waiting for them to fall into his trap before he attacks them like prey.

But the devil was once God’s favorite angel, amazingly beautiful and wise. The angel of light, God’s morning star - a traitor now, a trickster . . . evil.

The Lord teaches love for all, compassion and understanding despite another’s upbringing or current situation. All humans are God’s children, all made in His perfect image, brothers and sisters in unity under His loving and eternal care. You are thankful to know this, grateful that you can feel His presence coursing through your veins despite the horror that you’ve come to face daily while working at the clinic. His gift to you is your endless drive to help those in need, sitting by the bedsides of the sick and dying, applying a cool rag to their sweaty foreheads, or spoon feeding them soup to give them strength when they are too weak to do it themselves. 

It is a taxing life, and the sorrow you feel when you cannot nurse someone back to health is ever present in your heart, but the Lord is clear in your life’s mission and you will be forever thankful for the lessons you learn in this lifetime. 

He has made you a healer, using you as a vessel for His healing touch for all you come across - regardless of wealth, status, religious affiliation, or criminal record. 

Which is why when he stumbles into the clinic during the late hours of the night, face pale and hand pressing hard to his side where blood is streaming through his fingers despite the pressure, you don’t hesitate to help him. 

You think you should have - should have let him bleed to death on the clinic floor. Would God have abandoned you if you had?

“Sister Maria!” You cry instead, running to the injured man and looping his arm around your shoulders to help him lean against you. “We need fresh towels and water! And sutures! Hurry!”

Sister Maria runs in the room, bedsheets still cradled in her arms from where she had been turning over a recently discharged patient’s room. She gasps at the scene, dropping the linens on the floor as she rushes to the main utility closet. You guide the man to a bed, helping him drop onto the thin mattress with a tortured groan. One of your hands splays over his, helping to maintain pressure on the wound until Sister Maria can bring in the needed supplies. Your other hand lays gently on his sweaty forehead, thumb caressing the straight line of his nose trying to soothe him. 

His baby blue eyes stare up at you through their pained haze. 

“P-please, help,”

The devil can take on many forms and carry many names.

And yet, despite all you’ve heard about who he is and what he’s done, you never once considered Billy the Kid to be one of them. 

Misguided and uncared for - sure, but never evil. 

He’s so young. You can’t even imagine what horrors he must have had to go through to lead him to the path that he’s on now.

Perhaps it’s fate that you’ve been brought together, an opportunity for you to spread the healing power of your Lord’s love and mend not only his body but his bruised heart as well. You’ve seen too many times where hardships have hardened the minds and spirits of others, caging them off from God as they struggle with their wavering faith. 

“Don’t you worry,” You say. “The Lord is here with us. He will see you through.”

Whether he groans from your words or the pain, you’re not sure.

Sister Maria is quick to grab the supplies, dumping them on the side table. She dunks a clean cloth in the water, wringing out the excess, but pauses when she sees his face. 

“Is that— ” 

“Nevermind that!” You hiss, pulling the cloth from her hand. 

You lift his shirt, exposing the injury and the dirt dusted skin framing it. It looks horrible, blood seeping from the laceration in a steady flow and a part of you is thankful that the sight of blood doesn’t make you immediately drop to the floor like your cousin, Paul. He gasps when you touch the cloth to the wound, blood immediately seeping into the white of the cloth and marring the pure color. 

His fingers dig into the fabric of his trousers, gripping it tight as he clenches his teeth against the pain. Your free hand rubs lightly against his forehead, trying to soothe him as best you can while you clean the wound. 

You think it must be God’s mercy that he passes out before you can pull the bullet out. The pain of the forceps digging into his body as you pulled out the thick ball of lead and the shock that would have come with it would have surely dragged him under had blood loss not gotten to him first. It’s better this way - he’s safer cradled in sleep’s loving hold rather than crying and jerking about as you try to save his life. 

Sister Maria holds a small bowl out in front of you with one hand while the other delicately holds his wrist, feeling his pulse between her dainty fingers.

The bullet comes out easy, your forceps finding the lead and guiding it out of the wound’s entrance with ease. It clanks as you drop it into the tiny bowl, and you send up prayers of thanks for allowing such a quick and simple removal. The grace of your Lord has certainly just saved this man’s life.

With quick fingers, you stitch him up, practiced movements securing the wound shut before covering it with a generous dressing of cloth to keep it clean from any dirt and debris. 

His sleep isn’t restful, the pinch in his brow and the way his cheeks twitch in the flickering candlelight of the small room make that clear. Your own brows pinch as you reach a hand out to trace the furrowed skin, smoothing it out with a gentle thumb. You don’t like seeing people suffer, but it’s more often than not that the people you come into contact with while working in the clinic are in pain, or suffering, or at Heaven’s doorstep. You help who you can and pray for the souls of the ones you can’t so they may be guided to God’s kingdom where they can live in an eternal paradise by His side. It always hurts when you can’t heal someone, the feeling of failure is a stark reminder that ultimately it is the Lord who chooses to give us life, and he can choose to take it away just as quickly. 

It feels different this time though, somehow more personal in a way you can’t understand. The young man before you still has his whole life ahead of him, still so much to do and so many lives to touch. The sins that he’s committed thus far can be forgiven, if only he lifts them up to Him and asks for forgiveness. You can feel it, deep in your bones, that you need to save this man. You can’t fail. 

He’s alive, for now. And you can only do your best to make sure he stays that way. 

“He cannot stay here,” Sister Maria says quietly, gathering the red stained water and rags. “They will find him.”

You nod, gathering the small bowl with the bullet remnant and the sutures kit. “We’ll keep him here tonight and move him to the back room in the morning after he’s rested a while,”

“No,” Sister Maria says. “He cannot stay here. Helping an outlaw is punishable by death. They will hang us,”

“God will not abandon us,” You say, firmly. “We are all His children, servants and outlaw alike. He wouldn’t want us to toss him out on the street to die.”

You look over your shoulder towards the sleeping man again. His brow is furrowed again, the sweat on his face glistening in the light. You sigh before turning back to Sister Maria. “Don’t worry, Sister. I’ll think of something,”

The pacifying words seem to offer Sister Maria no comfort, and her worried eyes snap upwards as she looks towards the ceiling, voice cracking as she breathes a pleading, “Por Dios,” up towards the roof. 

The room is silent to her plea.

You don’t leave Billy’s side the entire night, sitting in the chair directly next to the bed, dabbing at his heated face and neck with a damp washcloth and changing his bandage when the first one had soiled through. He wakes a few times during the night, icy blue eyes fluttering open and locking on yours for the briefest second before slipping closed once again, a quiet sigh escaping through his slightly parted lips. 

This is the hardest part - the waiting. Waiting to see if your hard work to heal someone was enough. You keep a close eye on him, looking for signs of pain or illness, keeping an eye on the injury site to try and prevent infection. You flushed it with alcohol during the dressing change, having found an extra bottle hiding in the supply closet while grabbing some fresh cloths. Supplies like alcohol for disinfecting, while needlessly abundant in saloons and brothels, are difficult to acquire for the clinic. You think it's foolish, wasting something that can be used for healing purposes on something as pointless as getting drunk. Your father had been a drunk, drinking away his cares and woes, his only goal was to make it to the bottom of a bottle. 

You wish you would have found it sooner so you could have actually disinfected the entire wound instead of just the outside and stitches, but this is better than nothing, you suppose. The smell as you pour it over his wound makes your stomach turn, reminding you of all the times your father came home reeking of the stuff, belly full of poison and his mind, hazed with drink, still evil enough to find your mother and make her suffer as if she were the reason he deemed himself a failure in life. Billy lets out a pained moan in his sleep, body subconsciously tensing in pain as the alcohol flushes the stitched up skin, but thankfully he doesn’t wake. You don’t want him to be in pain, but there’s a part of you that selfishly thinks he’s sharing your own pain, the memory of your childhood trauma somehow seeping into his brain as you recover his wound. 

You know it’s not true, but you’re thankful he’s there with you anyway. 

When morning arrives, you’re beyond exhausted. 

The night shift always takes more out of you than the day shift and your eyes have been threatening to close since the first rays of the sun started spreading across the dust covered floor of the clinic. 

Sister Ann and Sister Catherine arrive before the sun does, the first rays of it only starting to spill over the New Mexico horizon line when their footsteps echo through the entryway. You lean forward in your seat at the sound of them, glancing over at Billy’s still sleeping frame as Sister Ann’s gentle humming of a nursery song her mother used to sing to her spreads throughout the clinic. Quick footsteps cut through the song, the humming stopping entirely as frantic whispers sound from the entryway. And then three sets of running feet are getting closer to the corner room. 

“Oh, good heavens,” Sister Catherine breathes, eyes locked on the special patient taking up the small bed. 

Sister Ann has a dainty hand clasped against her mouth in shock and Sister Maria nervously wrings her own together from behind them. 

“He was hurt,” You say, immediately defensive of the injured man. “We couldn’t leave him to die. The Lord says–”

“You don’t need to preach to us, Sister y/n,” Sister Catherine interrupts. “It’s the right thing to do. The Lord is on our side.” She’s confident in her words, and it gives you comfort you didn’t know you needed to have your beliefs validated. But she pauses, eyes flickering once again to Billy before they meet yours - the fear in her brown orbs clear as day. “The law, on the other hand, will not be.” 

“We need to move him,” You say.

“To where?” Sister Ann whispers frantically. “The sheriff and his deputies are sure to show up here. They know he’s been shot, it’s only a matter of time.”

“It is a blessing they have not come already,” Sister Maria adds.

They’re right. With Billy injured, they have to know he couldn’t have gotten far. Their only saving grace is that the Sheriff more than likely would have never believed Billy would have come to the clinic for medical attention if on the run from the law. Perhaps holed up in some abandoned alley, bleeding out while propped up against a wall. Or maybe they think he tried riding out of town, desperate to get as far away from the people hunting him as possible before inevitably succumbing to his injuries and falling off his horse in a nearby field. 

You rise from the chair, leaning over the bed slightly to rest a gentle hand on Billy’s forehead. It’s still clammy against your palm and he shivers slightly in his sleep, subconsciously pressing his head a little harder against your hand looking for comfort in his pained state. He needs to get away from here, away from any prying eyes because if he’s found, his life on this Earth is over. He is in no position to run or fight for his life. The road to recovery for him is a long one if he hopes to heal well enough to regain his strength and usual mobility. The only thing he will have to look forward to if discovered before he can is a necklace of rope and a quick fall. 

“Help me get him to the back room,” You say, sternly. In moments of uncertainty and panic, someone needs to be the guiding light. Your fellow Sisters are still as stones in their spots, all in various states of distress as they look at the man who, if discovered under their care, could very well be the catalyst that marks the end of their missions here on Earth. The Lord brought Billy to you - you need to protect him. “He can stay in the alcove until we can figure out where to take him.”

“He cannot stay in the clinic!” Sister Maria exclaims. “They will surely check every room searching for him!”

“Trust me,” You soothe. “Please, Sister. We need to move him before they come or we will all surely pay the price.”

There is a short pause, but to your frantic brain it feels like an eternity before Sister Catherine nods and gently nudges Sister Ann to the opposite side of the bed. 

“Let’s hurry,” She says, reaching to pull away the thin blanket you threw over Billy’s shaking frame at some point during the night. “I fear we don’t have much time left.”

Together, the four of you lift Billy from the bed. It’s a struggle. Even for multiple women to carry a fully grown man, it's a task and a half just to get him from the small patient room to the back area of the clinic. He whines in his sleep, his wound jostling and stitches pulling from the regretfully poor stability you have on his body as you carry him. But, somehow, he doesn’t wake. 

The back room is small, but comparatively large compared to the patient’s rooms. The entire width is the size of two patient rooms combined, but that’s not giving it much grace. It makes you sick sometimes, to see people with money spending it on lavish items, large houses and grand parties just to show off their wealth when there are people in need all around whose lives would change if they only had a fraction of the wealth the ones in good standing do. As it is, the back room of the clinic is despairingly bare - limited backstock of supplies, linens, and food are scattered among the wooden shelves lining the room. If only those wealthy men who think to only fill their pockets would hear the Lord’s call to give to the needy instead. It would make your heart happy to see these shelves filled just once. 

There’s a small alcove in the back of the room that you and the other Sisters use when times prove most trying. On the days when things are difficult, emotions are too much for you to handle alone or a patient isn’t doing well and there’s nothing you can do other than wait and pray for their recovery, you visit the alcove. It's been adorned with simple yet revenant items, a small yet beautiful cross nailed to the center of the wall, a small ceramic dish holding a wooden beaded rosary placed on the floor below it, resting on a pleasantly fluffed up pillow - ready to help guide their prayer. 

Resting against the side wall of the alcove is a folded up cot. It’s not uncommon that one of the Sisters might have to sleep at the clinic during their off shift. More often than not, they are able to return to their lodgings to sleep and reenergize for their next shift. But there are times when too many people are injured, too many of the townspeople have fallen ill to whatever flu or illness that’s crossing through the town and all hands are needed here. The foldable cot is their home away from home, and while it might not be the most comfortable, you are thankful the Lord was able to provide it lest you be made to sleep on the floor behind the extra blankets neatly folded on the shelves. 

You all adjust your grips on the young man allowing for Sister Maria to release her hold and pull back the thick blanket shielding the entrance to the alcove. You grunt under the presence of the additional weight, the awkward grip you all have on him unhelpful in the way his limp body bears down on you all. Sister Maria is quick in tying back the privacy blanket so that it stays to one side, and works to wrangle open the finicky cot. Once it’s unrolled, you help in depositing Billy down onto the makeshift bed, quickly checking his wound to make sure no stitches accidentally ripped in the journey back here before turning to accept the fresh blanket Sister Ann hands you from the shelf. 

Billy’s brow is furrowed again, breathing a little harsher probably from the pain of being jostled. You lay out the blanket over top of him and pull it up to his chin, your hand reaching out to smooth the wrinkled skin between his eyes again. 

“What do we do now?” Sister Ann asks, and Sister Catherine pulls her hand away from where it was plucking nervously at the skin at the sides of her fingers.

“We wait,” She responds, cradling Sister Ann’s damaged hand delicately between her own. “We won’t be able to move him out of the clinic before the Sheriff arrives. We’ll have to keep him hidden here until then and pray they don’t find him.”

The thought of the Sheriff and his men finding Billy here makes your stomach churn. The undeniable fate that waits for you if he’s discovered is one that you’re willing to sacrifice. He’s come here for help, God has brought him here to you for your healing and protection and you can’t fail Him just because your humanity makes you fearful of your end. It’s supposed to be a beautiful thing - death. The moment when your soul on this Earth fulfills its mission here and your granted eternal life at the side of God in the Kingdom of Heaven. It’s what you’ve wanted your whole life, a life of peace and serenity that seems so out of reach here on the soil. Fear will not keep you from looking forward to it. But you’re not done here yet, you have many years left of helping others and spreading His love to those in need. This is not your end. But if it is, it’s worth the sacrifice to try to save Billy. 

You’ll hang with him, if need be. 

Your fellow Sisters though . . . the thought of them hanging for your own choice, regardless of if you think it was the right thing to do, makes you sick. Your decisions are your own, and they shouldn’t suffer for your choices. 

Billy’s forehead unwrinkles under your gentle fingers, and you can feel your heart break as you look down at him. He’s so young still, a young man just at the beginning of his life. He has so many fine years ahead of him. He’s handsome, fit and strong - he would make a fine husband for some lucky lady, a dutiful father for his children. He’s not as evil as they say. You’ve learned to trust your instincts when it comes to people. Sometimes the most misunderstood people are the kindest, and you can’t help but think Billy is the most misunderstood of all. You can’t sense a single whisper of badness in him. 

You stand up and pull the privacy blanket back in front of the alcove, hiding Billy from sight in the safety of God’s makeshift altar. Together, you and the other Sisters make your way out of the back room. A few rooms down a sickly man is coughing up a storm, and from how hard and continuous his coughs are, you know his throat is raw. Sister Ann shoots the rest of you a worried look, but turns to grab a water carafe off of a side table before rushing down the hall towards the coughing man and away from the current situation. 

“You can head back, Sister Maria,” You say, placing a calming hand on her shoulder. “Get some rest. It’s going to be a long day and we’re going to need you for the night shift.”

You can tell she’s torn, both wanting to stay and help in any way she can but seeming to know that there’s nothing she can do. All there is to do is wait. After a few moments, she nods, her own hand coming up to rest on top of yours. “Que Dios te bendiga,”

You watch as she makes her way towards the front, pushing open the wooden door before jerking to a halt. “Sheriff Garrett! Qué sorpresa!”

Her words sent a spark of panic through you. It’s so soon! You knew it was coming, but it’s still so incredibly soon. You had hoped for at least a while longer to try to gather your thoughts and think of a plan of where you can take Billy, but it feels like time moves slowly as the Sheriff and two of his deputies step into the clinic.

“Sister,” Garrett responds, respectfully tipping his hat. 

Even through your panic, you still feel a twinge of irritation. A gentleman would take off his hat, but you suppose it’s better than the two men standing behind him who do nothing but trail their eyes around the clinic's entrance suspiciously (and with a clear bout of judgment).

You know for a fact these men with gold lined pockets have never given so much as a dime to the clinic. 

Sister Maria turns back to look at you and Sister Catherine, desperation clear in her eyes and you're glad that none of the men are looking at her anymore or you think her obvious distress might have given you all away.

“Have a good rest, Sister,” You say, urging Sister Maria away. Thankfully, she listens, nodding to you and then Garrett before scurrying out the door. 

“How can we help you, Sheriff?” Sister Catherine asks. 

Garrett takes a few leisurely steps along the entryway, observing the interior of the clinic with the aura of a man who thinks he can see everything. You suspect he sees nothing at all. 

“I apologize for the interruption, Sisters. I know you’re hard at work," He says. “But we’re looking for an outlaw on the run.” He pauses, looking over at the two of you with pointed eyes. At your silence, he continues. “William H. Bonney, otherwise known as Billy the Kid,”

“Oh, dear,” Sister Catherine gasps. 

You feign concern also, bringing your fingers to your mouth as a sign of shock. Garrett nods in agreement at your supposed horror. 

“As you no doubt know he is a very dangerous, very unlawful, man,”

“So we’ve heard,” Sister Catherine says, nodding solemnly. “Is that what brings you in today?”

“Yes,” He says. “There was an altercation last night between him and I. I was able to shoot him so he is very hurt, but he got away before I could arrest him or finish the job.”

“Kinda stupid to come to a clinic when you’re a wanted outlaw, Pat,” One of the men behind Garrett grumbles. “We’re wasting our time here.”

You can’t help but agree, despite that being exactly what Billy did. But maybe that’s what makes it smart. You're hopeful that Garrett will listen to his friend, will assume that Billy couldn’t possibly be here and leave the clinic without investigating it. 

The small spark of hope dies as Garrett laughs without mirth. “The Kid’s not stupid. But we’re covering all our bases,” 

“Helloooooo,” A voice calls from another room opposite the patient still occasionally coughing up a lung. “Can someone please pay attention to the sick people around here? Hellooooooooooo?”

Sister Catherine smiles tightly. “Mr. Taylor,” She says by way of explanation. “A rather problematic patient here. He’s a good man, just impatient.”

Sister Ann’s voice can still be heard attempting to soothe her own charge, so Sister Catherine has no choice but to tend to Mr. Taylor. When she disappears from sight, you turn back to Garrett, trying your best to deter suspicion. 

“I can assure you, Sheriff, that we haven’t seen any sign of Mr. Bonney around here,” The lie leaves your lips far too easily for it to feel like the sin that it is.

Garrett nods, and you can tell he believes you, but puts his hands on his hips all the same, one hand pushing aside his coat to rest freely on the hilt of his gun. “Mind if we have a look around?”  

You force a smile on your face. “Not at all. As long as you don’t bother any of the patients. They need their rest,”

“Certainly,”

You lead him around the clinic allowing him and the deputies to search the rooms for their missing outlaw. When they get to Billy’s old room, the room they just vacated not minutes before the Sheriff arrived, you tell them that a patient was recently discharged and that you hadn’t had the time to turn over the room yet. 

“Why is there blood on ‘em?” One of the deputies asks, nodding to the blood stains still covering the stark white of the sheets. 

“A cooking accident,” You reply. “An incorrect knife hold can sometimes do that,”

Another lie. You feel this one a little more than the first. 

Eventually their search comes to the back room. You can’t keep them out, that would be too suspicious, so you allow them to walk through the half filled shelves. It's more than clear that there’s no place to hide anyone here other than the alcove and you're naively hoping they won’t even realize it’s there. 

It’s a large blanket hanging on the wall. Of course, they’re going to notice it. 

And, sure enough, one of the deputy’s eyes cut to the blanket. He heads towards it with a gruff “What’s behind here?” but you intercept him, rushing over to stand between him and the alcove.

The Sheriff and his deputies have their eyes on you now, each one closing in closer to you and the alcove, much too close for comfort.

“Sister,” Garrett says, voice stern with authority. “What’s behind the blanket?”

“It’s our place of prayer here,” You say, voice calm despite your nervousness. “Our altar.” You can’t mess up now. If you show any sign that you’re being untruthful, both you and Billy as well as your fellow Sisters out front will be on a one way trip to the courthouse. You’ll all die hanging from its top banister. “When healing doesn’t seem to be enough, it helps to have a place dedicated to God to call upon his everlasting power to perform miracles.”

Garrett nods. “Mind if we take a look?”

“Yes, actually. I do,” Your quick denial clearly catches him off guard, his eyebrows raising towards his hat. “Just as God bids us to modesty with our clothing, we must also show privacy and modesty in our places of worship. They’re sacred spaces. Surely you understand that, Sheriff,” 

The words feel like poison on your tongue. Using worship and prayer to cover up a lie is the catalyst that makes bile feel like it's rising in your throat. It’s not a lie, you have to remind yourself. It is a makeshift altar, you do use it as a place of worship and prayer. Just . . . not right at this moment. 

The reality of the situation is catching up with you, and you hide your slightly shaking hands by folding them together in front of you. You haven’t lied in years. You lied a lot as a child, a necessity of living with a father who’s anger could strike at a moment’s notice. You resented having to do it back then, forced to sin for the sake of trying to keep peace in the home. It’s much like the situation you find yourself in now, having to lie to try and protect another person. To protect yourself. 

When you found refuge at the convent all those years ago, you were told you would never have to be untruthful ever again.

“God is granting you freedom from your woes,” You were told, and you remember how light those words had made you feel. “Thank him for His good graces with your undying loyalty and strive to always be who He guides you to be.”

You hadn’t lied since, no matter how tough things seemed. Sickly patients lying on their deathbed, scared and begging you for any kind of reassurance that it wasn’t the end for them. You wouldn’t give them false hope. Instead, you would tell them to turn their worries to the Lord, clasping their hands in yours and praying with them.

“Your soul is strong, bright and ever-present,” You would tell them. Sometimes you would let them hold your rosary so they can find comfort in it. “The body is a temple, and we do our best in our life to care for it. You’ve done that. If it weakens now, it is because God is calling your soul back to Him.”

The guilt is clawing at your chest, but you force it back as best as you can as you meet Garrett’s eyes. “I ask that you don’t force us to desecrate that,” 

Garrett just stares at you, an unreadable expression on his face. One deputy just looks between you and Garrett, uncertain with how to proceed in the face of defying authority, and the other deputy that sneered at the thought of Billy even coming to the clinic scoffs at your words. 

“Listen, lady, the law–”

“John, enough,” Garrett interrupts, voice shockingly hard as his eyes cut to his deputy. “She’s a Sister and you’ll show her respect.”

You feel a quick spark of satisfaction at the way the deputy’s confident, power hungry facade dies under the Sheriff's ridicule. He mumbles a quick apology to which you accept with a nod despite how insincere it sounds. 

Garrett nods his head towards the door, silently gesturing for the other two to head towards the exit before he tips his hat at you directly, thanking you for your time and apologizing for any inconvenience their visit may have caused. 

You want to tell him it was no inconvenience at all, but you’ve already sinned enough today and you can’t bear the thought of intentionally adding to the tally without justified need. Instead you settle on curving your lips into a convincing smile, thanking the men in return for their brevity and understanding and wishing them a good rest of their day as you usher them out of the back room and towards the front entrance.

Every single muscle in your body relaxes once they are completely out of the clinic, relief washing over you as you whisper out a quick prayer of thanks to God for allowing everyone to get out of the overwhelmingly dangerous situation unscathed - at least for now. 

Sister Ann and Sister Catherine peek out of their respective rooms when they hear the front door swing shut, their wide eyes mimicking the relief you know is shown in your own. 

“I can’t believe they didn’t find him,” Sister Ann admits, and it pains your heart to see tears begin to well up in her eyes. “I thought this was truly the end for all of us.” 

You have her in your arms in an instant, cradling her small frame against your chest as she begins to cry in earnest. For as scary as it’s been for you so far, you can’t imagine what she’s been going through. Sister Ann and Sister Catherine have only known about Billy for less than no time at all. And yet, despite the short period of time between finding out about Billy, getting him into the alcove, and the entrance and departure of the Sheriff - you’re sure it probably felt like an eternity to her. 

“Hush now, Sister,” You whisper, running a soothing hand along her back. “You’re safe, I promise.”

Sister Catherine places one of her hands on Sister Ann’s back as well, but she’s looking at you when she speaks. “He still can’t stay here,”

You know that. You know. You got lucky that the Sheriff didn’t find Billy this time, but who's to say that he won’t come back when he’s unable to find his missing outlaw anywhere else? Covering all his bases, that’s what he said. He’ll come back again when he sees that his other ‘bases’ have turned up nothing but dead ends. 

Your older brother, Joe, has a cabin just outside of town. It’s a hidden place, specifically built for peace. No visitors. He lives alone, no wife or children to keep him company and he prefers it that way. 

“If I’m alone, I can’t turn into him,” 

You're positive he wouldn’t. Your brother is far from being anything like your father, but the task of trying to prove that to him seems to be out of your skillset. He tells you he’s happy with his life, that he’s chosen the path he feels he needs to be on just as you have. Who are you to pass judgment?

Joe likes the solitude, that much is certain. But he also has an adventurous spirit which guides him on lengthy trips from town to town, exploring all the world has to offer while never having to be tied to one place. He’s away now according to the last letter he sent you, planning to stay in Chihuahua, Mexico for a while and that he’s not sure yet when he’s going to be back. 

“It’s dangerous,” Sister Catherine pushes, taking your silence as reluctance.

“I know,” You say. “I know. I think . . . I think I have an idea.”

The cabin will be empty. Joe isn’t due back for the immediate future, and even if he does return earlier than you suspect he will, you and Billy won’t be in danger. Joe can be trusted. He’ll help you, if need be. You can’t imagine that the Sheriff would ever know about it. It’s secluded - far off of any of the usual paths. It’s safe there. The perfect place to hide the wanted outlaw for a while. He can rest there, heal up uninterrupted for a few weeks until he can safely move around on his own two feet again. 

Sister Catherine listens openly to the idea, but her face is pinched in displeasure. 

“We don’t have much of a choice,” She says, reluctantly. “It seems like the best place for him to disappear to until he’s healed.”

You can hear the underlying pause in her agreement loud and clear. “But?”

“The clinic cannot spare two of us. We would lose half of our staff and it is too much for one person to handle alone per shift,”

“I wouldn’t ask any of you to come with us,” You say. No, for as much as you believe God sent Billy into your life for a reason, this was your mission to bear. You’ve already put your fellow Sisters through enough.

“You want to go alone?” Sister Ann sniffles, raising her head up from your chest.

“You need to think about this,” Sister Catherine says, sternly. “You shouldn’t be alone with him. He is a child of God, yes. But he is also an outlaw and a man. Sometimes, one of those is worse than the other.”

They’re being protective. The more rational part of you is grateful for their concern, and you think that if the positions were switched and one of them were in your position instead, you would react the same way. But a part of you is bitter. They’ve heard the stories. You know exactly how cruel men can be and you know exactly what they’re capable of. It’s a risk you’re taking, but you feel called to take it anyway. Billy needs your help, and God would never put anything in your path that you can’t handle.

“The Lord will protect me,” Despite the truthfulness of your words, you can see how they do little to reassure them. Your next words are better. “The Lord will help me protect myself.”

Sister Ann looks at Sister Catherine, once again bringing her hands together to pick at the reddened skin at the edge of her nail. Sister Catherine sighs, and the back of her hand reaches up to tap her forehead as if feeling the temperature or wiping away sweat. 

“Alright,” She relents. “How do we get him to your brother’s cabin?”

“I don’t know,” You admit. “We need a wagon. Or a large wheelbarrow that we can put him in and attach it to a horse. I haven’t ridden a horse in a long time, but I’m sure I can manage.”

“Where are we supposed to get that?” Sister Ann’s tone borders on exasperated. 

As if answering your unspoken prayer, the door to the clinic opens once more, this time revealing a bright faced Samuel Anderson, carrying a crate full of fresh supplies. And behind him, lit up by the sunlight like a bright blessing, is his wagon.

Sam Anderson is the son of local store owner, Edward Anderson, the clinic's top provider for basic supplies that are not strictly medical. While medicine shipments and more specialty items are donated from suppliers farther away, and frankly much less frequent than necessary, Mr. Anderson and Sam never fail to come through with plenty of food for you to make soups and nutritious meals for your patients. On occasion, you even have enough to give away to the families who are stacked together in a small two bedroom on the edge of town. With eight children total between two families, you're honestly not sure how they manage - but you do your best to help when you can. 

Seeing Sam walk through the front door is like a beacon of light from Heaven is shining down on him. He’s smiling already, the crate of food handled carefully between his hands as he lets out a cheery, “Good morning, Sisters”. But as soon as he sees your faces, more specifically when he sees the tear tracks still visible on Sister Ann’s cheeks, he’s placing down the crate and across the clinic’s entrance in a second. 

“What’s going on?” He asks. His hands automatically reach out towards Sister Ann’s face as if to cup it, but he stops himself. Instead he just looks at her worriedly, his concerned gaze leaving her face for only a moment to glance at you and Sister Catherine before they’re back on her, voice low and gentle. “What’s wrong?” 

It’s no secret that Sam harbors some romantic feelings towards Sister Ann. There are days when you feel sorry for him - a young man, good and kind and generous, who you have no doubt would make a fine husband to any lucky woman is in love with one of the four women in the entire county who are incapable of returning his affection. But it’s moments like this when it’s easy to see God’s presence in other people. Sam is as respectful and kind as they come. He accepts his feelings can never be reciprocated and in turn uses his undying love and loyalty to Sister Ann by helping you all at the clinic with anything he can. 

Somehow, he doesn’t expect anything in return, never stares at Sister Ann with an ounce of lust in his eyes, and it warms your heart to see the godly quality that’s usually so absent in men so prevalent in him. 

“Something’s happened,” Sister Ann tells him, her voice still wobbly with emotion. 

“What?”

“Sam,” You say, calling his attention back to you. “I know I have no place to ask this and I won’t fault you if you decline, but– I’m asking.”

“Tell me,” He insists, pulling his hat from his head and holding it to his chest, and God bless how the sincerity in his voice bleeds into his words. “Whatever it is, I’ll do it,” 

So you tell him everything. Sam listens with wide eyes, shooting panicked glances at Sister Catherine and Sister Ann when you tell him about the Sheriff’s visit, and he’s genuinely sorrowful when your voice gets caught in your throat as you tell him that you had to tell some lies to get him to leave without discovering Billy. He’s nodding already when you mention your brother’s cabin.

“I’ll take you there,” He offers before you can even ask the question. “My wagon is always at your disposal.”

“It’s dangerous. If we’re caught, you would hang with us,” 

Sam lets out a breath, unconsciously glancing over at Sister Ann again. “If the four most wonderful and religiously minded people in town hang for trying to do the right thing, then this isn’t a town or even a world that I want to live in anymore. Please let me take you. It would be my honor,”

A small smile graces your lips as you reach out and gently cup his cheek in thanks. For as many men pull and grind on your nerves with their endless greed and manipulation tactics, Sam is a breath of fresh air - a truly God-fearing man with a good heart.

He’s another person that you’re putting at risk, another life in danger because of the choice you’ve made. You try not to think yourself too selfish. Surely the fact that Billy has turned up in your life is God’s plan, and He does not put obstacles in your way that you cannot overcome. 

He tells you that he’ll come back tomorrow. He has a delivery that’s expected in a town over and if he’s going to make it there and back before nightfall, he needs to leave before the sun comes up. 

“I’ll stop here first,” He says. “We can load him into the back of the wagon while most people are sleeping and make the trip to your brother’s before I head on my way.”

“Thank you, Sam. Honestly,”

“My pleasure,” He nods his head at you, replacing his hat and tipping it kindly towards Sister Catherine and Sister Ann. “Until tomorrow, Sisters,”

The door swings shut behind him as he leaves and you let out a deep breath, hands smoothing over the dark veil covering your head just to feel a bit more grounded before you pick up the crate of food Sam brought. Billy needs to eat something. You're not quite sure how long it's been since his last meal, but even if he ate a minute before bursting through the clinic’s doors in the early morning, he would surely still be hungry and in need of sustenance by now. His body is weak and it needs nourishment to heal. 

Billy’s still sleeping when you peek around the privacy blanket. His head is turned to the side and buried in his pillow as much as he can get it, mouth hanging open as he breathes. Your hand itches to reach out and touch him again, to smooth against his forehead or cup his cheek, maybe place your fingers under his chin to help close his mouth in hopes of him breathing through his nose instead so his mouth doesn’t dry out. 

You’re not sure where this desire is coming from. You’re as affectionate with your patients as any nurse should be - kind and supportive, offering comfort when needed, but not overly so that it can be considered inappropriate. You’re all brothers and sisters, children of God - yes. But there are still social norms that must be considered. 

It feels different with Billy for some reason. 

“I’m going to get you to safety,” You whisper. You’re unsure about if he can hear you in his sleep or not, but you feel the need to tell him anyway. “I promise.”

You fall asleep at some point during the night, slumped against the wall next to the alcove’s entrance. 

You don’t remember falling asleep. You remember feeling tired, exhausted by the stress of the day’s events, and how your eyelids were threatening to close permanently more and more with each blink. The soup you had made still sat out in the small kitchen, and you had wanted to stay close to Billy so that whenever he awoke, you would be there ready to help feed him.

Instead, you wake to the sound of Sister Maria giggling to your left and a low, unfamiliar but still soft voice speaking in Spanish to her.

“Y él no quería que su mamá lo supiera. Así enterró la carne en el jardín,” The voice lets out a small chuckle, the smile on his face evident in his tone despite you not being able to understand most of his words. “Pero el perro la desenterró y ella se descubrió de todos modos. Tuvo que lavar platos él solo por dos meses.”

“Ese niño,” Sister Maria laughs. “Parece que era un buen amigo.”

You can’t see his face, but you can hear how he loses the smile in his voice. “Sí, él era,”

Pushing yourself to your feet, you step over to where Sister Maria is kneeling in front of Billy’s cot. It’s only now you see the mostly finished bowl of soup in her hands. Billy’s sitting up slightly, back propped up against his pillows enough to allow him to sit up a bit straighter but not enough to pull too much on his stitches.

At seeing your movement, his eyes snap to your approaching frame, big blue orbs staring up at you and you can’t help the relief you feel at seeing them.

“You’re awake,” You breathe, a small smile pulling at your lips. “Thank the Lord,”

His lips twitch a bit in what looks like a suppressed smile. “Kinda sounds like I should be thankin' you,” He says, and you notice how prominent the shift in his accent is as he seamlessly switches from Spanish to English. “Sister Maria says that you’re the only reason I’m alive right now.”

You shake your head, humbly. “Oh, no. Sister Maria and I work together as a team. I couldn’t have done it without her aid,”

“You show no fear,” Sister Maria insists. “Where I hesitate, you show mercy and strength. It is because of you that we are all alive now.”

“See?” Billy says with a blinding grin, and you can’t help but notice how handsome he is while no longer at death’s door. “My angel,”

You feel your face heat up at the endearment. An angel. Surely the comparison shouldn’t fluster you like it does. You’ve thought of your fellow nuns as the embodiment of angels before, angelic beings put into human bodies by the grace of God to spread His word. You know that’s not exactly true, that you’re just using your belief of what God’s angels would be like and seeing those beings in your fellow Sisters just like Billy is doing with you now, but you’ve never once thought yourself to be comparable to such a holy being and the compliment makes you flush.

You run a hand across your face, feeling the warmth under your palm, and clear your throat. “Oh, well, thank you,”

Sister Maria stands, taking the nearly finished bowl of soup with her. “He has eaten plenty and I changed his covering as soon as he woke up. You will want to change it again when you get to the cabin.”

“That’s great. Thank you,”

“De nada. I’ll go check on the patients and keep an eye out for Sam,”

She nods to you and Billy before she turns to leave, a small smile pulling at her lips when Billy rasps out a soft, “Gracias, Hermana,”

When she’s gone, you take her place in front of Billy, kneeling at his side and placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. “How are you feeling?”

“Much better thanks to you,” He responds, wide eyes trained on yours, a smirk playing at his lips as he continues. “Don’t feel much like I’m dyin’ anymore,”

A small laugh escapes you at his morbid joke. “Well, I’d say that’s a very good thing then,”

“Sister Maria said the Sheriff came lookin’ for me,” 

“He did,” You confirm. “The Lord kept us all safe though and has given us an opportunity to get you to safety.”

Billy’s eyebrow raises skeptically. “Sounds like it was more your doin' than the Lord’s,”

You try to not let the slight against God rattle you. You had sensed this was coming anyway. William H. Bonney a.k.a Billy the Kid is an outlaw afterall, and no outlaw becomes an outlaw while still maintaining a positive relationship with the Heavenly Father. He’s gone through many hardships no doubt, and has more than likely deemed his bad luck in life as God’s personal vendetta against him.

“The Lord speaks through all of us, if only we have an open heart to hear him.” You tell him.  “Fear can make His words harder to hear, and I’m thankful that He was able to guide my mind and heart enough through the fear for us to get to safety.”

“Hm,” Billy hums, and you can tell how much he doesn’t believe your words. He doesn’t argue though. “And where exactly is this safe place you’re gonna take me?”

“My brother has a cabin just outside of town. It’s well secluded and unknown to most. We’ll be safe there until you’re healed enough to go on your own.”

Billy’s eyes drop to your hand still resting on his shoulder, thick dark lashes casting shadows on his cheeks before his bright blue eyes are locked on yours again. “You gonna be takin’ care of me, Sister?”

“Of course, I will,” You reply. “We shall see you well again, Billy. I promise.”

His own arm crosses his chest so his hand can rest on your own, his eyes wide and so earnest as he whispers a quiet, “Thank you,”

It’s only about an hour longer before Sam arrives. It’s still early morning, the sun still a ways away from coming up behind the horizon line, and town is silent. Sam pulls his wagon up to the back door of the backroom before coming around the front to help push it open from the inside. It’s been so long since it’s been opened. The door was once used for the scheduled delivery of goods for easy access to the storage area, but as years went on and the county and surrounding counties became overrun with greed and poverty, the shipments became less frequent. Now, anything needed just comes through the front door. It’s never too much anyway, so what’s a trip or two to the backroom while carrying a crate. 

Sam slams his body against the door a few times, the wood groaning in protest under his weight before it finally swings open. Billy watches from his place on the cot, his eyes threatening to close but forcing himself to stay awake. You want to tell him to sleep, he needs his rest to help him heal and recover, but you’re too busy checking your bag to make sure you haven't forgotten anything before tossing it in the back of the wagon. You need to leave before the townspeople start to wake up. If someone sees you, if just one person witnesses you smuggling away a wanted outlaw, then all of this would have been for nothing. 

“Sister y/n,” Sam calls, squatting at the head of the cot. He’s got his arms wrapped around Billy’s torso. “Come grab his legs. We’ll do our best not to jostle his wound,”

You come to a kneel at Billy’s legs, placing a comforting hand on his knee. “Do your best to relax, okay? If you tense, you might tear your stitches,”

Billy lets out a harsh breath through his nose, clearly nervous, but he nods anyway, brows furrowed in determination. 

Together you and Sam hoist him up. He gasps, groaning as his wound pulls but you can see how he’s trying to keep his stomach untensed. Getting him into the back of the wagon is not graceful, and you find yourself spewing endless apologies the whole time despite the relatively short journey. 

Sam’s laid out a bed of hay covered by two thick blankets throughout the entire bed of the wagon. Crates of food and other supplies take up half of the bed, but he’s managed to make it so Billy will have enough room to lay comfortably on his designated side. Billy sighs as he’s laid down on it, one of his legs bent at the knee and his palms pressing into the makeshift mattress as he cranes his neck up to look at you. You ball up a spare blanket, tucking it under his head before you push him back down with a gentle hand on his forehead.

“Rest now, Billy,” You tell him, crawling out backwards and helping Sam slide on the rectangular backing on the wagon to secure it shut. “We’ll be there when you wake up,”

His eyes stay locked on you as you circle the wagon towards the front. Sam helps you up onto the spring seat before jogging around the rear and hauling himself into the driver's seat. You smooth out your tunic, looking around the dark street for any suspicious or wandering eyes that might be peeking out from around buildings or through windows. You don’t see any, even as one of the horses whinnies when Sam urges them forward. The clinic is located towards the edge of town, so it only takes a few minutes of nervous eyes and your head on a swivel before the wagon is passing the final few buildings that mark the town’s end of population and you can relax.

You blow out a deep breath, meeting Sam’s equally relieved gaze as he snaps the reins and nudges the horses a little faster. You look over your shoulder to check on Billy and you’re expecting to see him sleeping, no doubt still exhausted from the trauma of taking a bullet. Instead, he’s looking at you, head twisting so he can see your elevated frame from his laid out position. His eyes seem to pierce into yours, so blue and intense as he watches you that it makes your breathing hitch in your throat. 

You’ve never seen eyes so beautiful before. Like endless pools of glistening water. Surely God must have taken much care when crafting them for him. 

You feel your skin prickle under his stare, body straightening in your seat. He doesn’t stop watching you.

“Sleep,” You tell him. “You’re safe, I promise.” And thankfully he listens, eyes trained on your face for just a moment more before closing his eyes. The tingling feeling in your body dissipates with the removed gaze. 

Your gaze turns around the front again, looking out to the vast stretch of land before you as you leave the civilization of town behind.

“Sam,” You start, looking for anything to pass the time and distract from whatever unusualness just happened between you and your charge. “How’s your mother?”

[serpentface]

Four khattanocuy. (Clockwise: a simple ornament with woven textile, a decorative and protective silver ornament with a khait figure and dual pelatoche, an inscribed guardian lion ornament with white lionsmane tassel (uses deified hair from a sacrificial lion, restricted to Odonii and their blood kin), and a ruby-inset ornament awarded in recognition of valor in battle.)

Khattanocuy refers to tassel ornaments occurring predominantly within the Imperial Wardi cultural sphere, usually worn on the belt as a decorative element of masculine dress.

Their defining feature is the use of animal hair, usually that of a khait (the name itself is a way to say 'khait tail'). A few variants use feathers instead, most often for their visual appeal but sometimes as specific symbols of office (for example, tax/tributary provincial officials wear white gullfeather khattanocuy). Very cheap variants utilizing horse wool have a mocking colloquial name of tsimounacuyit ('(little/baby) horse tail').

The base of the tassel can range from plain undecorated metal to elaborate silver and gold ornaments with inlaid precious stones. 'Doubled' khattanocuy integrate the basic small tassel design (sometimes multiple) on top of a wider base with long hair.

Many men wear simple khattanocuy on a daily basis (a belt/sash itself is an element of everyday wear, used to carry belongings and as an attachment for pouches). Outside of people who have/want to project the impression of great wealth, more complex and decorative khattanocuy tend to be reserved for formal occasions. It is considered a highly masculinized item of dress and generally regarded as inappropriate for women to wear (though some small tassels that are khattanocuy in all but name make appearances on women's hats/headbands).

These items serve no direct religious function, but their wear may at times have elements of spiritual protection/medicinal purposes. They are frequently made with silver (ascribed protective elements against sickness and/or curses) and may have small apotropaic amulets/motifs added to them. Very rare variants are made with hair/feathers from sacred animals sacrificed in public rites (whose parts are considered to become bodily relics of god in death). The wear/use of these holy animal parts is usually restricted to members of priesthoods and their immediate kin, though they can be granted as gifts to laymen by priests of significant authority.

[robertreich]

Billionaires Don’t Want You to Know About This Supreme Court Case

A majority of Americans support a wealth tax. But, surprise, surprise, the wealthy Republican megadonors who’ve been plying Supreme Court justices with gifts and vacations do not. And if those justices don’t recuse themselves from a case I’m about to explain, it will be a grave conflict of interest and potentially block Congress from ever enacting a wealth tax.

Moore v. U.S. concerns a one-time tax charged in 2017 on profitable foreign investments regardless of whether investors cashed them in.

The plaintiffs argue that the tax is unlawful under the 16th Amendment, which gives Congress the power to tax incomes.

Right now the super wealthy can take advantage of increases in the value of their stock portfolios by using stock as collateral to borrow all the money they need instead of taking taxable income. It’s a way to have their cake and eat it too.

If the Supreme Court buys the argument that the Constitution does not give Congress the power to tax increases in the value of investments, that would make it impossible to ever pass a wealth tax.

But here’s the kicker: This case raises profound conflicts of interest on the Supreme Court.

Justices Samuel Alito and Clarence Thomas both accepted luxury vacations from billionaires who stand to gain financially and are tied to conservative political groups that are responsible for appealing the case.  

No wonder Americans don’t trust the Supreme Court.

So what can you do?

First, share this video to spread the word about this little-known case.

Second, contact your representatives, and urge them to demand that justices with conflicts of interest recuse themselves.

And third, if your representative doesn’t support a wealth tax to combat inequality, replace them with somebody who does.

With so much at stake, now is not the time to sit on the sidelines.

[punprincess321]

So... why didn't Bruce just lobby for Joker to get executed? Like you’re telling me this man doesn't have the cajones to kill the man that killed his son (he couldn't because Joker had diplomatic immunity but in recent years he just subscribed to "I'd be as bad as him if i did") but he couldn’t just... I don't know... USE HIS VAST WEALTH AND INFLUENCE TO GET HIM A SEAT IN THE ELECTRIC CHAIR!? Like if you're not gonna do it yourself, I get it, Batman should not be seen killing, but Bruce Wayne can absolutely be seen lobbying for Gotham's judicial system to give Joker the death penalty. Joker has never ONCE shown signs of improvement unlike the rest of the rogues gallery, he is fully aware of what he is doing, yes he's insane but he legit takes pleasure in the chaos he creates, there's no saving that, at this point he doesn’t even deserve the chair, he deserves to be held down and have a car battery clamped to his nipples. This fight between batman and joker doesn't end until one of them is dead and joker legit went to work at the DMV after batman died, there’s no saving joker while batman is alive.

"But he could break out with the help of his goons!" Bruce could use his wealth to pay them all off, every petty criminal and goon for hire gets a nice cash gift if they turn joker down, get lawyers that Joker threatened top notch security, HE HAS THE JUSTICE LEAGUE ON SPEED DIAL! If Joker was getting executed, Bruce would absolutely get Clark and Diana to personally escort the clown to the exection room, both are wearing heavily armored gasproof suits so he doesn't try anything funny with joker venom or kryptonite or anything else.

"What about Harley?"

Do this when she is in a 100% hates joker mood, keep her with Ivy and her doctors and more security, I say flash because he's a nice guy who wouldn't taunt her and rile her up to save joker. Don't let the path to the execution room go by where she is, one look and she could be back under his spell.

"Oh in this comic they tried to execute him and it failed" okay I wanna see that and tell me where it went wrong, and if killing him STILL doesn't work, then make LIFE hell for him. If killing joker still doesn't work here's my pitch for what to do with him:

Lock him away from everyone, lock him in a secure painfully beige house, he eats nothing with color just potatoes, well done steak, eggs, onions, milk, water, bread, and beans, his only utensil is his hands, no paper, no glass, no plastic, no metal, nothing to be used as a weapon, he just gets food put straight onto the table and he eats it with his hands, he has to drink using those fancy water bombs made with seaweed. Every product he has access to is 100% natural, no chemicals he can use to make his laughing gas to poison the guards, all he gets to watch is the news and documentaries about stuff like how taxes were thought up or who invented sliced bread. He speaks to no one, no phone calls or human interaction, his only entertainment is tv which he can only watch through a window of 12 inch thick glass and the speakers can't be reached to mess with, all chairs and tables are built into the floor. The house receives routine maintenance to make sure nothing is loose or messed with, he's knocked out for each inspection with a lot of knockout gas, all security cameras are hidden so he doesn'tfeel the satisfaction of knowing people are watching him. He doesn't get to see batman either, his one reason to live is messing with batman and he doesn't get to do that. Everyone is just hoping he gets depressed and drowns himself in the bathtub.

Like I am seriously wanting one of these to happen, either Bruce walks up to Jason with passes to watch the execution or hands him security footage of joker crying in his boring cell as a birthday present and a big apology for not handling this asshole in so long.

AND FOR ALL YOU THAT WILL SAY "You can't permanently off the most popular batman villain!" I DIDN'T SAY THIS WAS PERMANENT! I WOULD JUST LIKE TO SEE THAT THERE IS A UNIVERSE WHERE BRUCE MADE UP WITH JASON BY GETTING RID OF THE JOKER AND NO CONSEQUENCES! And don't say "he did it for superman to prevent the injustice timeline once" that ain't what I'm talking about, I'm saying he does this for JASON. HIS SON.

I'm taking this shit seriously if you can't tell. If you want to add something I missed in either plan go ahead, I am basically wait for the day I get sucked into the DC universe and I can tell all this straight to Bruce's face and I need it perfect.

[ravenbloodshot]

Mingyu- Seventeen.....Dark Side Tarot Reading

As a Person

When I first tapped into his energy, I saw a scene of him having a complete tantrum. Screaming; yelling; pulling at his hair; just completely raging out. I also heard him say "fuck him! Fuck them! Fuck all of this shit!"

This makes me think that at a certain level of him being pissed off (which i do think takes alot for him to go this far), he can turn into a person that stops giving af about any and everybody. I don't exactly think he seeks revenge, but I do think he ends up wanting to take his anger out on someone or something. And he doesn't exactly care who/what it is. It's like getting so mad that you see red. This type of uncontrollable rage in Mingyu can be very destructive and just simply not healthy

He can be the kind of person to want success and money by taking shortcuts or not hustling as hard as others to get it. It's giving vibes of a person that would attach himself to nepo babies, socialites, and other well well off folk to get ahead. But I also see that in his blind attraction to just being in the presence of wealth, he could befriend scammers, criminals and people that lowkey get their money in more nefarious ways, while on the surface things look more legit. (This is an odd example but I'm getting reminded of how, in the past, corrupt South korean presidents would take bribes and gifts from big conglomerates like Samsung in exchange for tax cuts etc....). I can see Mingyu being this way if he falls too deep into chasing after the bag and keeping up with the Jones. His lesson in life will likely be "everything that glitters ain't gold."

To add onto this. He could possibly even get his friends to participate in these more sketchy business dealings( like promoting shady companies to fans) . Even resorting to peer pressure or guilt tripping if they were more hesitant to get involved.

Mingyu may weaponize his ignorance alot. I can see that in his love life, he could purposefully remain ignorant about things so that he doesn't have to put too much effort into a lover/partner. For an example, he could be dating someone and not know things like their birthday, important anniversaries etc.... so when these events arrive and he "forgets", he could just claim ignorance and be forgiven. "You know I love you hun, I didn't mean to forget, I just had a lot going on".🥺

Very manipulative person, knows how to touch at a person's heartstrings and weasel his way out of trouble.

Dark Things In love:

He enjoys the chase. Like a true aries man, he loves the chase. He loves the idea of wanting a person who doesn't want him. The dark side to this is.....Mingyu likes the fact that even when he becomes fixed on a person, their not the only one. He's like, " Yeah, I'm showering you with all of these gifts, love and attention, but I could be doing this to a million other women."

Mingyu likes arrogance in his partners as well (think Regina George) to the point of being kind of a bitch and low-key a bully. He likes that catty and bratty attitude, wants a partner that demands things of him (like commitment or loyalty), and doesn't concede easily. The only dark thing I'm seeing from this is that wanting this type of partner could lead to his connections turning into full out battlegrounds. Both parties are very stubborn, hotheaded, and in the mindset of "I'm right, you're wrong". He's gonna get what he asks for tryna wife up a Regina George.

Big Spender by Smiler and Lana del Rey is a song that fits this reading's energy

[a-d-nox]

what's a solar return?

any time the sun transits and becomes exactly conjunct your natal sun (it is in the exact sign and degree it was in when you were born), you undergo a solar return. solar returns happen every year on your birthday. my solar return is coming up this october, so i thought "why not?let's continue my thoughts about the return charts."

but what can a solar return chart show you?

literally everything about your year ahead. you just have to look at it and know what you are looking at/for. so let's break it down some of the basics...

paid reading options: astrology menu & cartomancy menu

enjoy my work? help me continue creating by tipping on ko-fi or paypal. your support keeps the magic alive!

sun

energy/aura, attention you receive this year, leadership opportunities, creativity, pride/ego/dignity, how generous you are, individuality, personal development, self-awareness, what makes you happy, celebrations, and self-expression.

moon

emotions / emotional responses, self-care, comfort zone / safe space, femininity, mothers / matriarchal / maternal instincts, family, nostalgia, pregnancy/fertility, baking/cooking, adaptability, menstruation, and habits/routines.

mercury

communication/gossiping, mindset / reasoning skills, perception, writing, social media / cellphone use, short trips, ground transportation, and mannerisms.

venus

romance, beauty/aestheticism, pleasure(s), art/entertainment, self-love, harmony, femininity, sentimentality, how you compromise, parties/celebrations, and possessions.

mars

passions/desires, self-confidence, ambition, anger/aggression, competitiveness, athletics / physical energy, impulsivity, courage/bravery, tasks, masculinity, assertiveness, sexuality, and violence.

jupiter

luck, abundance, wealth, success, opportunity, popularity, wisdom, air travel, ease, higher education (college/university), optimism, justice/retribution, law, and fulfillment.

saturn

work, achievement/mastery, challenges, karma, fathers / patriarchy / paternal instincts, fears, guilt, delays/limitations, discipline, responsibility, past issues that are prevalent this year, practicality, stability, endurance, maturity, and grudges.

uranus

friends/fans/followers, technology, fluctuation/change, rebellion, independence, originality, unexpected things / surprises, and chaos.

neptune

creativity, selflessness, escapism, intuition, hidden things, deception/lies/delusion, confusion, inspiration, and addiction/fascination.

pluto

change/transformation, power, sex/seduction, death, intensity/magnetism, obsessions, manipulation, and purging.

1h/asc

identity, approach/mindset this year, physical appearance, mannerisms, and your presence.

2h

money/finances this year, material possessions, self worth, what you are giving/receiving, and resources.

3h

communication/gossip, mind / method of thinking, sibling relationship(s), interests, ideas/information, ground transportation, social media / cellphone use, publishing, and short trips.

4h/ic

homes/houses, family matters, parents (mainly maternal figures), inner child work you do this year, inheritance, traditions you practice this year, self-care you do this year, and femininity.

5h

children, talents / hobbies / entertainment / creative pursuits, drama, short-term romances, pleasures/gifts, fertility, and joy/delight/jubilation

6h

daily routine, health/fitness/diet, work/duties, self-improvement / shadow work, hygiene, and pet(s).

7h/dsc

long-term relationships / marriage / partnerships, how you care for others (if you care for others), minor legal pursuits, contracts/negotiations, known enemies, close associates / business partners, and equality/harmony/sharing (how you promote it and how (if) you receive it).

8h

changes (external and internal), death (internal and external), shared finances, what you invest in, stocks/taxes/inheritance/loans/assets, intimacy (intellectual and physical), secrets/mystery, mental health / trauma you experience, and possible surgery/operations.

9h

wisdom you gain, major legal pursuits, new beliefs/ethics/philosophy milestones, college/university, and air travel / travel abroad.

10h/mc

career, public image / status / reputation in society, responsibilities towards society/others, authority, paternal figures, and your professional aspirations (the progress you make towards them this year).

11h

friends/companions/allies/groups, ideals/desires, how your different this year as opposed to years past, technology, networking/socializing, and parties (formal and informal).

12h

how you heal this year from you past / mental health journey, karma, sleeping habits, your experience with solitude/isolation this year, unknown enemies, illusions/delusions you have about your situation, fears / self-limitation, losses, and what you secretly/subconsciously want most this year.

have ideas for new content? please use my “suggest a post topic” button! 

return to nox’s guide to metaphysics

return to the masterlist of return charts

© a-d-nox 2023 all rights reserved

[whencyclopedia]

Wealth & Power in Medieval Iceland

Early medieval Iceland, the Viking colony, was a democratic and egalitarian society, but the scarcity of resources and the rough environment created competition, where local chieftains resorted to different tactics to acquire wealth and money, from using their advantage as men of the law and representatives of the people to the often complex social relationships they had with their followers.

Economic Challenges

To understand the economic challenges, we need to keep in mind that the short growing season in the north especially, was variable and mostly meant moss and lichens. Birch, Iceland's only tree, suffered from the changing temperatures and then the settlers' woodcutting. The settlers were probably pleased initially since the land was easy to clear for farming, but very soon the island started showing its boundaries. Overgrazing caused erosion, the cooling of the climate affected productivity, no new farming technologies were developed. In the south, it was possible to grow small crops of cereals, but the farmer (bændr) usually turned to sheep and cattle. Hay was vital, thus fertile meadows as well, turning land into the most desired commodity and the source of many disputes in the sagas.

On this tiny island, one viable solution to increase one's wealth was to simply steal someone else's property. The income a chieftain, a local leader (goði), could legally acquire by fulfilling his legal duties was simply too low and unsteady to support followers, offer gifts, and hold feasts. According to the Sturlunga Saga, a collection of stories about the powerful clan of the Sturlungs in the mid-12th century, there does appear to have been a tax of support for local leaders, the so-called 'sheep-tax' (sauðatollr). It seems to have been forcibly collected at the end of the free state, that is before Iceland was brought under the control of the Norwegian crown, by local leaders in need of funding. The more aggressive stance against farmers and merchants at this time was not limited to Iceland as Europe, in general, was dealing with inflation.

Moreover, there was never enough silver in Iceland, and so they had to figure out early on different substitutes: cloth, dairy products, livestock. Vaðmál (homespun cloth) became pretty common, replacing silver as a unit of exchange. Prices were set in standardized ounces and discussed at local assemblies. The value of cows was also set at these assemblies, which meant prices could be different from region to region.

Continue reading...

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Biden wants to ban ripoff “financial advisors”

I'll be at the Studio City branch of the LA Public Library on Monday, November 13 at 1830hPT to launch my new novel, The Lost Cause. There'll be a reading, a talk, a surprise guest (!!) and a signing, with books on sale. Tell your friends! Come on down!

Once, American workers had "defined benefits pensions," where their employers promised to pay them a certain amount every year from their retirement to their death. Jimmy Carter swapped that out for 401(k)s, "market" pensions where you have to guess which stocks will be valuable or starve in your old age:

https://pluralistic.net/2020/07/25/derechos-humanos/#are-there-no-poorhouses

The initial 401(k) rollout had all kinds of pot-sweeteners that made them seem like a good deal, like heavy employer matching that doubled or even tripled the value of every dollar you put into the market for your retirement. But over the years, as Reaganomics took hold and workers' power ebbed away, all these goodies were clawed back. In the end, the market-based pension makes you the sucker at the poker table, flushing your savings into a rigged casino that is firmly tilted in favor of finance barons and other eminently guillotineable plutocrats.

Neoliberalism is many things, but most of all it is a cult of individualism. The fact that three generations of workers are nows facing down retirement without pensions that will provide them with secure housing and food – let alone money to see the odd movie, buy birthday gifts for their grandkids, or enjoy a meal out now and then – is framed as millions of individual failures, not a systemic one.

In other words, if you are facing food insecurity and homelessness after a lifetime of hard work, it's because you saved wrong. Perhaps you didn't save enough (through a 40-year run of wage stagnation and skyrocketing housing, health and education costs). Or perhaps you saved wrong, making the wrong bets on the stock market. If you can't afford to run your air conditioner during a heat dome, that's on you: you should have been better at stocks.

Apologists for this system will say that you don't have to be good at stocks – you just have to pay an Independent Financial Advisor to pick the stocks for you and you'll be fine. But IFAs don't work for free! What if you can't afford one?

Enter "predatory inclusion" – the practice of offering scammy, overpriced and substandard products to poor people and declaring it to be a good deed, because otherwise, those poor people would have to do without. The crypto bubble relied heavily on this: think of Spike Lee and others shilling for pump-and-dump scams as a way of "building Black wealth":

https://www.nytimes.com/2021/07/07/business/media/cryptocurrency-seeks-the-spotlight-with-spike-lees-help.html

More recently, Intuit and other scammy tax-prep services have argued against the IRS's plan to offer free tax preparation as bad for Black and brown people, because it will deny them the chance to be deceived and ripped off with TurboTax:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/09/27/predatory-inclusion/#equal-opportunity-scammers

Back in 2018, Trump won the predatory inclusion Olympics, when his Department of Labor let the Fifth Circuit abolish the "Fiduciary Rule" for Independent Financial Advisors:

https://www.investopedia.com/updates/dol-fiduciary-rule/

What was the Fiduciary Rule? It said that your IFN had to put your interests ahead of their own. Like, if there were two different funds you could bet on, and one would pay your IFN a big commission, while the other would be a better bet for you, the IFN couldn't put your retirement savings into the fund that offered them a bribe.

When Trump killed the Fiduciary Rule, he proclaimed it a victory for poor people, especially Black and brown people. After all, if IFNs weren't allowed to accept bribes for giving you bad financial advice, then they would have to make up the difference by charging you for good advice. If you couldn't afford that advice, well, you'd have to make bad retirement investments on your own, without the benefit of their sleazy self-dealing.

The Biden Administration wants to change that. Biden's Acting Labor Secretary is Julie Su, and she's very good at her job. Last spring, she forced west coast dockworkers' bosses to cough up the contract they'd stalled on for a year, with 8-10% raises for every worker, owed retroactively:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/06/16/that-boy-aint-right/#dinos-rinos-and-dunnos

Su has proposed a way to reinstate the Fiduciary Rule, as part of the Biden Administration's war on junk fees, estimating that this will increase retirees' net savings by 20%:

https://prospect.org/labor/2023-11-07-julie-su-labor-retirement-savers/

The new rule will force advisors who cheat their clients to pay restitution, and will require them to deliver all their advice in writing so that this cheating can be detected and punished.

The industry is furious, of course. They claim that "The Market (TM)" will solve this: if you get bad retirement savings advice and end up homeless and starving, then you will choose a different advisor in your next life, after you are reincarnated (I guess?).

And of course, they're also claiming that forcing IFNs to stop cheating their clients will deny poor people access to expert (bad) advice. As the Financial Services Institute's Dale Brown says, this will have a "negative impact on Main Street Americans’ access to financial advice":

https://www.fa-mag.com/news/legal-challenge-predicted-for-new-dol-fiduciary-proposal-75257.html

Here's that rule – read it for yourself, then submit a comment expressing your views on it. The government wants to hear from you, and administrative law requires them to act on the comments they receive:

https://www.federalregister.gov/documents/2023/11/03/2023-23782/proposed-amendment-to-prohibited-transaction-exemptions-75-1-77-4-80-83-83-1-and-86-128

Su is part of a wave of progressive, technically skilled regulators in the Biden administration that resulted from a horse-trading exercise called the Unity Task Force, which divvied up access to top appointments among the progressive wing and the finance wing of the Democratic Party. The progressive appointments are nothing short of incredible – the most competent and principled agency leaders America has seen in half a century:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/10/23/getting-stuff-done/#praxis

But then there's the finance wing's appointments, like Judge Jacqueline Scott Corley, who ruled against Lina Khan's attempt to block the rotten Microsoft/Activision merger (don't worry, Khan's appealing):

https://pluralistic.net/2023/07/14/making-good-trouble/#the-peoples-champion

Perhaps the worst, though, is Biden's Secretary of Commerce Gina Raimondo, a private equity ghoul who did a stint for the notorious wreckers Bain Capital before founding her own firm. Raimondo has stuffed her department full of Goldman Sachs alums, and has sidelined labor and civil society groups as she sets out to administer everything from the CHIPS Act to regulating ChatGPT.

As Henry Burke writes for the Revolving Door Project and The American Prospect, Raimondo's history as a corporate raider, her deference to the finance sector, and she and her husband's conflicts of interest from their massive stakes in companies she's regulating all serve to undermine Biden's agenda:

https://prospect.org/economy/2023-11-08-commerce-secretary-gina-raimondo-undercutting-bidenomics/

When the administration inevitably complains that its popular economic programs aren’t breaking through the media coverage, they’ll have no one to blame but themselves.

The Unity Task Force gave us generationally important policymakers, but ultimately, it's a classic "pizzaburger." If half your family wants pizza, and the other half wants burgers, and you serve them something halfway in between that makes none of them happy, you haven't made a wise compromise – you've just made an inedible mess:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/06/17/pizzaburgers/

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/11/08/fiduciaries/#but-muh-freedumbs

[warsofasoiaf]

Are the Manderly’s true Northerners? Additionally, we know they brought with them a great deal of wealth, but is it possible they initially struggled with the cultural divide and/or making inroads with the other Northern houses in the years immediately following the Starks gifting them the Wolfsden?

What is a "true Northerner?" Certainly, they live in the North, that makes them Northerners, but is that all that's required to be a "true Northerner?" They pay their taxes and govern their lands in liege to House Stark like the other northern lords - is that what it means to be a "true Northerner?" Or does a "true Northerner" follow the Old Gods? If there are "true Northerners," does that mean there are "false Northerners?" I'm not being flippant - the idea of what is a true member of a group is something that, while often used as a means of dismissal, is actually a very important element of group dynamics.

I imagine there was some level of cultural divide - they follow a different religion after all. But I imagine that since they were invaluable to the Starks and served loyally, eventually they won their neighbors over.

Thanks for the question, Anon.

SomethingLikeALawyer, Hand of the King

[blairofchaos]

Nightmare Headcanons

Nightmare is around 500-600 years old, which means in our history, he could have been around for the Renaissance period (when he was young). I like to think that this shaped a lot of his interests throughout the years.

He has a collection of vinyl records he listens too, mostly classical music, although he likes any music without lyrics.

He has tried to play the violin before. He can play a few basic melodies, but lost interest fairly quickly. The violin he has has been gifted to Cross, along with the sheet music to go with it.

Nightmare has a large library that anyone is allowed into. All the books are alphabetized, and if you take a book out, you will be expected to put it back in the same place. It even has one of those rolling ladders to reach the high shelves.

Any erotic content in any of his books has been ripped out. He hates sex scenes in books and movies, as they make him very uncomfortable so he just...removes them.

Nightmare has had hundreds of years to amass wealth. He's probably on a Forbes list somewhere. Even with taxes and expenses for him and the others, he has more money than he knows what to do with, and due to his investments, more pours in every minute.

That's where the paperwork comes in. Every so often, Nightmare will visit a random universe, find a small town, gather information on everyone in debt in that town, steal all of the records, and pay it all off. Every cent.

Nightmare also has an atrium/greenhouse attatched to the back of the mansion. He, Error, and Dust are the only ones allowed in. He takes great care of all of the exotic plants he has back there.

Dust is Nightmare's favorite because he doesn't cause as much chaos as the others.

Nightmare has the key to the training arena. He locks it up because Cross likes to exhaust himself training. Nightmare also has a mini fridge in his office with energy drinks, as well as the only coffee maker in the mansion. If you want caffeine, you have to ask him.