#You need to know how to immigrate and get a job in the country | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

lesinquietes · 12 days ago

Text

Summary: Stoker never gave any indication that his story was real. Besides, even if it was based on true accounts, what are the odds that a Transylvanian vampire has somehow found his way into your house? Then again, what were the odds that you would move into a rural home with a resident nightstalker at all?

Pairing: Yandere!Alucard x AFAB!Reader

Warning: 18+ (minors, don't interact), angst, dark content, horror, misogyny (a sprinkle), sexual themes, violence

Previous l

ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ

a lot of alu x reader interaction here that I’m proud of :’) he’s getting more n more smitten by her — maybe it’ll be his undoing?

The Basement's Monster III

After Ericson and Cree check the basement, there’s peace in the house for another few weeks. The weather gets crisper. There’s a bite in the frosty air. The region’s first snowfall occurs on December 11th.

You focus on work and research. In the daytime, you do your job and earn the money you need to survive. At night, you study vampirism and its deterrents, searching for any piece of info that proposes absolution.

Cognizant of what's dwelling beneath you, your guard never lowers. From experience, you know he attacks in waves. Your theory is that he garners strength between his physical disruptions by resting. He can only manifest when he's manifested enough power. He’s weak, and that’s what’s been sparing you from the full brunt of his wrath. The question is, when will he be rejuvenated permanently?

Bram Stoker’s Dracula teaches you a lot. It context is what prompts you to study Romanian lore. Fascinatingly, exploring Slavic texts is what leads you to recognize the language in your dream. Although you don’t recall what the sign said, you noticed the characters you found on the Internet appeared to mimic what you saw. The vampire must be tied to Romania.

In the fictional novel, Dracula is a nobleman from that country. He's also the main antagonist of the story, and winds up slaying multiple innocent people; all while remaining elusive to the great Van Helsing and the naive Jonathan Harker. Is this— no. Stoker never gave any indication that his story was real. Besides, even if it was based on true accounts, what are the odds that a Transylvanian vampire has somehow found his way into your house?

Then again, what were the odds that you would move into a rural home with a resident nightstalker at all?

You recount the novel's plot. Jonathan Harker sets out with the intention to aid a man wishing to immigrate. England is heralded as a land with vast opportunity and an air of peacefulness. Count Dracula emphasized his desire to integrate into its wealth of culture. Jonathan visits his castle and notices several strange things about both the mighty building and the Count. Eventually, he happens across Dracula’s harem of brides, and just as he’s about to be finitely drained, he escapes. He awakens in a hospital, unable to contact friends or family until much later. By that time his nemesis has already fled on a ship destined for English shores.

You swallow. Allegedly, this is just a tale. But perhaps the book was his way of warning humanity about the horrors lurking in dense forests, old castles, and rickety passage ships. How would the monster react if you called him by his ancient alias?

Cree doesn't believe the creature is a vampire at all; on the contrary, he thinks it's a type of witch. In his tribe, kinfolk have shared experiences with an entity which could torment the living and shapeshift. He declined to spill any other details, including identifying information, for fear that it would summon the monster. You haven't been able to find anything else on the concept. Most Indigenous folks who replied to curious discussion threads posited that these tales are forbidden to be disclosed to outsiders.

Whether you have a name for it or not, you can be positive of what you went through. Disembodied voices and footsteps ease the anxious part of you that wishes to gaslight. What you heard and saw were real. You know this because Cree heard the noises in Nelly's room, as well; spectral sobbing can't be brushed off as a mere coincidence.

You close your laptop with a laborious sigh. It’s half past noon. You should get something to eat.

You leave your bedroom and rush downstairs. It’s quiet today. You don't recall the last time everyone was home together. Nelly works weekdays. Cree works evenings and weekends.

You reach the bottom landing and stride toward the kitchen. In the doorway, you grind to a halt. Ericson is sitting near the window, nursing a cup of coffee. She’s staring at the grandiose yard. The leaves have fallen off the trees by now. Winter has arrived, and the landscape doesn’t look much different than the one in your nightmare. There's a light dusting of snow on the ground, with more forecasted to roll in over the weekend.

The sensation you get is peculiar. It's thick, immediate, and uncomfortable. You feel like you should run.

As it on cue, the brunette notices you in the window's reflection. Craning her neck, she offers a short smile and a thin greeting. It's precisely what you were expecting.

"Hey."

You return her gesture, uneasy.

"Hey, E."

You linger momentarily. She must be in a poor mood. There's no other purpose for the energy she's exuding.

Robotically, you tread over to the kitchen counter, intent on fixing yourself a meal. You don't speak while you gather the ingredients. Her pupils bore into you, burning through your form as she observes your actions. You can tell there's something she wants to say. It emerges when you're grabbing a box from the cupboard.

"Sleep well last night?"

You pause mid reach. The question seems obscure. She seldom asks about your rest. She's not much for small talk unless she's trying to sus you out.

"Yeah." You regard her over your shoulder. "You?"

There are dark circles under her eyes. Her hair is messy and tangled. It looks like she hasn't gotten the chance to wash up just, having dragged herself out of bed recently.

"No."

You stop arranging your lunch to give her your undivided attention. There's something wrong; you can sense it from her tone. The look she's casting you isn't too friendly, either.

"Are you okay?"

“I heard you stomping around all night.”

You're taken aback. That's impossible. You were in bed by eleven o'clock. You only got up once to use the washroom.

“Me?”

"Well, the pacing was right outside your door, so I figured it was you."

This is not the news you wanted to hear. You're freaking out. You thought things were quiet because he retreated to draw strength; you had no idea he was still lurking around your home, hovering just beneath your conscious awareness.

“I wasn’t pacing.” You insist. “I was asleep.”

Ericson casts you an incredulous stare.

“Really.”

“I’m serious!”

You don’t know what you can do to convince her. There’s no one who can corroborate your side of the story. All you have is your word... oh!

“Wait.”

You take your phone out of your pocket. There’s the messages you sent Cree last night. You both turned in at the same time. You don’t know if he got to sleep afterwards, but you did. It doesn’t guarantee that you didn’t get up in the following hours, but it’s something.

“Look.”

You twist your screen around and walk over to show her the evidence. She squints.

She takes her time scrolling through. Cree might be able to attest later on, if that’ll help absolve you and ease her temper. You know what it’s like to be kept up; you’d be pissed, too. But you’re not who she should be directing her blame towards.

When she nods, you pull the device back. She stares through you for a minute. She comes to before long, fixating on your visage again. Gently, she mumbles.

“It wasn’t you?”

“No.” You shake your head to underscore your innocence. “I swear.”

She hums nervously, shifting her gaze. She wears an anxious expression. The colour has vacated her cheeks, accentuating her horror. You thought she wasn’t going to believe you, but it appears there are other notions playing through her head.

“E.” You grasp her forearm. “You okay?”

Taking time to collect herself, she doesn’t answer you. She's preoccupied, wondering how she’s going to explain the events of last night. You extend patience with adamancy.

“Ana.” You evoke her, using her first name as a last ditch effort to activate her. “Tell me what happened.”

Shockingly, it's effective.

“I heard someone walking around in the hallway above.” She mutters mechanically. “Back and forth, back and forth.”

Her glare, lowered, carries significant distress. Her lips quiver when she pauses between sentences. The retelling of this event is difficult for her. You suppose it’s because the existence of supernatural creatures explicitly challenges her core beliefs. You don’t blame her for grappling with that. Hell, you’re still coming around to the concept of a vampire cohabitating with you. Imagine if she knew what he truly was.

“It didn’t really bother me. I couldn’t get to sleep last night ‘cause I was wired on coffee, so I was just texting a friend. But then…”

She gulps. Now, both of you understand the terror of being at the mercy of this monster. It feels surreal to share this experience with another person.

“I heard someone come downstairs. And I didn’t hear anything else until—“

Tears form in her doe-like orbs. Miraculously, they don’t fall; her pride doesn’t let them. You rush over to wrap her into a tight embrace, anyway. Your compassion opens the floodgates.

“—until my door handle moved.”

Ericson sobs in your arms. She’s taking this hard. As she did for you, so will you do for her. You console her petrified spirit.

“This is the shit I was talking about.” You remind her, rubbing her back gingerly. “Weird sounds, seeing things — you’re not insane.”

In a twisted way, it feels good to clear your name. It’s different than when you and Cree heard the same noises in Nelly’s closet, though; unlike him, Ericson was victimized by the devious cryptid. Your mixed feelings are amplified as you cradle her vibrating form.

Finally, she pulls back to finish her tale. Her voice cracks and shatters the composure she's built. All you can do is clasp her arms, hoping it's enough to stabilize her.

“I pretended to be asleep until it stopped knocking, but I was so fucking creeped out.” Her brown orbs make contact with yours. “And now that you’re telling me it wasn’t you, I’m like, what the fuck?”

She must have thought you were playing a prank, perhaps in an effort to teach her a lesson. She didn’t believe what you experienced was real until she was affected by its daunting presence. But you aren’t the type of person to do that; not when there’s an impending threat. She must have sensed your honesty.

“What time did you hear the footsteps?” You ask.

“Past 1 AM.” She asserts.

“And how long did they last?”

“Hours, dude.”

“Until the doorknob thing?”

“Yeah.”

You ponder. Does the time of night have anything to do with his prowess? During your research, you reviewed speculations that three in the morning is a period of peak strength for supernatural beings. Ericson isn't aware of the exact time, so you have nothing concrete to go on. There's more to explore.

“And after it tried your door, did you hear anything else?”

“No.” She denies. “But I couldn’t get to sleep until sunrise.”

You withdraw from the half-embrace and stand upright. This is the first time a confrontation between her and the vampire has occurred. If it wasn’t, she would have said something sooner. You know Ericson; she’s the type to vent her grievances rather openly.

“Do you know what’s going on?” She inquires.

“I honestly don’t.” You admit. “But I think this thing lives in the basement.”

“What is it?”

“It told me it’s a vampire.”

“Oh, no way.” She clutches her skull. “I could’ve accepted a demon, but vampires are pure fucking fiction.”

You had a similar reaction. The vampire was popularized by Bram Stoker, but the concept of a bloodsucking nightstalker has been around for centuries upon centuries. In Anno Domini, civilians placed blame on these beings for illnesses related to cleanliness — a value that was discarded by many people due to its perceived insignificance. Rabies and pellagra were diseases hypothesized to have caused humans in early times to fear sunlight and water, act in the throes of delusion, and rip out the flesh of their peers and loved ones. Alas, maybe those conclusions aren’t accurate. How are we to know what transpired back then? The undead may have roamed this earth in the form of vampires, who all but died with the coming of modernization.

This bastard beneath you could be the final one in existence.

“I’m literally repeating to you what it told me.”

“Whatever it is.” She sniffs. “What do we do about it?”

“If it were up to me, I’d get us the fuck out of here.” Your confession is earnest. “But we’d have to convince Cree and Nelly to move.”

“Ugh.” She rolls her head back in utter anguish. “No, I really can’t afford to move again.”

That’s fair. You’re recovering from the moving costs alongside her and Cree. Only Nelly has been able to completely pay hers off. As much as you hate to say it, you’re stuck here until you can save up enough to consider looking elsewhere. Your last resort is subletting, and even then, you'd have to find a new home.

“As a short-term solution, do you want to sleep upstairs for now?” You offer. “You can stay with one of us.”

Power in numbers. Cree would be willing to room with her, as would you. Nelly, you’re not certain. She enjoys her solitary space. And, to your knowledge, she hasn’t experienced supernatural occurrences this house has to queued for you yet.

But Ericson isn’t on board.

“No.” She decides resolutely. “I’m gonna go out and buy a few things for protection later.”

You raise a brow. You almost didn't catch that; her energy changed. It's disquieted. What just happened?

Jaw clenched, she gets up from her seat. She bobs her head back and forth, as though in disbelief. There’s an urgency to her movements. It’s impossible to know where she’s at if she doesn't communicate.

“Actually, I’m gonna call a taxi and grab them now.”

She pulls out her phone and begins sifting through it.

"Don't you want to wash up first?"

You don't mean it as an insult. You want her to slow down. She doesn't share your sentiment.

"Nah. When I get back."

You realize that there's no convincing her otherwise. It's your cue to depart. There are tasks on your mind, too.

"Okay, well... I'm a text away, okay?"

"Thanks, (f/n)."

You walk across the kitchen and head towards the doorway. You've lost your appetite. You'll eat at dinner tonight.

As you rush out, Ericson calls after you.

"Hey, you and Cree aren't dating, right?"

You laugh, trotting back upstairs.

"Not a chance!"

The brunette hums knowingly into the empty space. There’s a playful flutter in her voice. Her orbs don't leave her screen.

“Heh. Yeah. Sure.”

Ericson left ten minutes ago. You watched her get into the taxi and wave at you through the window. It's likely she'll be gone for a good few hours. Nelly will be home in thirty, but until then, you're in solitude. It's just you and the vampire.

You stand outside the basement door. You recognize that disengaging the locks would be suicide. Don’t vampires need to be invited inside? You don’t wish to be a willing victim this time. If he's going to act belligerently, he can do so without your condolences. You won't open the door. This will be a good test to determine the bounds of his strength.

You press your palm against the wooden panels in front of you and close your eyes. Clearing your throat, you speak.

“Monster.” You brazenly address him. “Can you hear me?”

Below, Alucard is intrigued. Yes, he’s listening; he’s been listening since you awakened. He can’t see what you’re doing on that laptop of yours, but it’s apparent that you’re dedicated to your work. He was hoping you would come downstairs so he could get a better glimpse of you. Now, you want to talk.

“I’m not going to let you fuck with my friends.” You declare. “Leave us be.”

The demand is valiant. You’re in no place to be commanding an otherworldly being. He must know this.

And he does. A king cannot bend his knee to one who is undoubtedly more frail than he. You must know this, as well.

The silence that fills the corridor is particularly aggressive. You don’t think the house has ever been this quiet. Yet, you’re not alone. Fine. If he won’t communicate, you’ll force him to react.

“Dracula.” You swallow. “Stop ignoring me.”

Promptly, the lightbulb in the hallway snaps. Your eyes snap open. Glass pours over you like rain, causing you to flinch on impact. Thankfully, none of the pieces draw blood.

“Continue to involve them, and they will die.” A sinister voice growls.

Your breath hitches. Time feels as though it’s standing still. Gradually, the room cools down. The small hairs decorating your skin stand on edge, denoting your dread. He’s here. For all you know, he could be on the opposite side of the door, grinning at your helpless form.

“You should fear your own fate, pretty mortal.”

You can practically see his predator-like simper. It has your gut gurgling with nausea. You want so badly to flee. The front door is over there. You can make it, but you don’t try; your purpose is to persist.

“Stay away from them.” You repeat adamantly. “And me.”

Alucard is salivating. He’s never wanted you more. He loves a woman who can stand up for herself — even if she’ll be easily overpowered. Where did this fire come from?

“You feign as though you have control.” He cackles cruelly. “You don’t. I can smell your anxiety, sweet little thing.”

But he can't access your thoughts with the same simplicity with which he used previously. You have a mental barrier that restricts his ingress. He's growing increasingly impressed. The mastery you're possessing over your functioning is uncommon for mortals.

"I do have control." You contend. "Because you aren't at your best, are you?"

Alucard ponders. He should have been keeping a closer eye on you. It appears as though you've been doing a healthy amount of reading. First, you call him by his ancient moniker; then, you acknowledge his sickliness. Where did you learn this information?

"It matters not." He drawls solemnly. "I won't remain this way forever."

Ericson has his amulet. He has been whispering to her in dreams, coaxing her to carry the amulet with her. She awakens, unrestful, with induced amnesia. The subliminal messaging will work more effectively soon. She’ll want to protect herself now that he’s made an appearance. He was content to hear how terrified his visit made her, as she confided in you earlier.

"What can you do to stop me?"

The question isn't as innocent as he makes it sound. It's layered in horror and misconception. Can he be stopped? Or, better yet, can you stop him? You've never considered yourself the Van Helsing type.

"We’ll leave.”

He smirks.

"Will you?"

He must have overheard your discussion with Ericson. Moving is a long-term plan; it won't aid you in the meantime. You revise your thought, refusing to back down.

“It might take time, but we can."

If worst comes to worst, subletting is on the table. Leaving your friends wouldn't feel phenomenal, but if it comes to keeping your life or discarding it, you will have to face the ultimate sacrifice. Hopefully, they'll have the sense to trust your words and bolt alongside you.

"Even if you could, I wouldn't let you."

Why do you delude yourself? It could be that he hasn’t proven his prowess. That’s an acceptable excuse, given his diminished state. If that's the case, he'll show you.

"I wonder how you'll react when I start to pick your friends off, one by one?" He snickers. "You can't protect them all."

He's hungry for violence; hungry for his innate compulsion to revel in the anguish of the unworthy. He projects this feeling outwards, afflicting you with his morbid thirst. It settles onto your body like dust — invisible, and unpleasantly capable of choking you.

Rage washes over you upon listening to his menacing remark. It implores your legs to kick and your arms to punch. It wills you to scream until your throat is hoarse. The heat that rushes through you is enough to have you gasping for air on the porch. You wouldn't be shocked if your head was steaming from the surplus of pressure.

"You think they're stupid?" You scoff. "Or do you plan to be cowardly in how you pick them off, as you say?"

Abruptly, another lightbulb shatters. It's the one above the front door. Your comment got to him.

Consciously, you haven't a clue where this courage stemmed from. A moment ago, you were frightened he would smash through the wood and abduct your wrist. Unconsciously, you're aware that white hot anger is your vehicle. It's been months of this beast pushing you around. A part of you screams no more.

"Cowardly!" He barks, laughing viciously. "You have nerve calling me this, while you hide behind a locked door.”

"Using the defenses I have against a foe who doesn't play fair seems more strategic to me."

Alucard thrums. You're intelligent to a degree he didn't presume prior to this argument. You're fortunate he likes a bit of spice in his mates. Other vampires would have decapitated you to achieve a rewarding silence.

"Tell me, what would you do if you woke from your slumber to my shadow over your bed?"

It's rhetorical. You wouldn't do anything because you would be dead. Few humans can attain the upper hand with him. But you don't buy into the fantasy he's selling. Instead, you smile thinly.

“I’d drive a stake through your heart, vampire.”

Upstairs, a flurry of lightbulbs puncture. Their noise — quick and shrill — cascades like dominoes. You follow them through the ceiling with witless orbs. The bathroom blows first, then Cree's room, yours, and Nelly's. The bulb at the top of the stairs is the only one which remains intact.

Of all his years existing, Alucard can't recall feeling such a potent arrow of indignation shoot through him. You've tested him enough. He’s going to use what strength he has to teach you an eighth of his wrath.

And he thinks, with a devilish playfulness — the kind that's dipped in fury — oh, how intrepid you’re acting; how intrepid and foolish.

Your jaw unhinges. He’s walking down the steps. Was he upstairs this whole time? A more horrible notion enters your mind: was he in your bedroom? You tremble. That would mean he’s been next to you all morning, deadly and untraceable.

The floorboards behind you creak. You hiss, back stiffening. The room carries an unusual weight to it. It’s as though he’s present with you, hovering over your shoulder — a mere footfall away if you dared to step backward.

You don’t. You can’t. It’s impossible for you to face him when you’re unable to move.

“My dear.”

His tone is sharp and dominant. The playfulness is gone, indicating that his pride has been wounded. You can sense his exasperation. He’s simmering like a pot of soup over a moderate flame.

“You excite me as much as you infuriate me.”

You gulp. His voice is so clear. He really is here with you.

He hasn’t touched you. You don’t know how you’ll react if he does. Will his hands feel as cold as you imagine? Will his nails feel like razors, raking along your skin? Will he kill you where you stand, dragging your mangled body to the basement before Nelly arrives?

“Still, as much as I love that fiery tongue of yours, I won’t be spoken to this way by a disobedient mate.”

Your heart drops. You wait. And wait. And wait for him to grasp you; to show you precisely how he’s destroyed the wills of various others. He doesn’t.

“Trandafir.” He purrs. “During my reign in Wallachia, I believed in strict punishment for poor behaviour. Back then, even my women were not immune to my cruelty.”

Wallachia? Vaguely, the location is familiar. You don’t know why. And what did he call you, again? Tra—tranf—trand…afir…? You’ll have to look these terms up when you get out of this mess. He’s dropping hints. You’ll play his game if it means deciphering clues in your favour.

“My primary mode of execution for traitors was a slow death by impalement. I happily watched as defiers and enemies bled out across hours, sometimes days.”

His family made sadism seem normal. Of them all, though, his father was a compelling example of psychopathy. He invigorated him, at a young age, to dominate. As a king, he honed that trait.

“Even as a mortal, I had an acquired taste for human blood.” He laments darkly. “It was a delicious dip for breads and pastries.”

He truly savoured his enemies’ suffering. That wasn’t anything he was taught; he dedicated himself to the cryptic deed of his own volition. Sometimes, he wonders if that’s why he was capable of rising from the grave. Not all are.

“If I had half my strength, I would not hesitate to impale all of your friends, and force you to bathe in their blood.”

He would have them draw a circle of worship. You would sit in the centre. Sitting in a triangle on the outskirts of the sigil, he would appear behind them and slice their throats.

He imagines snatching Nelly by her thin braids and yanking her head back. A sharp claw would do the trick. Ericson would befall a similar fate. Cree would be decapitated. Your role, once the blood started to spurt, would be to open your mouth and absorb their lives. How pitiful and tantalizing you would look, painted with the loss of your loved ones.

He would keep them alive and under his influence long enough to make them stab themselves. Maybe he’d give the women a swift end, but Cree would inevitably suffer. It’s the tax he must pay for standing in Alucard’s path, attempting to steal you for himself.

He beams, brain shifting into predator mode. The hunger is coming up. If he’s not careful, he’ll transform his threat into a reality before he’s ready.

“And if I had my full strength, I would sink my fangs into your neck and drain you, my sweet.”

Bloodlust fills the air. Your fight or flight kicks in. He’s too close. You shove yourself forward, seemingly stumbling away from his grip. Wasting no time, you whip around to confront him. He’s not there. In a single snapshot, you feel like a zealot who lost his god. Where did He go? Is He still here with me? Or was He ever here at all?

You stand motionless in the dead air. Disoriented, you examine the locks on the basement door. None of them are out of place. Earlier, he alluded to the mechanisms impeding him, cutting you out to be a coward for inserting a barrier between the two of you. He lied. A reinforced piece of wood made no difference.

As you inspect the door, you notice small wood chippings on the floor. Upon closer inspection, you identify that they’re being blown in by a draft under the door. It almost looks like… something was clawing the opposite side of the door, desperately peeling the paint with every crooked scratch.

#18+ minors dni #the basement’s monster #alucard hellsing #yandere alucard x reader #yandere vampire x reader #hellsing x reader #alucard x reader #afab reader

59 notes · View notes

darkeagleruins · 4 months ago

Text

From David Thomsen:

An Open Letter to Leftists: On July 13, 2024 things CHANGED. For too long you have mistaken our TOLERANCE for weakness and it emboldened you. That TIME has come to an END. Things are going to happen FAST now and you will find yourself wondering HOW you got here. So, here’s how.

You called us RACISTS while we were standing together as WHITE, BLACK, & BROWN Americans. You overwhelmed us with images of races unable to COEXIST. Then came DEI, reparations, & constant ATTACKS for even the smallest perceived slight. You needed us DIVIDED, which was the GOAL.

We supported GAY marriage and didn’t notice the TQIA’s at first. Then you went after OUR KIDS, openly flaunted your sexuality, & made PRONOUNS a weapon. You had men competing in WOMEN’s sports and invading their private spaces. And again you demonized those that DARE push back.

We got behind “ME TOO”, not knowing the intent. The slightest accusation became grounds for MOB RULE. You cancelled and shamed. You made being a MAN the problem. Toxic MASCULINITY was the phrase of the day. So we watched you TEACH AND RAISE a generation of SOFT, feckless boys.

WE’RE ALL immigrants and our ancestors did it RIGHT. They learned English, got JOBS, and assimilated into the culture in order to be a part of this GREAT NATION. Then you allowed an INVASION, gave them handouts, and let them do as they LIKE. Hell, you even wanted them to VOTE.

You changed the NAMES of mountains, and buildings, and teams to ERASE our history. You took the pledge out of schools, knelt during the anthem, and burned our FLAG!! And did it while proudly displaying those of OTHER countries and movements. You made PATRIOT a dirty word.

You took away our VOICE. Media STOPPED even talking about OUR side. You PREACHED to us during our shows, on the NEWS and in the theatres. VIRTUE SIGNALING at every turn. And you LIED. Telling us not to BELIEVE what we were seeing with our own EYES. We felt isolated, even CRAZY.

Then HE came along. He was brash, RAW, but grew on US. He wanted to MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN. He spoke to the helplessness we FELT. You said RUSSIA was his handler. You attacked his CHARACTER, his family. And yet, HE WON. You didn’t let us CELEBRATE though. You said he CHEATED.

So you took to the STREETS. You PROTESTED, and BURNT, and THREATENED, and ATTACKED. Our fascist response was to remain SILENT. We heard every single day that, ORANGE MAN bad. The economy was STRONG, the world was SAFE, and the WALL was going up. You couldn’t let that STAND.

Then came your VIRUS. You locked us in OUR HOMES, hurt our businesses, stole moments from our CHILDREN they won’t ever get back. Keeping us separated became LAW. You killed our ELDERLY and VULNERABLE. Then you FORCED us to inject a CURE. If we refused, you SHAMED and fired us.

You LIED some more. A lot more. You covered up LAPTOPS, mobilized your ARMY of celebs, and smeared the man’s RECORD and reputation. Worse yet, you CHEATED. At least you told us the BLUE WAVE was coming. We didn’t expect it to happen while we were SLEEPING. You STOLE an election.

The best of US finally stood & took to the STREETS. You provoked us and let us walk into that BUILDING. You killed a woman and PROSECUTED the rest. You locked us up. You CENSORED us. Made sure we couldn’t RISE. You weaponized LAW and laughed as YOU DID IT. You thought you’d WON.

We sat and watched you destroy our COUNTRY. You defunded our POLICE, allowing crime to run RAMPANT. You spent to the point we couldn’t AFFORD to live. You abandoned BASES, and EMBASSIES, and allies. You made us WEAK. Then OTHERS began to awake. So you became DESPERATE, more vile.

You convicted him of CRIMES he didn’t commit on CHARGES you didn’t define. You tried to take his FORTUNE. Your leaders called him a THREAT and a fascist. You called him HITLER. And you DEMONIZED EACH AND EVERY ONE OF US. We lost friends and FAMILY. MSM spent everyday on our EVIL.

Then SHOTS rang out. YOU NEARLY KILLED HIM. But the man ROSE. He lifted his FIST in the air and told us to FIGHT, FIGHT, FIGHT. This selfish, HATEFUL, ugly man nearly gave all to save a COUNTRY he LOVES. And we’d been afraid to wear a RED HAT? Our eyes teared with ANGER, respect.

He withstood all you could MUSTER. And in doing so, he EMPOWERED us. And so now you see, the REAL men and REAL women are coming to take our COUNTRY back. We won’t be SILENCED, we can’t be STOPPED. You will watch as every ounce of POWER you once held is returned to the PEOPLE.

We will restore LAW AND ORDER and ILLEGALS will be shown the door. WE will retake our SCHOOLS, our cities, and our STATES. The minority will NO LONGER dictate to a once silent MAJORITY. We the PEOPLE of the United States of America LOVE this man and country. We will and are MAGA!

79 notes · View notes

androgynousblackbox · 1 year ago

Text

OKAY, so I haven't actually finished the book yet so maybe my opinion on this will change, but I honestly feel like the gringo booktubers I watch all have no idea of what to do with Tender Is The Flesh and are fundamentally wrong about it? Like, saw someone trying to say "this book tries to criticize the food we eat rather than the industry", which sounds like absolute fucking bullshit to me because a BIG portion of the fucking book is all about how the industry is treating "the meat" like fucking dogshit and how the characters themselves, the ones who work inside of the industry, are disgusted whenever anyone even attempts to say there is something good about it. There is this constant cognitive dissonance where the characters know what they are doing is inhumane and awful, that they are treating "the meat" horrible, but it's their job, what are they going to do, and at the same time they feel it crosses a line whenever someone call "the meat" human or are even beyond inhumane when someone says the meat "have a good life" because they get treated as studs. Also, like in general, I feel all of them miss the part about this author being argentine and thus how that colors their vision of how the industry works. The biggest industry in all of the argentina, the one that gave us any kind of possibility to survive in this world, was the meat industry, we actually fucking need it because we have nothing else to offer, and yet, all the powerful people who are involved with the meat industry in this work are all foreigners: a japanese man who collects skin of people and threatens his employees with skinning them alive, a gringo, that is literally called gringo, and a german man who is to utterly dettached that has no issue calling "the meat" human and also make inhumane comments about them. At that point is very obvious to me that this isn't about just criticizing an industry, but criticizing a system to whome the industries are merely a reflection of. It's not about the world, it's about a country being so set on their old ways and traditions that are literally willing to eat each other if it means having a foot in the outside world. Because otherwise we have fucking nothing. And this ALREADY fuck us over in the real world. The protagonist is literally the representation of that! He literally asks himself why he keeps working on this shit if it makes him miserable? Because he is the best at it, because he gets paid and he needs the money. CAPITALISM ALL THE WAY DOWN, BABY. Like, the meat food industry is bad, but also think about why they are bad and why the powerful people want it to be bad in the first place. Like, the books says that indigenous, immigrants and other POCs are the first humans to being eaten. The poor and elderly. Why do you all think that is?? Like, I just generally do not understand how you can read that and come out thinking "this person just wants me to be vegan and I don't like that"/"this person doesn't criticize the food industry", like I am a very fucking firm believer that vegans who spend every breath trying to make you vegan are shit and just eat whatever, but even I got that it was meant as something else than that. And how people keep saying that the ending "comes out of nowhere" when it's literally foreshadowed at the beggining at the book while doing the world building? Were you even paying attention at all at that point? Like, I literally saw someone being "I think this book overstimates how much it would take for the world to be okay with cannibalism", like THAT IS NOT THE POINT. The point is not to write "how it's a world where human meat is mandatory", but rather explore the idea in which the way we ALREADY eat each other gets taken to it's extreme. LITERALLY WHAT ALL DISTOPIA FICTION DOES?? Anyway, again, I might change my mind when I finish the work myself, but even by reading the start myself and knowing a bit about the background of this author, I just do not get any of these reviews at all.

#tender is the flesh #andro is talking

207 notes · View notes

liquidorcard · 9 days ago

Text

I'm going to say this here and now alright, and I'm going to say this loud. "Oh you're Canadian what the fuck do you care about the US election!?!?!?" Shut the fuck up. Your shit leaks America. You WANTED to be the world police, this is the fucking outcome: the shit you do effects everyone. So listen the fuck up:

Here in Canada we be a nation of nations. We are a mosaic culture. Do we always hold to those ideals? Absolutely fucking not. But fuck me if I'm not going to scream and yell and bitch and piss and cry and cum to hold my fucking nation to that promise.

Fuck birthright right up the dickhole. If you're here to be chill, live and let live, be pro-social and as productive as you are able-- you are a full fucking blooded Canadian citizen. You are a patriot. You are my nation. You are my people. We may disagree on how, but if we agree we MUST look out for our fellow leaf land lad indiscriminate of the geographical location of the pussy they popped out of, you are MY CANADA. We stand on guard for thee motherfucker.

You know what that also means you shitheels? You MAGA Ameriboo fucks stealing our good maple oxygen? You white supremacist economically illiterate waists of flesh who think REAL CANADIAN immigrants are stealing your jobs while you beg the Wild Rose party to bukkakee on your lives again? You Trump-sensei nobgobblers trying to make my fucking country more like the clusterfuck going on south of the boarder? I don't give a flying fuck if your mother decided to curse humanity with your existence on Canadian soil or not. She should be fined for the improper disposal of toxic waist, first of all, second, you aren't a fucking Canadian citizen. You aren't a fucking patriot. You aren't my fucking countryman. You're a fucking infestation. You're a pollution. You're a blight.

More than ever, you are not fucking welcome here. Get out of my fucking country. Stop waisting public resources. Shut your fucking yapper and shove your cringelord red cap up your ass. You want to "make AMERICA great again!?" Piss off to America. Don't try to camp on our team's side of the ice thinking no one will notice you're wearing the opposing team's jersey. We can no longer afford to tolerate your tomfoolery, with burger land officially on even more than it typically is-- sorry not fucking sorry.

To all the American citizens who didn't just vote to start your full frontal facism arc-- especially to the people most at risk. I'm sorry all I got are clichés but uh . . . Stay strong. Do what you can to protect your immigrants-- your queers-- your citizens of all creeds and colours-- your wives, mothers, daughters, sisters-- your brothers in arms-- your lower and middle class who actually fucking pay taxes. Extra credit to whichever one of you actually manages to eat one of your gazillionaires first (in minecraft.) You lot are welcome to be Canadians too (honorary, or literally if you need to flee the waistland.) Good luck.

23 notes · View notes

shivadh · 7 months ago

Text

It's not really in the spirit of the lighthearted romance genre, but every so often I want to write a story in the Shivadhverse that's about one of the kings passing on to the next king the weird covert stuff you occasionally just have to do as a working politician. Canonically, though I haven't put it in the books anywhere, Fons-Askaz was a neutral ground where Meetings That Never Happened could take place during the cold war, but I also step very carefully around that kind of thing because "A Jewish politician secretly mediating a peace treaty" can spill over into "Secretly Jews run the world" very, very quickly.

But I was listening to a podcast about Nicolae Ceaușescu this morning and it was talking about how basically, he ransomed Romania's Jewish population for spending cash -- if Romanian Jews wanted to immigrate out of the country there was a visa fee, which Ceaușescu then took and used on shopping sprees outside of Romania, a cash-low socialist country at the time. There is a reason the podcast about him is called Behind The Bastards.

Most of the Jews leaving Romania were heading to Israel, which paid the fees to get them out. Still, I can't shake the idea of Jason introducing Michaelis to the more dangerous side of the job by taking him, around age 15 or 16, to a nighttime meeting at the country's one tiny airstrip (purportedly abandoned since WWII) to greet a small aircraft with a handful of undocumented Jewish-Romanian immigrants on board, to welcome them to Askazer-Shivadlakia and give them their new papers as citizens.

"We can't pay the fees, but we can get a few out at a time, illegally. Generally small aircraft flown by volunteer pilots. You asked about the budget line-item for keeping up the old airstrip, and this is why."

"How often do you do this?"

"A few times a year. Sometimes they're only passing through, but they still need papers. Most stay -- there are farmers in dairy country that take them in, until they can get on their feet."

"But you don't have to meet the plane yourself. You could sign the papers and have someone else deliver them, if you wanted."

"I could, but I want to meet them. I want them to know I'm here, that the man holding the highest office in the country cares about their safety. Someday you may have to pass this on to whoever follows you as king. It's important that you pass on the values, not just the actions. So we go and look them in the eye as we give them their new life."

On the one hand, the good thing is that Gregory was born after Ceaușescu fell from power, so this particular tradition doesn't have to be passed on. But I would imagine Askazer-Shivadlakia might still have need of a small covert immigration program of some kind, and sooner or later Gregory's going to have to take Joan with him and teach her that the king goes and looks his new citizens in the eye as he gives them their identity papers.

#random ideas #short stories #jason michaelis #michaelis ben jason

69 notes · View notes

thesiouxzy · 7 days ago

Text

TL;DR:

I find solace in writing. I was going to post the piece below but after sending it to my brother & discussing it, I’m not (going to bother posting it on the other social media sites I frequent)

My brother helped me realize that I’m likely wrong, & Trump probably did win everything I mentioned by the majority’s vote. My problem is I hold on to hope for the good in others. I need to let that go & accept that apparently the majority or Americans really are ignorant, selfish dummies who are misogynistic, racist, bigots. It’s beyond disappointing! I thought that I (along with the people I love & consider friends) represented the average person but apparently we’re in a whole other world from the average American! 😳

Roach Rubes come out of the woodwork during elections & unfortunately, as we’ve just seen, outnumber the intelligent, good people. There’s no changing that so… I’m going to continue to fight for my rights & the rights of others but at the same time I’m going to step back from the news, make popcorn & watch the Roach Rubes get their rude awakening once Trump takes office in January. That’s all we can do 🤷🏼‍♀️

Believe me, I would love nothing more than to have their sweet dreams of Trump being an amazing President who makes America an amazing country with all citizens being taken care of come true, but smart people know that’s not Trump. He only cares about himself & money

——- Original post——-

If you’re going to cheat & rig an election, maybe don’t make it so obvious & out your narcissist self by “winning” ALL 7 swing states, plus the majority of the USA, the popular vote (yeah right! 🙄), the house AND the senate 👌🏼😏

This election reeks of being rigged. It’s easy to do when you have billionaires behind you (especially E. Mu*k) who want to make as much money as they can, plus evil leaders in countries like Russia & North Korea who will also benefit off Trump being president

In addition to all of this, Harris Walz had major hype, hope, & (not that this matters but still) some of the most powerful celebrity endorsements (Taylor Swift, Beyoncé, Oprah & many more). How does anyone with a (normal) brain not find this extremely fishy & demand it gets looked into immediately?! 🤷🏼‍♀️ Instead, less than 24 hours after the election, Biden, Harris & the Obamas are congratulating Trump on his win & telling the rest of us to hang in there & have hope. This is Bizarro World! 🤯 Is this really happening or am I asleep having a nightmare?

We’re really supposed to believe a complete POS man, who is a bully & an absolute embarrassment & disgrace, a convicted felon who has threatened to strip the rights/protection of many, eliminate important programs, deport thousands of immigrants (many of whom, like it or not, hold jobs that are crucial to keeping our country running) & literally spelled it all out in a 900 page agenda, won the election in a landslide AND the popular vote to boot?

20 notes · View notes

alexaloraetheris · 3 months ago

Text

I'm probably gonna be cancelled for being xenophobic on main or something, but it makes me really sad when I come in contact with people who I don't have any language in common with.

In our country, we got a few different waves of immigration so 50% of the time your delivery guy or taxi driver is someone who doesn't speak the local language, and very little English. Everything is handled by its relevant apps, so you can go an entire interaction without a single word spoken.

But I like chatting with the taxi drivers. They work long hours for an exploitative system to make cents, and since I'm benefiting from the system (ie. Getting cheap rides) I do my best to be a model passenger, chat a little and get them to tell me something that interests them. It's a side hustle for a lot of them, and their lives and day jobs are SO INTERESTING. Like, it's a whole different post about the disaster of our economy that scientists, medics, IT programmers and physical therapists need to taxi in their spare time to make it above the poverty line, but it makes for excellent road conversations.

And the immigrant drivers probably have just as interesting stories but HOW WOULD I KNOW??? Today I had an Indian driver, and ofc I was polite and everything, but mostly silent. But he had a playlist of indian songs and I heard one I really liked, so I asked him in English what it was, and guys, he was so happy I was showing interest, he didn't know English that well but he did his level best to translate the song for me, tell me about the DJ, and you'd think he saw Narayana himself when I told him I knew who Shreya Goshal was and I liked her songs.

And y'all, I was so happy but also so sad I didn't try to talk with him from the start of the ride. But a lot of drivers who don't speak even English tend to be embaressed and uncomfortable (one apologetically told me 'my English is little') so I usually stay silent. But now I'm sad because I really would have liked to chat with them, because I just know they would have had so many interesting things to say.

But we don't understand each other. And I'm really sad about it sometimes.

Someone please invent a universal translator already😭

47 notes · View notes

humbledragon669 · 4 months ago

Text

S1E5 – The Doomsday Option Write Up P2 - Saturday (The last day of the World) from "the wiggle on" to "He was waving"

Alright, so now we have the seed of hope planted for an Aziraphale/Crowly reunion, this episode moves, pretty swiftly, through a number of plot threads that now all need to be brought together to serve as the climax for the season.

Thread number one: Madame Tracy and Shadwell, and their purpose in the storyline.

I don’t have a great deal to say about this scene, only one tiny question. Why is that Julia makes no move to hand over a “donation” to Madame Tracy?

Both Mrs. Ormerod and Mr. Scroggie (brilliant names by the way) are clearly well-prepared to be handing their money over, but not so young Julia. I don’t think it’s important, just one of those little things I wondered about when I was watching the scene back.

Thread number two: bringing the Four Horsemen together.

Couple of things to point out in the next montage sequence, including an Easter egg or two. Firstly, the immigration official has clearly become disillusioned with her job in the short time that she granted Anathema into the country.

It’s a very different interaction than the one she had with Anathema where she was actually paying attention. Even Famine seems puzzled at her lack of interest. Next up I just want to say that I really didn’t have the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse down for being tea-drinkers. Don’t get me wrong, I’m British. Tea is the foundation of civilised society as far as I’m concerned. But that’s kind of the point, isn’t it? These four characters are about to, quite happily, undo all of civilisation. Always time for a cup of tea I suppose though. And now for an Easter egg! Feels like it’s been a minute since I’ve pointed one of those out. The top scores on the arcade game next to the one that Death is playing on are all allocated to D.EATH, except for the #1 spot, which goes to T. PRATCHETT.

There is another Easter egg here for the eagle-eyed, this one of the apple variety – one of the questions on the quiz machine asks what year Apple Computers was founded in.

And the last thing about the quiz machine: the machine that displays the “GAME OVER” sign is actually not the machine that Death has been playing on:

As a little side note, once we realise that it’s Death playing on the quiz machine, we can appreciate that he has in fact been there from the beginning of the scene. I wouldn’t swear to it given the camera angles that are used, but I don’t think his bike is in the car park when War arrives. You could argue that it’s out of shot, but I’m still pretty sure she would have recognised it for what it was and known that he was already inside. Famine and Pollution too. So why aren’t they aware of his presence from the outset? Again, probably not important, and the little quiz machine interaction provides some much-needed light comedy.

Back to thread number one. I found little of interest in this scene prior to Aziraphale’s arrival from the spirit world, aside from the vapid personality of Mrs. Ormerod and the obvious dig at the validity of psychic mediums whilst using the delightfully oblivious Mr. Scroggie. What I do really enjoy about this scene is the sound editing (I know, you’re all shocked I’m picking up on sound cues…). We know that something is about to happen when a low rumble begins, enforced by some lightly flickering candles in a room with no breeze, but the real joy here is the sequence of noises, animal, human, and object, that issues from Madame Tracy’s mouth as Aziraphale takes up residence in her body. Miranda Richardson does a pretty stella job here too – this was either really fun to shoot or incredibly embarrassing. I’d lean towards the former, given she’s largely a comic actress, but managing to keep a straight face throughout the whole thing must have taken an incredible degree of self-control. I’d be quite interested to know how much free reign she was given with this, how much of it was improvised, and if she knew there was going to be extra noises added in post-production. Here’s a list of the noises that I could pick up in the sequence that takes place during Aziraphale’s possession:

Rumbling noise before Madame Tracy starts vocalising.

Madame Tracy making a low rumbling noise.

Elephant trumpeting.

The noise of something ramping up, like a turbine engine but not. No idea what this noise actually is!

Thunder (from outside the house – accompanied by lightning).

Madame Tracy’s short shout followed by very high and musical almost-screams.

Another one of those weird ramping up noises but shorter and sharper.

Panting.

Madame Tracy blowing a raspberry.

Loud singing (enforced in the soundtrack) of the William Tell overture.

Madame Tracy belching.

A little quacking noise made by Madame Tracy.

A fart (no way was I leaving this off the list), which puts a definitive stop to any other noises that are ongoing.

Pretty impressive. Those sound editors aren’t done yet though, because aside from another chaotic sound sequence for Ron’s possession, there’s still a load of work to do with the voices coming out of Madame Tracy’s mouth. I love the way they shift between her voice and Aziraphale’s during the following sequence, starting from the very first sentence that she says after the possession has completed – she starts out as Madame Tracy and finishes as Aziraphale (in German, which we were led to believe that he couldn’t speak back in 1941). There are times in this scene where both voices come out of her mouth at the same time and there are other times where Madame Tracy speaks in her own voice but in a deeper tone, and times where it’s one or the other speaking, and it’s all so seamlessly stitched together. Not to mention the fact that it never once looks like it’s not Miranda Richardson speaking – her lip movements match the words exactly. She even adapts some of Aziraphale’s mannerisms when she’s speaking as him. It’s a really brilliantly put together scene. The sound sequences for Ron’s possession (played by none other than Johnny Vegas) are more difficult to pick out because the surrounding scene is very noisy (not that Shadwell would know anything about that, sound asleep in the unaffected boudoir) but I did manage to pick out:

Another raspberry.

A short squeal.

A line from “Moonlight Becomes You” (by Johnny Mathis, I couldn’t see any immediate Easter eggs or references from the lyrics).

A prolonged shout.

More thunder.

What sounds like a piano string or strings (from low down the keyboard) being struck.

A retching noise like someone’s about to hurl.

Something bubbling.

Howling.

Lightning.

Fireworks, used in the same way as the fart in the first sequence – to cut off all the other noises.

It feels like quite a jolt moving from all that cacophony into Madame Tracy’s peaceful kitchen. There’s one little thing that really makes me giggle in this scene:

She seems pretty blasé about the fact that there’s a blonde, slightly transparent, male figure staring back at her from the mirror. It’s only when he actually waves back at her that she reacts at all, and even then it’s pretty muted. I think most of us would have taken off screaming at that point, or pass out, but not Madame Tracy, she’s way too worldly-wise for that dramatic nonsense.

I was a little puzzled at the choice of soundtrack for Crowley’s battle against the traffic in the next scene, but then I wondered whether it was a reference to the M25 being another one of Crowley’s plans that started out so well and then ending up foundering “on the rocks on iniquity”, which appears to be a bit of a running theme throughout the show – first the misplacing of the Antichrist, again in his desperate pleas to Aziraphale for them to run away together, and in his failed rescue of the angel. This particular instance of Crowley’s well-intentioned failings would suggest that it’s a characteristic he has been prone to for a long while, and that the foundering of his plans can take anything from seconds to decades. And just for a bit of fun, a tried to get screenshots of the M25 before and after Crowley’s interference:

I also noticed that the projector Crowley uses is marked as belonging to Room 11:

Having fallen foul of my neglect in consulting Strong’s Concordance with numbers in my write ups before, I did actually remember to look this one up. According to my scant research, 11 in Strong’s Concordance represents a place of destruction or ruin. Whether this is a reference to Crowley’s original intentions for the M25, the eventual fate and purpose of the M25 in the show, or a tongue-in-cheek remark to the experience of actually driving on the M25 in real life isn’t clear. Maybe it’s a bit of all three. Or maybe it’s just a random number. Unlikely I think.

Now that Shadwell’s had a nice little snooze, he also seems to have had some sort of personality transplant. That’s the only real explanation for the impassioned attempt at protecting Madame Tracy’s dignity, right? I think we as the audience all know better, but he clearly forgets himself in the heat of his jealous moment. Interestingly, the mirror no longer appears to show Aziraphale’s reflection:

I think this might just have been a case of budgetary or time restraints rather than an intent to convey anything specific. Whatever the reason, Aziraphale doesn’t seem too upset at Shadwell for discorporating him. One question though – how does the angel know that Shadwell has referred to him as “the Southern pansy” before? As far as I can remember, he never uses that name to his face, which only really leaves the possibility that he has obtained the information from Madame Tracy, who has heard him refer to Aziraphale in that way at least once before. I find it unlikely she would have told the angel the offensive name that had been allocated to him, which suggests he has obtained the news from her own thoughts. Obviously at this point Madame Tracy is sharing the residence of her body, but it does raise an interesting question for later when Aziraphale and Crowley perform the body switch – would they be able to read the thoughts of the other without the sentience of that other being present concurrently?

Whilst we are on the topic of how people know things that they do, how does Crowley know the M25 has just combusted into a ring of infernal flames? I know we’ve had the whole “Crowley turned the M25 into a hellhole” scenario written out for us already, but that was to do with the eternal traffic jams he caused, not some sort of hidden boobie trap that would cause it to spontaneously combust. Presumably this is one of those things his demon-sense tells him has simply happened, like when Adam welcomed the Hellhound into his life.

I find the next scene with the cold caller provides an interesting overview of the way nuisance callers have evolved across the years. The basis for the call in the original book was double glazing, but we’ve moved on to ambulance chasers in the show. As a society I think it’s likely we’ve moved on even further now, from using actual real people to individually make these calls to automated recordings, but Hastur wouldn’t be able to eat them all in that case, thus denying the audience the satisfaction of the sick justice he unwittingly wreaks on the call centre staff. Got ourselves a little Easter egg here too – the message that Lisa types out on her screen (to a colleague or as a note on a casefile isn’t clear) is the title of a Queen song:

This happens to be the very song that Crowley was listening to in the Bentley on the M25. She also types that up right before she arrives his own casefile (titled “Anthony Cowwley”, which differs from the book’s “A J Cowlley”).

Shifting back to Crouch End now (this episode really does jump around a lot doesn’t it?!), can we just take a moment to gape at Aziraphale adamantly declaring that the Antichrist must be killed. The Antichrist who is a child. It really wasn’t that long ago that he was vehemently stating that he himself could never do such a thing, nor could he endorse it without suggesting that it would be for the good of Heaven’s reputation. Now though, he’s very happy to encourage a human, for whom the consequences of killing an innocent child would be dire in Heaven’s eyes, and even worse for killing the Antichrist as far as Hell is concerned, to do the deed, but this time the motivation is nothing to do with his employer; it revolves around the fate of the World. It feels like something of an oxymoron – his siding with humanity driving an incredibly inhumane act. In fairness, Shadwell follows it up with an oxymoron of his own:

So, as far as Shadwell’s concerned: witches? Kill without question. The Antichrist? Not so sure. Even if he’s going to bring about the end of the world. Sounds like he’s all good with the plan when Aziraphale tells him that he has traits associated with witches though. Good morals Shadwell, well done. Perhaps not quite as terrifying as Aziraphale’s declaration of triumph when the sergeant suggests they can use a massive antique gun to fire lumps of building materials to assassinate the Antichrist. Again I’ll point out that Adam is a child, but perhaps it wasn’t clear enough earlier on that Aziraphale also knows he’s a child.

I don’t know whether what I’m about to say describes a typically British behaviour when caught in traffic jams or not, but here goes. Anybody else find it suspect that other people aren’t either already driving down the hard shoulder or that Crowley doesn’t have a giant tail of cars following him? I’ve been in my fair share of motorway gridlocks, enough to know that once some entitled prick starts driving down the hard shoulder in attempt to assert their own self-importance over the rest of the people caught in the chaos, anybody else with delusions of grandeur will follow suit very quickly. Not for Crowley though, he’s just pottering down the escape lane under his own steam. And is it just me, or does it feel like a bit of a violation when Hastur removes Crowley’s glasses? Looks to me like Crowley feels like that as well to be fair.

He manages to get over his surprise quickly enough though, characteristically engaging his brain into full gear to try and find a solution, which he does with an interesting choice of music:

I find it interesting because it deviates from what we have come to believe is his usual taste in music. Mozart would actually seem to be more Aziraphale’s taste than Crowley’s. It’s also a pretty sedate underscore for what he’s about to do. As a side note, this piece not only doesn’t actually start from the beginning when it starts playing in the Bentley, but is also used in another one of my favourite shows – Our Flag Means Death. In that show, it’s used as background music in the final episode when Prince Ricky is strolling down the street his victory over the pirates with another naval officer. The Mozart doesn’t stick around for long though, morphing into Queen’s “I’m In Love With My Car” (no need to point out the reference with this one) as Hastur starts to lose his calm. For those who haven’t read the book, or just don’t remember this detail, there is mention of this phenomenon in the original text – the apparently common mystery that every tape or CD left in a car is doomed to become a Queen album eventually, but this little detail is left out in the show, with the audience instead being led to believe that the CD player plays mood-appropriate music instead.

The speech we get from Crowley here goes a long way to showing us how much he has come to love both humanity and modernity – he’s actually quite complimentary about humans and their ability to invent new things.

Lovely clever people, inventing cars and motorways and windscreen wipers.

He also, in a very dismissive way, puts a clear distinction between himself and Hastur with his marking of the difference between his feelings towards the 14th century and what he believes the Duke of Hell would have thought. That simple little line actually says a lot to me about how he believes he distanced himself from the other beings in Hell – it’s a clear declaration of “we are not the same”. I also find myself wondering if Crowley had little to no contact with Aziraphale during the 14th century, contributing to his dislike of the time period. We certainly never see anything of the sort – the meetings we bear witness to have a large gap between 537 and 1601, though the book and script book tells us that there was definitely a meeting in 1020, and the script would suggest that there were several (dozens of them in fact) meetings between that and the 1601 meeting.

It's interesting to hear that Hastur is concerned that he’s going to be discorporated as it confirms he’s been issued with a human body, just like Crowley, even though he doesn’t reside on Earth. I’d be interested to know if the body was issued to him in that state or whether it looks pretty run down because of Hastur’s lack of appropriate care (which would in turn suggest that both Aziraphale and Crowley have had to work towards maintaining the appearance of their own corporal beings). And whilst we’re on the subject of bodily appearances, I love the little detail that the snake component of Crowley’s eyes now fill his entire eyeball as he maniacally drives through the flames.

I have a suspicion that the size of the snake “irises” (for want of a better word) is reliant on his emotional state, but I don’t feel like I have the patience to go through the show and test the theory. And I don’t know if those little horizontal lines on Crowley’s nose were intentional here or whether that’s just a natural crease in David’s face, but they certainly strengthen the snake resemblance. As a final comment on this scene, we actually hear God telling us that Crowley really is fundamentally different from his peers – he has an imagination. Which is not so different from the idea that Aziraphale is different from his peers because he has free will, a theme that has been presenting itself, with increasing clarity, throughout the series.

Final little note for this section, and it’s about this snippet of epic:

Apparently the most amazing thing about this, according to the local bobby, isn’t the fact that the car is on fire, or that it’s just driven through a wall of fire, or that it’s still moving forward, or even that the person inside it is not only alive, but unharmed and still capable of driving. No, the most amazing thing is that the driver is waving. Gotta love the way us Brits have a way of stating simple facts to display complete amazement.

Right, this section went on for way longer than I thought it was going to so I’m going to cut it short. I was hoping to get as far as the defection of The Them from Adam, but as soon as I started watching that scene I realised I had more to say about it than I thought, so I’m going to let you go for now. As always, questions, comments, discussion – always welcome! See you next time 😊

#good omens #episode analysis #good omens season 1 #ineffable idiots #aziracrow #aziraphale #crowley #madame tracy #sergeant shadwell #good omens death #good omens soundtrack #crowley's sunglasses #crowley's bentley #good omens music #good omens hastur

28 notes · View notes

angel-of-the-moons · 1 year ago

Text

The Ghost and The Relic

Merc!Ghost x Fem!Soul Survivor!Reader

TW/CW: Chem usage, raiders, slavers, murder, executions, child death.

MINORS DNI I AM NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR CONTENT YOU CONSUME

A/N: Depending on how much I like this or how many people like this I might continue this but god I need to get this out of my head lmao.

☢️💀☢️💀☢️💀☢️💀☢️💀

It'd been four years since he took up this kind of work. Three since he'd joined up with the old man.

It was his idea, really, to form their little "Task Force" and roam the Wasteland, performing jobs here or there for settlements, providing temporary security and escort details for caravans...

But Simon "Ghost" Riley had a thought. Several, actually. But they all muddled together after a while, especially around his "team".

Their whole team, a rag-tag group of "soldiers" from all the way in the Mojave to managing, by sheer dumb luck to come ashore with their families from another goddamn country.

Ghost's family was one such case; they'd apparently immigrated 75 years after the Great War from someplace called London. He didn't care much about it, or his family, given how shit a hand he'd been dealt.

His father, the abusive sadistic bastard that he was, had fucked up his younger brother so badly that he himself turned to chems and booze, almost killing himself in the process.

Ghost had rejected that path, convinced his mother to leave his father, and they took his recovering brother and moved into a new shack he and a few of the other residents of their small farming settlement had built and they settled in there. Ghost took up a job in the local militia, defending their homes and settlements; and he became a terrifyingly good shot.

His little brother got clean, stayed sober, and married the girl from a neighboring farm. She was a good match for him and they both loved each other immensely. And it was to their small unit's great joy when they mentioned they were going to have a baby.

A baby boy. Joseph. Their mother was thrilled.

But it all came crashing down, eventually.

Thanks to the old rat bastard.

Raiders slipped right through their defenses during the changing of the watch, in the dead of night when the farmers were all tucked inside their homes.

They'd taken Ghost's farm first, nabbed him on the way down the dirt path to their shack and drug him to their camp, locked him in an old shipping crate.

He didn't know how long he'd been there, or how long he had been tortured... all he knew was that when he finally got free, their settlement was almost razed to the ground, the majority of the militia dead, women taken for sport.

And his family?

Dead. Well. His mother, brother, and sister-in-law anyways. There was still hope for little Joseph.

When he'd gotten to the meeting hall (or what was left of it) he found his father bound and beaten by the settlers, so tweaked out on jet and psycho he didn't even feel any of the pain.

He'd ratted them all out for some fucking chems, like the narcissistic, sociopathic junkie he was.

Ghost had suited up in the best scrap armor they had, bagged provisions, packed loaded weapons and plenty of homemade throwing knives, and set off to find Joseph and the others that had been taken as slaves.

He didn't even look back when he heard the gunshot from inside the hall.

He tracked them for days, maybe longer. He wasn't sure. All he felt was an all-consuming drive to get his nephew back, to save his former neighbors.

But he was too late. He found Joseph's crumpled little body beneath that of a partially nude woman, one he faintly recognized from the settlement, but not enough to recall her name as the haze settled in over his skin.

All he saw was red. Red, like the blood covering that poor, tiny, fragile body.

He moved in the dead of night, creeping like a spectre as he executed every raider and slaver he came across. He shot some, stabbed or slit the throats of others. One he left with his voice box slashed, another with their liver hanging out, both still alive as they bled to death in their dingy tents.

It took him less than an hour. A bunch of jet-addicted starved fools was nothing against Simon Riley and the black rage that swallowed him up.

He'd killed them all.

He led the surviving captives back to their settlement, along with the dead they could recognize, and then burned the camp.

Ghost cradled Joseph against him, swaddled tight in a ratty, blood-stained blanket.

The whole trek home, all his mind would think about was how tiny Joseph was. How he'd carried him like this multiple times back to his own bed after he'd curled up at their fireplace with their pet dog. How he carried him as a baby, and a toddler...

And now, he had to bury him alongside his parents and grandmother, and their beloved pet.

Simon Riley wasn't... he wasn't dead. But he wasn't alive either.

He was like a walking corpse.

A Ghost.

And his name became apt when he'd assumed that moniker (mostly due in part to the skull balaclavas he'd wear. The most intimidating one being the one with the actual skull attached to it...).

He moved like a Ghost, wandering aimlessly, performing jobs.

Then, he met the old man.

John Price, former NCR ranger, before he decided to retire early and leave. Well, more like he went AWOL.

Price was convincing in bringing Ghost into his makeshift military outfit.

There was Alex Keller, a former Great Khan that Price had picked up after his splinter tribe had been killed by his own former allies, the New California Republic.

Then there was Kyle "Gaz" Garrick, a Brotherhood of Steel scribe who became a soldier over a mission that went FUBAR, and left his chapter to travel with Price and his growing "unit".

Johnny "Soap" MacTavish, a rather peculiar man with a fondness for explosives who somehow managed to get close enough to Ghost to actually be considered a friend. He had been a Gunner, but left them shortly after he realized that he wanted to do good, not just work for caps.

And finally, there was Kate Laswell. Part of a small surviving group of something called the "Enclave" Price had explained what their group was at some point, but none of them particularly cared.

For the first time in what felt like a lifetime Ghost was... Content. He had a purpose, no longer wandering aimlessly, part of a unit. A task force. "Task Force 141" Price named it. Apparently it was a nod to the unit he originally was assigned to as a young recruit for the NCR.

Very few of them focused on their past lives, they'd lost so much in their travels, in the shit order they'd been born in. There was no reason to think about all that, now.

After all, past is the past, is it not?

Not entirely, as Ghost came to find out.

Once they'd gotten through the remains of what used to be "New York City" back before the Great War (now it's simply called New Necropolis, given it's dessicated state, and it was strung tight with "death zones".

It wasn't until they moved a bit East that Ghost suggested they set up a permanent base of ops.

He suggested Boston, Massachusetts. It seemed like a good idea, supposedly riddled with Vaults they could repurpose, military checkpoints they could loot for scavenged gear...

Price surprisingly agreed to send him alone, like he asked. Ghost didn't want to risk the other members of his "family" on a possibility he may be wrong.

But... Ghost was rarely wrong these days.

Especially about the past staying in the past...

☢️💀☢️💀☢️💀☢️💀☢️💀

He'd managed to trek to a ruined neighborhood surrounded by creeks and a river, by the looks of it, emptying out into a large lake with several other tributaries connecting.

Sanctuary Hills, the old, overgrown sign told him it was. Yeah, maybe 200 years ago, it was a sanctuary. But then again, maybe it could be again. A lot of the houses were still intact. Plenty of scrap metal, wood, etcetera.

Put up some reinforcements on the remaining structures by cannibalizing parts from the ruined structures, build some fences, plant a few crops for provisions, stockpile weapons in the cellar behind that one house...

What he hadn't anticipated on was a Pre-War Mr Handy, still futilely standing watch over his previous owner's house.

He took offense when Ghost set up his sleeping bag in the yellow house across from his master's, citing that it was "impolite" to assume the house was uninhabited.

Judging by the dusty skeletons lying in the back bedroom, yeah. It was uninhabited, save for the radroaches and bloatflies that took a liking to the "idyllic" neighborhood.

That damned robot harped non-stop, although the water it purified for him was something he was grateful for, his yammering certainly got on his nerves.

"Oh, you should have met Sir, he was a soldier too, you know! A rather polite chap, loved the Missus and their baby boy! Oh, how I miss them." The robot sighed, sounding almost wistful.

Could robots feel emotions? He'd yet to meet one that did.

But then again how long had this robot been alone, exactly?

Apparently, he remembered when the bombs were dropped. So, a very very long time. Ghost tried telling him his masters were probably dead by now, even in the safety of their "Vault" he couldn't get into. It's been 200 years.

"Look, bot..." Ghost sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose through his mask, setting his hammer down on the table.

He'd been trying to fix up the yellow house for a few weeks. He'd managed some work, namely the roof and larger holes, obviously. Codsworth had even been kind enough to help with the cutting and the welding, just glad to be of service to someone who didn't shoot at him.

"I'm a little busy, here. So if you want to get nostalgic, save it for when I--"

His eyes went wide and he went deathly silent when he heard some kind of alarm blaring across the hills. Very faint, but it was a completely alien sound from the ones he memorized from the area.

He'd grabbed his pistol, and immediately started for the trail leading to Vault 111.

Which... is where he met you.

Dressed only in your blue vault suit, with a Pip-Boy secured to your wrist, you stumbled down, blinded by the sunlight and delirious from being down there for... well.

You'd collapsed against him and Ghost grunted, deciding to carry you over his shoulders back down to Sanctuary.

He noticed a glare in the distance, like the glint from a pair of binoculars, but he paid it no mind.

The moment Codsworth had laid eyes on you, the robot would not. Shut. Up.

He kept chattering on, almost blubbering, actually.

"Oh! Oh, it's the Missus!" He'd declared, obviously confusing you for his owner, long dead...

"Oh, but where is Sir and young Shaun! Oh, why is she alone! Where are the others?" Codsworth lamented dramatically.

Ghost waved him off, checking your vitals and looking at you for any injuries.

You had none. In fact, you were perfect. Your skin was clean, spotless and pristine, unmarred by radiation or scars.

He'd been silently looking over you when you awoke in the dead of night, Codsworth busy purifying excess amounts of water, apparently finding an intact bathtub to fill, so you could have one when you awoke. Or for cooking, or drinking... he didn't really care.

He was so lost in his curiosity of the one thing he'd never seen before: you. A Vault-Dweller, that he didn't register your eyes opening, long, clean lashes fluttering as you blinked, adjusting to the dimly lit room, only illuminated by a single oil lamp.

He'd set up his spare sleeping bag for you to use, while you were unconscious.

He was honestly taken by surprise when you screamed at him; scrambling back in the opposite direction.

Oh. Right.

The mask.

Yeah, it made sense why you were freaked out. Not a lot of Vault-Dwellers were probably rocking skull masks as the latest fall fashion craze...

"Listen." He'd growled out, fixing you with a soft, yet stern glare. Ghost was not without his mercy, and he understood that this new world must have been terrifying for you.

"My name's Ghost. Not gonna hurt ya. What's your name?" He said, sticking his hands up in a non-threatening manner.

When you'd uttered your name, his eyes widened visibly. It was the same name that Codsworth had said. Could be a coincidence.

That is... Until you told him about being frozen. For 200 years.

"I... I woke up, when..." You said, your voice breaking apart to cough, your mouth unreasonably dry.

Ghost had moved to kneel in front of you, handing you his old, dented canteen to drink down in a few gulps before wiping your face with the back of your hand.

"Oh god." You cried softly. "They killed him! They took my baby!"

Ghost's ears instantly perked up, and his own past flashed in the back of his mind before he pushed it aside.

"Who did?" He pressed.

"I don't know. Some... Some guy. A guy with a scar, and a gun, he... There was a woman in a radiation suit, then the man... Nate, he..." Your voice broke off in a choked sob.

He felt pity and sympathy for you after you'd given him bits of information.

And when Codsworth came doddering in to investigate your screams, Ghost knew you were legit.

You were his owner.

And you'd been frozen for 200 years inside an ice box; your family ripped away from you by some cruel force.

After a tearful reunion and the viewing of a highly emotional holotape, Ghost watched as you silently walked back into what used to be your home.

He gave you your privacy to acclimate (kind of) into your new "life", until he decided that some things needed to be said. You couldn't be emotional in the wasteland, that got people killed.

It could get you killed.

So Ghost decided to follow after you, where he found you on your knees in front of your baby son, Shaun's, crib, clinging to a slightly rotted rocketship that was once connected to the mobile that dangled above.

You clutched it to your heart as you sobbed quietly at the horror of it all.

What had the world become? How could you, a former lawyer, survive this?

Ghost cleared his throat and straightened his posture in the doorway, looking at you in the dark. The moon was full, casting dim cool shadows through the holes in the structure.

"I know this 's hard for you." His gravelly voice dragged out with each slow, deliberate step he took towards you.

He had to take it slow, like you were a wounded animal.

'Hnh. Not that far off, actually.' He thought.

"But you got'ta understand. You need to learn how to survive here, now. If you don't, you're as good as dead."

"What's the point?!" You snap, standing to your feet and tossing the plastic rocket at him.

It bounced harmlessly off his barreled chest and clattered to the floor.

"I don't have my son, I don't have my husband, I don't have my family!" You said through fresh, hot tears as your anger and grief rose to the surface.

And just like that, the flames died, and you flickered out, deflating into more quiet cries as you stood, defeated.

"I have nothing."

"Not true." Ghost said, shaking his head. He jabbed his thumb over his shoulder. "You got a bot out there that's been making water for you for bloody hours, now just so you can take a bath. He's still here, and he's been waiting for you all this time."

You looked at him, eyes glassy and oh-so hurt, but you let him continue.

"And you have your little boy. Somebody stole him." His eyes flashed in the darkness of the room, a glint only illuminated by the moon's light, taking more steps to you until he was face-to-face with you, looking down at you.

God, this man was terrifying.

"And you're going to get him back."

"What...? But--but how? I'm just... me! I was a lawyer, for God's sake!" You blathered.

"First thing's first: you learn to survive." Ghost told you bluntly. "Then..."

He reached into the holster on his chest and slapped a pistol into your hands, the weight almost as hefty as the one you felt settle onto your shoulders, and into your heart.

"You learn to defend yourself. You need to learn to shoot."

He turned to walk away, gesturing for you to follow with a jerk of his head.

"C'mon, then. Let's get to it." He grunted.

"Right now?" You stumbled as you followed him out into the ruined street. "It's past midnight!"

"No time like the present."

You couldn't tell, but you were certain this man was smirking at you behind his mask.

"Hey... what's your name?" You asked him as he began to line up old cans and bottles against a rusted car.

"Name's Ghost, like I said. Now, lift the gun and aim down sights. Don't pull the trigger. Squeeze it."

"What does that even mean?" You asked, taking aim as he stood beside you, still as a statue.

'Still as death.' You thought sardonically.

He grunted again, his voice coming out an annoyed growl:

"If you want to survive, you'll learn what it means. Now, keep both eyes open..."

#cod mw2 ghost #cod ghost #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley #simon ghost x reader #simon ghost riley x you #fallout4 #fallout #fallout crossover #ghost modern warfare #modern warfare x fallout crossover #fallout 4

103 notes · View notes

taylorwright27 · 9 days ago

Text

I fucking hate this

I keep seeing people blaming third party voters, which even if all those votes went to Harris (which there is no guarantee they were going to) She still wouldn't have won, and I just saw someone on tik tok talk about how people on the left who were critical of Harris and the party were taking the excitement out of voting. And that is complete bullshit, it is not the lefts job to make you feel good about the democratic party they should be doing that themselves. The Harris admin ran a dogshit campaign plain and simple.

People wanted Biden out, it took months but the party finally listened and replaced him with Harris, this made people excited. It seemed like maybe the democratic party was actually listening to its voters, then they picked Walz as VP and we got more excited. No more Biden and a VP who believes in free lunches for students, healthcare, abortion and education! It seemed like the party was moving a different direction. They started calling the Republican party weird, pointing out how crazy their ideas were and how actually invasive theri policies were.

Then the fucking DNC happened, they rejected Palestinian voices and gave the most bullshit fluff speeches imaginable. They made it clear that they had no intention of trying to get undecided and independent voters on their side, they just wanted republicans. They decided that the road to victory was to shift to the right. They now supported a border wall and deportations, things that would be unimaginable 8 years ago. They touted around ex-republicans that switched over, like Liz Cheney (whose father drove the country into useless wars and left the VP office with 13% approval). They decided that it was more important to adopt right wing framing on issues, then to actually listen to what their voters wanted. They sent fucking Bill Clinton to yell at Michiganders that Palestinians were going to die either way so vote for the other things on the ballot. They agreed with the narrative that illegal migrants are ruining the country with drugs and crime, when they should have been pointing out that the Haitians were here on legal status (and clearly not eating pets that was disgusting that they even allowed for that to be a talking point) that the Venezuelan "gangs" Trump was complaining about were also here legally (by Trump), not gangs, and not terrorizing the city. They did not point out the vast majority of fentanyl and other drugs are brought into the US by US citizens, that illegal immigrants commit way way less crime that natural borne US citizens, and that they pay into taxes much more than they use.

But no, the democratic party decided that they need the republican vote, and could do that by effectively saying "Trump was right". They did the same thing with fracking in Pennsylvania. Fracking in was not Pennsylvanians number 1 issue, not even close and the few people who would vote on that would not all the sudden see Harris as the "Fracking candidate" that would still be Trump.

They ignored popular issues like healthcare and student loan forgiveness, raising the minimum wage and instead championed a tax break for small business owners and a credit for first time home buyers. These things do not help the average american, so many more people are struggling to live off of minimum wage jobs than are small business owners, and the anyone I know who the house credit would have made it possible for them to buy a house could only do so because their parents were also able to chip in.

They also did nothing to earn the young vote. I think they though abortion was enough to carry the youth, but newsflash men don't fucking care about women. they show it time and time again, Trump went on Adin Ross and Joe Rogan (2 of the biggest pieces of shit to exist) and that won him a lot of votes. There were people at the voting booth who said that they voted for Trump because of the Rogan interview. Men were not left behind by the campaign, but Trump and Vance were able to convince them that they were.

Harris and the democratic party gave nothing for people to vote for, so don't fucking blame Dearborne Michigan for not voting for someone who said she wouldn't change anything done in the last 4 years and instead blame the Democratic party for a shitty campaign, shitty messaging and choosing republicans votes over yours.

#kamala harris #harris walz 2024 #democracy #democratic party #republicans #fuck the republicans #fuck trump #donald trump #trump #america #election 2024

17 notes · View notes

misschinablue · 3 months ago

Text

i'm so disgusted with a certain subset of british society.

what's being lost here is that three little girls - children with ages in the single fucking digits - are dead because of a sick individual who was born in cardiff and happens to be of rwandan descent.

which is entirely irrelevant. what is relevant is the southport stabbing was an attack on - very, very specifically - children.

the quiet part that's not being said out loud is that it was primarily an attack on female children.

but that gets lost, doesn't it?

it gets lost when someone decides that this welsh born man is a Muslim immigrant (which is untrue but still irrelevant even if he was). it gets lost when blatant disinformation is being spread by many many dodgy sources but dave the gammon willfully decides to take it as gospel anyway. it gets lost even when the suspect's name and identifying information is released, despite him being a minor, in the public interest, to stop this misinformation being spread.

it gets lost when dave the gammon has an "excuse" to take to the streets. it gets lost when dave the gammon starts parroting "stop the boats" (he doesn't know what it means) and "we want our country back" (because this ailing island belongs to him personally). it gets lost when dave the gammon gets to unleas all that misplaced and hatred fuelled anger by throwing a brick at a mosque or two. because in dave the gammon's mind - something's given him an excuse to tell us who he is.

it's given him an excuse to attack the Muslim community who are just trying to live their lives. to attack the refugees who are escaping horrors that dave the gammon is lucky enough to never be able to imagine.

how the FUCK are we twisting this violent, senseless and misogynistic act to make it about immigration?? how the FUCK can these people be so cruel to the families left behind who are going through unimaginable pain already?

how the FUCK has it come to this?

violence against women and girls has - finally - been declared a national emergency in the uk. i don't see any of these "protestors" even acknowledging that. i didn't see anyone rioting last month after the bushey attack which was fucking horrific. because the perpetrator was a white british man perhaps?

were there violent riots when white british incel jake davison killed five people including his own mother and a three year old girl in 2021?

dave the gammon doesn't care about the female victims of violence in this country. he "wants his country back." he wants the "foreigners to stop taking our jobs." he kisses his posters of nigel farage and andrew tate every night with tongue.

dave the gammon catcalls women on the streets. dave the gammon asks what she was wearing. dave the gammon finds rape jokes hilarious. dave the gammon asks what she did to deserve it.

dave the gammon drives all the hatred in this country. towards refugees. towards the Muslim community. towards women.

dave the gammon can't see that he's the problem.

of course we should be angry. but that anger needs to be directed at a society that enables and permits hatred and violence towards women and girls. towards refugees and immigrants. towards ethnic and religious minorities. towards sexual and gender minorities.

i am angry. i have never been so angry in my life. you should be too.

RIP Elsie Dot Stancombe, Bebe King and Alice Dasilva Aguiar. please don't forget the names of these innocent little girls in all of this.

#uk #southport stabbings #violence against women and girls #vawg #misogyny #bushey attack

20 notes · View notes

poorrichardjr · 24 days ago

Text

Threats

Sometimes it can be very frustrating to live in a place so heavily populated with conservatives. Most everyone I run into plans on voting for Donald Trump because they believe he was sent by God to save them. He is what's best for our country, and it doesn't matter what he says or does, nothing is going to shift their belief in him.

I know a lot of these people have no idea what Trump really says. I know most of them have no idea what the results of his hatred for immigrants, the media, or liberals will really be. Mostly because they don't believe what he will do is really that extreme, and also because most of them really can't be bothered to actually do a bit of thought or research to understand the threat. Nope, they are die hard republicans and voting any other way is voting for the devil and the destruction of the country.

The thing is, I know a lot of these people aren't stupid. And though they say that they aren't hateful or racist people, it sure seems hard to believe them when you watch how they respond when they are told about how Trump wants to send troops into American cities on day 1 to root out every single immigrant and deport them. It's as if they can't put it together that if we suddenly remove a few million people from our economic system that we are going to have massive upheaval. No, these people aren't all collecting government checks that are so large they live better than you. These same people aren't taking your job. They are doing construction jobs, agriculture jobs, and meat packing jobs that a lot of Americans will not do. Many of them are paying taxes.

Don't get me wrong, there needs to be a better system in place to root out the criminals that sometimes slip through the cracks. There also needs to be a way for these people who are dedicating their lives to getting better and working hard to become citizens. We all know that suddenly deporting millions of people is going to adversely effect our economy. Adding in tariffs will significantly increase the costs of everyday items and cause a massive recession or depression. Tariffs have a place and a point, but Trump doesn't know what it is, and that's why he had to pay trillions of dollars to farmers and agriculture companies just to keep them afloat after he started his trade war.

But, this isn't about economics. As bad as Trump is on economic issues, you will never hear a bad word about it in the right-wing media sphere which is where the vast majority of these upper lower class yahoo's get their information from.

No, what I'm really getting to is that Trump, and by extension the Heritage Foundation, is planning to use every tool at their disposal to completely upend our society in every way imaginable. For people who seem constantly obsessed with conspiracy theories about democrats murdering newborn children, children using cat litter boxes in schools, or the government pushing vaccines on people to track their every movement, they don't want to consider the possibilities of giving a man who is deemed to be untrusty by every reasonable measure the tools to do whatever he wants.

You say you love your freedom. You say you want your guns, your free speech, your religious freedoms, and every other thing you know you are entitled to by our constitution. Yet, you can't understand that a man willing to send the police and military through the streets to root out undesirables isn't going to suddenly decide one day that even your freedoms are too much. You shouldn't have your guns because some idiots tried to assassinate me. You shouldn't have any right to protest because you don't like what I did. Maybe I will send the police and military into your town to round you up next and stick you in concentration camps.

I know you believe that will never happen. Oh, my representative wouldn't allow that. Yes they would. They are all cowards who have repeatedly bowed down to let Trump say and do whatever he wants. Are they suddenly going to grow a spine and try to say no just because your lily white ass is now on the line? Hell no, they won't because like every coward they are far more worried about their own lily white ass.

Trump and all of his enablers are a threat to the very foundation of this nation, and I am so sorry that none of you are able to see it. I still believe there are enough people of good moral judgement and conscience that Trump is going to lose this election. I can't guarantee that though. There are people in place to gum up the works and there are others who plan to not certify the vote if Trump loses. I don't expect Trump to walk away if he gets blown out, and I don't expect the right wing bubble to do anything but try and say how everything was stolen from them. They have also proven over and over that they are willing to say anything to get their way.

My faith in my fellow countrymen is waning. I want to believe you are good and honest people. I want to believe you are who you say you are. But I see your actions. I hear your words. You aren't the Christians you think you are. You aren't the good people in this story. I don't want to blame you. I know you are being lied to. I know you are struggling and doing your best just to get by most of the time. I also know that you are being poisoned and brainwashed on a daily basis when you listen to anyone talk about how awful our country is. There are problems, just like there has always been, but we are nowhere near as bad as we have been in other times.

Our whole way of life is on the line. I hate to say this because most everyone is tired of hearing how "important" this election is. But, it's true. A man who is given absolute immunity to do whatever he thinks he should for the good of the country isn't going to stop at "illegal" immigrants. Next they will come for the trans people. Then the gays. Then the "left wing media". Then anyone who doesn't support him and his every lie.

Sooner or later they will get around to you and your friends. Someone like this can't stop no matter how far they go. There will always be a new enemy. You have the chance now to stop this madness before we walk down the same road as Germany, China, Rwanda, and so many other nations. Can you, as a concerned citizen do the right thing? Will you? I guess I'll get my answer in a few weeks.

#america #politics #donald trump #republicans #poorrichardjr #hate #trump #democrats #lies #economy #deportation #conspiracy theory #election 2024 #November 5th

13 notes · View notes