#and Harrison ALSO lied to you about a case he was a witness for | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

traincat · 6 years ago

Note

Correct me if I'm wrong, but was not Flash having an abusive father a retcon that happened many years later after his debut? I remember you ask about whatever Flash being a bully was a retcon too, so I wonder if its the same case for his father. Perhaps is the reason why MCU decided to avoid any hint that Flash' father might be abusive.

Okay, this is a little messy, but from my point of view the answer is yes and no, or rather, it’s kind of half a retcon, if that. It’s a retcon that, with a little connecting the dots, we can make not a retcon. A retcon, by technical definition, is a piece of canon that retroactively rewrites the continuity that came before it. “The Alicia Masters that Johnny Storm married was a Skrull all along!” is a retcon, because before that piece of information was introduced, the Alicia Masters that Johnny Storm married was just Alicia Masters, regular human woman. A piece of information that reveals something about a character’s backstory or circumstances that just never came up before but doesn’t actually contradict anything, on the other hand, is not a retcon.

This... falls in between those two things.

First off, Harrison Thompson is in a total of 13 comic issues altogether. That’s really not a lot -- Flash himself is in 574 comics, according to the Marvel Wiki. Harrison Thompson’s first appearance is in the B story of Amazing Spider-Man #372, titled Punch... Counter-Punch, where Peter and Flash years later revisit their boxing max from Amazing Spider-Man #8, albeit in a much friendlier manner. Now, note that this is several hundred issues after Flash’s introduction to the pages of Spider-Man, during which his father has never been mentioned before in either positive or negative light. The boxing match is just window dressing for the real point of the story, though, which involves Flash encouraging Peter to engage with his parents, Richard and Mary Parker, who had at that point in canon seemingly returned from the dead/the gulag. (“Richard and Mary” were actually robots, but that part doesn’t matter here. I love that I get to write that sentence.) Flash then launches into a recollection of his own father, who he describes as serious, intelligent, uninterested in athletics, and disapproving of Flash’s own interests in sports and his average grades. When Peter asks if Flash made up with his own father, Flash says he died:

Now, we know this is not true -- Harrison Thompson appears in Untold Tales of Spider-Man #19, published in 1997, a good four years after Amazing Spider-Man #372. Untold Tales of Spider-Man is a series from the ‘90s that bulked out the content of Peter’s high school years, considering that he’s only in high school in the original Amazing Spider-Man run for a grand total of 28 issues, and focused on Peter, Betty Brant, and Peter’s high school classmates. It’s a series I mostly find boring, I’ll be entirely honest, although I like some of the Flash, Liz, and Betty content. Untold Tales of Spider-Man #19 is technically the first time Harrison Thompson actually physically appears in a Spider-Man scene, being present in the book instead of in another character’s recollection.

Harrison Thompson here has been reinvented as a Forest Hills police officer who, in this issue at least, is portrayed as a generally friendly fellow. Literally two months after this was published, Spectacular Spider-Man #-1 was published. Written by J.M. “stories about child abuse” DeMatteis, it begged the following: “how can we add more childhood trauma to the Spider-Man cast?” and “fuck the police.”

This comic, which I believe is the third ever appearance of Harrison Thompson within Marvel comics although I might be missing another Untold Spider-Man bit, keeps Harrison Thompson as a cop, but whereas in Untold Spider-Man he seemed an okay enough guy, Spectacular Spider-Man #-1′s depiction of him is an abusive drunk who emotionally terrorizes his family and beats his son.

So we’ve got a weird little evolution here from intellectual snob who in his son’s eyes looked down on him for not sharing his more cerebral interests -> seemingly genial neighborhood cop -> violently abusive father. Now the second two don’t actually rule each other out: Harrison Thompson could certainly have put on a good face for the community while abusing his family at home. This is, after all, not uncommon behavior for abusers, who can often keep up a very charming act within their larger communities. (J.M. DeMatteis writes a lot of abusive father stories, and he does it very well.) So it’s really only the first story that’s the problem, continuity-wise.

The Marvel wiki lists Harrison’s appearance in Amazing Spider-Man #372 as a “false recollection”, which is, I think, an interesting way of putting it. Now I said this was in my opinion half a retcon at best, and I consider it that because of something I noted above: Harrison Thompson never actually physically appears in this issue. Flash talks about him, but the problem with that is a very simple characterization rule: characters lie. Almost every character in a large body of canon, at some point or another, for whatever reason, is going to lie. “False recollection” can mean a lot of things, and “lie to your best friend to encourage him to get close again with his own parents” and “say your dad is dead because you kind of wish he was” are not outside the realm of possibility. I think this would be a very different case if Harrison Thompson had physically appeared as Flash describes him initially on the page, or if the issue had even contained a proper flashback scene instead of Flash speaking over some vague images. But that’s not the case, and when all you have is one character’s words there’s always the chance that their recollections are either untrue or unreliable.

Now, I can make this messier. In Amazing Spider-Man #372, Flash tells Peter his dad died before Flash ever met Peter. This is complicated two ways: first, as established later by Untold Spider-Man #19, Peter had met Flash’s dad, so he would’ve known in ASM #372 that Flash’s dad couldn’t possibly have died before Peter and Flash ever met. (Flash would also have had to be very young, younger than he’s depicted even in ASM #372, for his dad to have died before he and Peter met.) Worse yet, in Webspinners #9, which also takes place when Peter and Flash are still in high school, Peter as Spider-Man witnesses, without Flash’s knowledge, an incident where Flash is being punished and verbally abused by his father. (It’s also implied he witnesses Harrison hitting Flash via sound effect, but that’s not directly on panel.)

Now, I never know what to feel about this Webspinners story, canonicity-wise. For one, I think it’s not the best characterization for Spider-Man to see anyone he knows, whether or not he especially likes them, being abused and to do nothing to halt that abuse, although that would be a much more complicated story that a three-parter about Peter accidentally ending up with three prom dates doesn’t really have room to cover. For another, it gives Peter a very intimate look at Flash’s personal life that would surely recontextualize some things for him, but of course none of that is reflected in the college years because those stories weren’t written with this incident in mind. Peter finding out about Flash’s abusive home life in high school is, for me, the bit that most shoddily fits in here, though we do know that by the time they’re in their late 20s Peter is aware of things:

(Venom (2011) #5)

So if we’re putting it all together, with the assumption that, in order to keep all of the canon here cohesive (a very difficult thing to do with any long-running superhero comic), we’d have to view the ASM #372 story under the light that not only was Flash lying, but he was lying badly, and Peter knew he was lying, and they were just not talking about it. It’s messy, sure, and it’s not perfect, but “one character is lying for an agenda, other character knows and doesn’t confront him over it” isn’t out of the realm of possibility, if I wanted to make that argument.

Ultimately, for me, here’s the thing: Harrison Thompson is present in 13 issues. That’s is such an incredibly small part of a huge body of canon, but 11 of those issues have huge consequences for Flash Thompson. The two issues before DeMatteis introduced Harrison Thompson as a violently abusive man are a recollection that could easily be a lie -- a shoddy one, admittedly, but people tell shoddy lies all the time, so why shouldn’t fictional characters -- and an issue that, while it does not portray him as an abusive father, it doesn’t contradict it, either. Everything after that is relatively consistent in depicting Flash’s father as abusive throughout his childhood. You could consider Spectacular Spider-Man #-1 and subsequent stories are a retcon of Amazing Spider-Man #372, but you could also noodle your way around into making it work within the body of canon as I have done above. It’s really up to how the individual reader here wants to look at it. And even if someone does choose to view it as a retcon, it’s not a big one; it changes almost nothing about the canon that existed beforehand where Flash Thompson isn’t concerned, and there’s nothing in his story up until that point that would explicitly rule out him being an abused child. I will say, between the two stories, “my dad and I never got along because he was too nerdy to understand my athletic passions” is pretty sorry competition for the latter backstory that was created for Flash, which does a lot to inform his past actions as a character, from his high school bully status to his military enlistment which, as the sliding timescale moves the decade the Spidey Fivesome were in college together forward, we can no longer attribute to the draft. It also offers him something in common with many of the other major members of Peter’s supporting cast: like Flash, Mary Jane and Harry were also abused by their fathers. (Who in Marvel comics wasn’t? Peter. Peter Parker was not.)

All that aside, I doubt that when Spider-Man: Homecoming’s creative team was conceiving their version of Flash Thompson that they chose to omit any mention of his abusive father in homage to Amazing Spider-Man #372′s B story, especially after they reimagined Flash as a nerd himself. “If he were smarter, his father wouldn’t beat him” would become a, uh, troubling implication if anyone involved in the movie were to make that claim. Which they won’t, because I would bet a lot of money that they didn’t think about it that much. This is the film that cut any mention of Uncle Ben’s death because it would be a “downer” -- they weren’t going to introduce an abusive homelife for one of Peter’s classmates. And that’s not even my issue, as much as I appreciate The Amazing Spider-Man (2012)’s oblique reference in the hallway scene where Flash says “it feels better, right?” after Peter slams him against the lockers. Addressing Flash Thompson’s childhood isn’t something that’s going to make or break a Spider-Man adaptation for me, although ideally it’s something I would like to see handled with care and sympathy. My issue is that you have a character who, in the source material, has consistently been depicted as the victim of childhood abuse from 1997 onwards, and instead chose to make that character an affluent nerd and the butt of a joke that, if it had happened to the original Flash Thompson in high school, surely would have had serious consequences for him when Peter steals and wrecks his car. I just found it an uncomfortable, knowing Flash’s comics backstory. (And as someone who’s had their car stolen, I’m not exactly sure how grand theft auto is supposed to be funny.) I’m sure the movie could’ve shoved more sports car time in there some other way.

#flash thompson #peter parker #harrison thompson #spiderman #marvel comics #long post/#*replies #cw child abuse #traincat talks comics #Anonymous

59 notes · View notes

ironemrys · 6 years ago

Text

The Mission Chapter Four

Pairing: Tom Holland x OC

Word Count: 6.8k (wow what happened?)

Tags: #OC x Tom Holland, #Secret Agent AU, #loosely based on Taken, #tom holland fanfiction, #there’s also characters from different fandoms, #and other artists that I used as characters, #you’ll know them when you read ‘em, #Tom Holland, #Alternate Universe, #again

Warning: There’s a lot of cursing. Possible lemon. Violence and drug use. This is just a story so please treat it as such.

Chapters: 1 | 2 | 3

“When she was just a starting agent, she had a partner.”

Colin’s words echoed in Tom’s head. Catherine had a partner before? Who was it? And what did this partner of hers do to make Catherine loathe the thought of working with other people? What did this person do to make Colin and Bradley act like they’re about to murder someone just by talking about them?

“She was young,” Colin started, “And here in the American Department, we usually pair the younger ones with the senior agents for one to two years before letting them go to missions on their own, it’s just a precaution and the senior agents teach the junior agents some of the ropes that the academy didn’t bother to teach. I know this isn’t the case in the English Department?” He asked and Tom gave a nod since he remembered the first time they stepped in SHIELD and their files were evaluated, he and Harrison were put together as partners even though they were both new graduates and Jacob was scouted by the Weapons Department.

“Anyway, I paired her with one of the best agents in the field; Agent Wilson,” At just the mention of the name Tom noticed Colin’s body language change, he appeared stiff and his jaw clenched as his fingers gripped tight on the armrest of the chair he was sitting on, “He was at least four years her senior and they immediately hit it off as partners.”

Colin continued, “Their dynamic was amazing, we’ve completed cases faster than any agency could ever hoped to do. Have you heard of the St. Nicholas Case?” He asked.

“Yes. Of course. The terrorist know as ‘St. Nicholas’ had hidden bombs all over Queens and Manhattan that was a big case. It caused quite a chaos even in England.” Tom remembered. He and Harrison had just gotten back from a different mission and when they returned to base, they were informed that Ethan had joined the American Department to deal with grave matters.

“Well, the ones who solved that case were Catherine and Wilson.” Colin said and Tom whipped his head back to where Catherine was sleeping. She finished that mission? That mission was highly regarded, it was talked about for months at the agency, no one knew who the agents that helped were for security reasons but they were considered to be heroes at SHIELD.

If Tom remembers correctly, the bombs were hidden in places with so many people that it was impossible to evacuate on time and to not cause any panic that might trigger the bomb, they had to use search dogs for it. While they hunted for the bombs, St. Nicholas and his followers managed to take hostage an entire corporate building, threatening to detonate the bombs if they were confronted. They heard two agents snuck inside the building and they managed to apprehend the suspect without triggering any bombs or having any casualties.

“What happened after that?” Tom asked and this time he noticed Bradley, who had been staring at the window all this time, his eyebrows were so scrunched up and the grip he had on his jacket was so tight his knuckles turned white.

“Agent Wilson,” Colin then said, earning Tom’s attention. “He suddenly disappeared.”

“What?” That was the only thing Tom could come up with after hearing the end of that sentence.

“Agent Wilson suddenly disappeared. He didn’t notify anyone about his whereabouts; he suddenly vanished without a trace. Suspicious about his sudden disappearance, Catherine decided to track him down. And…” Colin stopped, he swallowed hard and closed his eyes before running his fingers through his hair in a frustrated manner and Tom was a bit anxious about what he was going to hear next.

He waited for Colin to speak and when he opened his eyes Tom swore he could see tears forming. Maybe having them tell this story wasn’t such a good idea, Tom thought. It seems like it cuts deep and he may have just reopened a closed wound.

Bradley turned to them and his face was still the same, full of anger and contempt. His nostrils were flared and Tom could tell that while Colin was feeling so much sadness and regret about whatever happened Bradley was feeling rage and scorn.

“She found him, eventually.” Colin finally said after regaining his composure. He hated this story. He blames himself for what happened to her and he hated the fact that he didn’t see what was going on until it was too late. He hates remembering it, he hates remembering Catherine’s face when she was rescued; it wasn’t of relief, it was of pure pain, terror and trauma. Catherine was close to Colin and Bradley, more so than others, she became like a little sister to them and they didn’t mind since they do think of her as family. Seeing her so vulnerable, broken and scared destroyed them and Colin feels all the responsibility of it because the one who caused her so much pain was one of his own.

“She found him.” Bradley continued for Colin. He knew how difficult it was for his boss, his friend, to tell such a story. It took a toll on all three of them. No one else knew about what happened because Colin didn’t want the situation to get bigger and worse. Only the two of them witnessed the lies, the torture and the rescue.

“She found him, working for Syndicate,” Tom’s breath got caught in his throat since he knew what Syndicate was, “The number one terrorist and assassin group that SHIELD’s been hunting down for years.”

“Wilson was a double agent. He has been lying and tricking SHIELD for years and the reason Syndicate always had a head start was because of him. He fed them information; he even helped in assassinating some of the best agents that we had.” Bradley said through gritted teeth.

“When Catherine found out she didn’t believe it. She thought it was some kind of hoax. Of course, how could she believe it? Wilson was SHIELD’s second in command before I was granted the position. How could she believe that the person she’s trusted, the person who trained her and thought her so much and saved her a few times when they were in a pinch could ever betray her? How could she think that someone she deemed loyal to no end was false?” Bradley’s word seethed like fire. He can’t stand remembering this story; he can’t bear the thought of even remembering what it did to the two most important people in his life.

“When Wilson was left alone, Catherine confronted him and Wilson led her on, saying he was acting as a double agent for SHIELD, that it was his special mission to infiltrate Syndicate and see what they were up to. But Catherine wasn’t a fool, she knows that even with how secret the Syndicate case is, Colin would’ve known and informed her about where her partner was going. Her suspicion grew but you know how Catherine is, she acts on impulse and doesn’t think. She made Wilson believe that she believed.” Bradley continued and there was stillness in the place.

Tom was taking all the information in. Of course, Catherine is smart but she’s also reckless. It’s just like her to take matters into her own hands before calling for backup.

“She contacted me when she was on her way back to base after convincing Wilson that she believed he was in a secret mission, she of course told me of her suspicion and I only fueled it when I told her that I didn’t have any undisclosed missions lined up regarding Syndicate.” Colin finally said after being silent for quite a while.

“I told her to wait for backup, I told her to not engage on her own but we didn’t even get to finish our conversation when I heard a gunshot from the other line.”

Tom’s eyes widened. He remembered the gunshot wound he found near Catherine’s shoulder. His hold on her hand became tighter and his own shoulders tensed at what he heard.

“I called Bradley, we were out of the agency as quick as possible but we didn’t get to trace her phone. Of course, Wilson knew what he was doing,” Colin continued, “it took us days before we could track her down.”

“Why didn’t you call anyone? Why was it just the two of you? You would’ve found her sooner if you did.” With every question, Tom realized he was getting louder. He was mad, he was feeling the same thing Bradley was feeling but he was also confused. If they found out Catherine had been captured or possibly killed by Syndicate then wouldn’t it be better to have the cavalry storm in on them?

“We wanted to.” Colin answered, “But after we got cut off, I received a message from Wilson himself using a burner phone. He threatened to kill Catherine if we ever even think about looking for them. We had no choice; we had to lie low.”

“How long did it take before you found them?” Tom asked.

“Ten days.” Bradley answered.

“And in those ten days,” Tom stopped, he already had an idea of what the answer might be and he wasn’t sure if he wanted to hear it, “What did Wilson do to her?”

Colin took a sharp intake of breath, his feet were solidified on the ground and he gritted his teeth. Tom could see him scratching the armrest of the chair he was sitting on in an attempt to calm his mind.

“He tortured her,” He finally said, “As much as Wilson is the second in command, there are things I didn’t tell him, things much more delicate that only bosses are allowed to know.” Tom of course knows this, Ethan was the same with his second in command; Ilsa Faust.

“But you told Catherine some of these secrets, didn’t you?” Tom asked and Colin looked back at him, there was so much guilt and pain in his eyes that Tom had to avert his gaze.

“I trusted her more than I trusted him. Catherine has this certain quality to her; you know she’s loyal, you know she’s honest and you know that you won’t regret putting your faith in her.” Tom nodded at this and let Colin continue.

“I had my suspicions on Wilson before but I didn’t say anything about it, he was being too involved with the Syndicate case and maybe it was normal for others but with SHIELD, only the commander in charge are allowed to know about such delicate matters, that’s protocol and Wilson asked question after question about them so I was having my doubts.” Colin added.

“But I was too blinded by my love for him that I didn’t immediately act on it until it was too late.” Colin said under shaky breath and Tom whipped his head back to look at him.

“What do you mean?” He asked, confusion written all over his face.

“Wilson,” Colin closed his eyes and took a sharp breath, it was getting harder and harder to admit this fact as the years went by but he knew he couldn’t escape the truth, “He was my brother.”

Tom couldn’t imagine the look on his own face once Colin uttered those words. Wilson was his brother. It all made sense now. Now he understood why Colin looked more disappointed than Bradley, why he looked poignant instead of angry and why he looked back with so much regret and shame in his eyes rather than contempt.

“I - ” Tom couldn’t say anything, he didn’t know what to say. He also had brothers and he couldn’t imagine what he would do or how he would feel if one of them betrayed him.

“What did you do? You know, once you found them?” He finally asked and regretted it when Bradley clicked his tongue.

“It was… It was unavoidable I did what I had to.” Colin quickly replied and Tom knew better than to press on further. He already understood what he meant.

“I’m sorry.” Tom answered and he meant it. It must’ve been hard for Colin to do that to his own brother, it must’ve been hard to admit to himself that his own brother was a traitor.

“I couldn’t forgive him for what he did to her, what his memory is still doing to her. The things he did to get her to talk about what she knows that he doesn’t were unforgiveable. The wounds healed except for the gunshot wound, the bullet was inside of her for ten days, he didn’t bother to remove it, and he just… left it there and sewed her wound shut. It was a miracle she survived.” Colin took a breath and then there was silence.

Nobody talked for minutes. Tom wasn’t sure if he wanted to ask if there was any more about what happened or if that was the end to it. Colin and Bradley were both too deep into their own thoughts upon remembering the incidents. They both swore they wouldn’t talk about it ever again but this time they didn’t have a choice seeing as Tom is now somewhat involved with Catherine.

Colin’s phone ringing broke the silence.

“It’s Katie.” Colin said and Bradley nodded, knowing who it was. Colin put the call on speaker since he figured it had something to do with the case.

“Yeah Katie, you’re on speaker.” He answered and there was a few seconds of quiet before a woman’s voice was heard on the phone.

“Hey boss, I was hoping to get an audience with you since this is pretty important and I need you to see the files for yourself but I heard you left the base. Got a laptop with you?” Katie asked and Colin turned to Tom who nodded and as much as he doesn’t want to, he let go of Catherine’s hand and walked over to the table where his laptop sat.

“Send the files and connect a video call to Agent Holland.” Colin addressed.

“Sure thing. What’s his agent number?” Katie asked and they could hear the clicking sound of a keyboard on the other line.

“101001.” Tom replied as he opened his laptop and connected to the secured video call application provided by SHIELD. A few seconds later and he received an email and it was followed by an invitation for a video call by a Dr. Katie McGrath. Tom answered it immediately and he was greeted by a beautiful woman with dark hair and green colored eyes.

“Katie.” Colin acknowledged and Katie smiled but it was just out of politeness, they could tell.

“What’s the news on the bottles in the case?” Bradley asked and Katie’s smile turned upside down as she reached for a bunch of papers on her desk.

“Open the file I sent Agent Holland.” Katie said and Tom did as he was told. The files contained lab results of different kinds and there was one word that caught Tom’s eye the moment he scanned the documents.

“The liquid in the bottles is a mixture of four things,” Katie started, “First there’s Maca – also referred to as Peruvian Ginseng. Maca has been shown by studies to enhance sexual performance and fertility, and to increase overall sexual desire.”

Tom’s face flushed and he avoided direct eye contact with the doctor in front of him. He felt his ears and cheeks burn and he swears his palms were starting to sweat.

“An aphrodisiac.” Colin then stated.

“Sort of.” Katie replied and then continued, “Second we found traces of Theobromine, it’s an alkaloid that comes from the cacao plant, and it increases serotonin levels, which enhances feelings of sexual desires and sexual responses.”

Again, Tom felt heat rise to his face and he wished the ground would open up and swallow him whole. This conversation was probably the most awkward conversation he’s ever had in all his life.

“Next we found Longjack, which is weird since most of what we found usually is only effective on women but Longjack is more effective for men.” Katie then said and caught Tom’s eye but he immediately looked away.

“Longjack produces aphrodisiac effects while also increasing sperm production.” Bradley choked on air at this and he coughed uncomfortably.

“The last chemical was the most peculiar one. We don’t know what it is, we tried different kinds of tests in order to analyze it but the results were inconclusive. But I have a hunch.” Katie continued and Colin raised a brow.

“Which is?”

“Well it’s just a hunch and we can’t prove it without testing it on a human being, animals won’t help, we know, we tried.” Katie answered, “I think that this unknown chemical increases the potency of the others which could be dangerous.”

Colin and Bradley looked at each other while Tom listened, his mind wracking with the various scenarios that happened earlier on that day.

“If this chemical does what I think it does, then whoever takes even just a sip of this will be greatly influenced by the other chemicals. All the other chemicals are some sort aphrodisiacs which is understandable since we are going after people who participate in illegal prostitution.” Katie added, “The other chemical will increase the influence of all three aphrodisiacs and that much aphrodisiac is very much harmful to any human being, their bodies could shut down, their vital organs would – why are you all looking at me like that?” Katie asked when the men in front of her all looked like they were about to go ballistic.

“FUCK! CATHERINE TOOK THAT DRUG!” Bradley shouted and Katie put a hand over her mouth in shock.

“Bradley you have to get that out of her! How long ago was it when she took the drug?” She worried.

“About six to seven hours ago.” Tom replied and stood up from his seat before stalking over to where Catherine was sleeping. She was breathing normally but based on what Katie said, who knows how long that will last?

“Shit. You have to extract the drug out of her right now. We don’t know how long it will take before it takes effect on her.” She said and Tom closed his fists.

“Two hours after intake.” He replied and they were quiet.

“What?” Katie asked.

“Two hours after intake the drugs took effect.” He cleared and there was another uncomfortable silence in the air before Katie muttered “Oh”

“Is it possible, doctor,” Tom then said with his back still facing the others, “that these chemicals could also affect whoever the person influenced with it comes in contact with?” He asked and Katie thought for a while.

“It’s possible yes, possible orally but the effects would be worse if transmitted sexually.” She replied and Colin let out a breath. He knew what happened between Tom and Catherine and he was thankful it wasn’t worse.

“There’s no time to waste. The drug is still inside of her. You need to get that out now, all of it, with the chemicals not doing what they’re supposed to do to her body it could affect the rest of her vital organs and I’m not exactly sure what’ll happen if it gets to that point.” Katie said and they all nodded as Bradley took out his phone.

“This is Agent James, we need a medical team.” He said on the line and then they waited.

The medical team arrived a few minutes after the call and they immediately set to work. They transferred Catherine on her bed at the hotel and set up the supplies they needed in order to extract the chemicals out of her body.

Tom paced back and forth in the living room while the operation was in motion. He couldn’t think straight and pondering about Catherine’s life being on the line didn’t help calm him either. He called Harrison when he couldn’t stop pacing and he told him everything except about Catherine’s past.

“I knew it.” Harrison said, “I told you it wasn’t your fault mate.”

“I know but I still feel like it is, if only I was quick enough to stop her from going in the casino alone and pretending to be one of the victims this wouldn’t have happened.” Tom replied and Harrison sighed in response.

“You need to stop thinking about what was and start focusing on what’s to come. What’s done is done, Tom. The only thing you have to think about now is how you’ll face her once she wakes.” Harrison replied and Tom pressed the bridge of his nose in annoyance. That’s what he was worried about the most.

The operation lasted for two hours and Colin and Bradley had left despite their unwillingness to do so but they were needed in the agency. They instructed Tom to tell them immediately if there were any changes in Catherine’s condition, of course, Tom obliged.

The medical team also left a few minutes after Bradley and Colin did, saying that there was nothing more they could do for her and that they would just have to wait for her to wake up. Though they assured that all of the chemicals were out of her system now and that helped Tom breathe and relax a little.

He called Doctor McGrath after the medical team left and she ensured him that she’ll examine the results of the operation to see if there was any more threat to Catherine’s life that the others might have missed. This helped ease the tension Tom was feeling and now all he had to do was wait. He sat near her bed and watched as Catherine breathed slow and steady. There was still an IV drip connected to her right arm and the medical team said it was full of fluids that’ll help her recover quickly.

Tom sighed. It’s only been hours since he started working with Catherine and all different kinds of strange shit had happened. But now that he knows about Catherine’s past, he became more understanding of her behavior.

The next day Tom woke up to someone screaming. He opened his eyes and noticed Catherine awake and she was staring horrified at the IV drip beside her.

“WHAT THE FU – GET IT OFF ME!” She screamed and tried to pull out the needle and she would’ve succeeded if Tom didn’t stop her.

“Catherine, no! You need that to recover.” He said and Catherine turned to him. Her vision was a little foggy and she had to blink a couple of times before recognizing Tom’s face.

“What the fuck Holland what are you trying to do to me get this blasted thing off me!” She yelled but Tom shook his head.

“You can’t. It’ll help you recover and regain whatever energy you lost because of the drug.” He replied and struggled to keep her at bay.

“I don’t care, I’m fully recovered as far as I can tell now get it off!” Catherine still insisted and when Tom didn’t budge at all she pinched his arm.

“OW! Hey! I said no!” He pulled his hand away but was quick enough to catch hers again and pin both her arms on her sides. Catherine struggled and whined when the needle moved in her and she gasped in pain.

“Stop moving or you’ll hurt yourself.” Tom ordered and thankfully she listened. There was a sudden silence and they both looked at each other before averting their gazes at the same time. It was an awkward position; Tom was hovering over her, keeping her arms pinned down on both sides of her body to make sure she doesn’t make any rash movements.

“So that happened.” Catherine started after a few minutes and Tom tensed, Catherine felt it since his grip on her arms tightened. He was not yet ready to have this conversation.

“I’m sorry.” Was all he could say and Catherine looked at him before sighing.

“Don’t be. It was my fault. I took the drug without knowing what it was,” She said then her nose scrunched up “What was it anyway?”

“It’s complicated. It’s like a mixture of different types of aphrodisiac and some other thing that increases their effect.” Tom replied and Catherine huffed.

“Figures. Who came by and took the case?” She asked.

“Bradley, then Colin followed when I told Bradley what happened.” With this, Catherine’s eyes went wide.

“YOU FUCKING WHAT? YOU TOLD BRADLEY?!” She yelled angrily and she unconsciously kicked the air in annoyance.

“I had no choice! He saw you asleep on the couch and apparently that’s a dead giveaway that something was wrong and so he asked, what was I supposed to do?” Tom retaliated.

“LIE! You could’ve told him I was so exhausted I passed out on the couch without a care in the world.”

“Yeah right. As if he’s gonna buy that. And your shirt was on the floor.” Tom replied as he rolled his eyes and Catherine looked down on her body but she was wearing her shirt.

“Medical Team dressed you up before transferring you here.” He explained.

“I assume Bradley ratted out to Colin then.” Catherine said and Tom nodded.

“Wow. I’m surprised you’re still alive.” She grinned and this made Tom smirk.

“Guess I’m lucky.” He shrugged when Catherine moved uncomfortably under him.

“Can you let me go? I won’t try and take this thing off.” She said but Tom looked at her suspiciously so she rolled her eyes.

“I promise I won’t take it off.” She repeated.

“Funny, I don’t trust you when you say that.” Tom grinned.

“Oh really? You trusted me enough to touch you not too long ago, what changed?” She teased and Tom’s face flushed before he frowned.

“That was… That was different! You were drugged and the drug affected me too in some way that’s why it happened!” He defended. He was more embarrassed than angry at what Catherine had said, he knew she was just trying to ease the tension but Tom’s feelings were certainly getting in the way of his humor.

“Really? So it was the drug then? You sure it wasn’t me? You sure it wasn’t the thought of my performance in the auction house that made you trust me to do all those things?” She continued.

Catherine loved the flustered look on Tom’s face and she’s sure as hell gonna drag him down for it. It was so easy to tease him and Catherine, despite being such a hot-head, still had a playful and humorous side to her that only a few select people know. She’s not sure why she’s showing this side of her to Tom but she doesn’t mind it at all.

“You sure it wasn’t my lips that kissed you so hotly and roughly out of the blue? You sure it wasn’t my hips that moved on top yours?” She grinned and when Tom’s face became the shade of an apple he pulled away from his hold on her and she laughed before sitting up properly.

Tom grunted in frustration and left her room while slamming the door shut.

“Oh come on Tom I was just teasing!” She laughed but didn’t hear anything as a response. Catherine just shrugged it off and removed the IV drip from her arm before placing a gauze and wrap over the wound and changing her clothes.

She went out to the living room to find Tom gone.

“Maybe I teased him a little too much.” She said to herself and walked over to the kitchen and grabbed a beer from the fridge.

A bell sound suddenly came from the laptop in the living room and Catherine walked over to it and saw an email from Doctor McGrath. She clicked on the link and read the message.

Agent Holland,

You asked me to personally check on Catherine’s medical results right after the extraction and I am pleased to tell you that you don’t need to worry anymore. Catherine is going to be alright. With the rest of the drug extracted from her, her life is no longer under threat. I found nothing more in the operation results that the medical team has given me. You can rest assured she’s going to be okay.

Sincerely,

Dr. Katie McGrath

Catherine felt her heart swell a little upon reading the message. Tom was that worried about her? She didn’t think he would be since she thought unexpected circumstances were normal for agents like them, why would Tom worry so much about her to the point of asking Doctor McGrath to personally check her operation results?

The door suddenly opened and there Tom stood with his arm wrapped around a huge brown paper bag. Their eyes met but Tom was the first to look away. Catherine followed his movements as he walked to the kitchen.

“So… you got an email from Doctor McGrath.” She started and Tom stopped from pulling out whatever it was that was in the bag and looked at her.

“What did she say?” He asked and Catherine can clearly see the curiosity and concern in his eyes.

“She said that I’m going to be fine. You don’t have to worry.” She replied and stood up before walking over to where he was standing.

“Oh.” Came his reply and they stood there in silence.

“Didn’t know you were that worried about me.” Catherine then said, “Thanks. I… uh… appreciate it.” She added and cursed at the way she stuttered.

“It wasn’t me that was worried… Really, it was more Colin and Bradley.” Tom tried to play out but his aversion of her gaze gave him away and she raised a brow.

“Okay, maybe I was a little worried, like chipmunk sized worried.” He blurted out and Catherine doubled over in laughter.

“What the hell is a chipmunk sized worried?” She laughed and Tom felt his face flush again.

“It’s like… it’s like worried but only a little… like the size of a chipmunk.” He explained in a flustered tone and Catherine laughed even more at his analogy. Tom couldn’t help but be embarrassed but he also felt relieved when Catherine laughed, he felt himself smiling and chuckling a little.

“That was probably the best joke I heard all day,” Catherine admitted and wiped the tears in her eyes, “So what’s in the bag?” she asked and Tom took a while to snap out of his thoughts before dragging out the big tub of ice cream.

“What’s that for?” Catherine asked. She didn’t think Tom was the ice cream type of person, he seemed a little too mature and serious for that.

“For me. I eat ice cream when I’m annoyed and when I can’t think straight.” He replied and opened the tub before taking out a spoon. He sat on the counter and started wolfing down the ice cream to which Catherine found amusing.

“I didn’t know you had such a childish side to you, Agent Holland.” She grinned and Tom continued eating before he stopped and held on his head.

“Brain freeze?” She asked and he nodded.

“You also have an idiot side. I thought you said you like thinking things through?” Catherine asked and Tom shot her a look and she raised her arms in defense to which Tom finally realized that something wasn’t right.

“HEY YOU TOOK OFF THE IV DRIP I SAID DON’T!” He yelled.

“Oh please the bag was almost empty anyway, I’m fine. Doctor McGrath said so remember?” She asked and sat on the other side of the counter and gesturing for Tom to hand the ice cream over.

“You couldn’t wait a few more minutes till it was completely empty?” Tom shot back and gave her the tub. Catherine took his spoon and dug into tub before eating a piece.

“Wait…” Tom whispered and Catherine looked at him confused then later realized that they just shared the same spoon.

“Oh come off it, we already kissed, it’s the same.” She just said and shrugged.

“Will you stop reminding me about that?” Tom replied.

“Why? Was it bad for you?” She asked just to tease him again.

“What? No! I mean… It was…” Tom was at a loss for words again. Why was he behaving like this? It was infuriating!

“No? So it was good then.” Catherine smirked before taking another bite of the ice cream.

“What? No! I don’t know! Just… shut up and give me my ice cream back!” He yelled like a bullied child and walked over to Catherine’s side and grabbed the tub away from her hands.

“Come on, was it good or bad? It’s just those two options.” Catherine chuckled at his behavior. She said to herself earlier after reading the email that she wasn’t going to tease him anymore but she couldn’t help it. There’s something about Tom that was just worth teasing, something about him that makes her forget that they’re two professional agents out on a very dangerous mission.

Tom ignored her and walked back to his side of the counter and continued to eat. Catherine watched as the frustrated agent dealt with his inner battle while shoving a mouthful of ice cream to help him calm down.

Tom noticed the silence and he looked up to see Catherine just watching him with a silly teasing grin on her face.

“Shut up.” He spat and her grin grew wide.

“I said shut up.” He repeated.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to.” He replied.

“Wow. Reading my mind? We really made a connection there huh?” At that Tom choked on what he was eating and Catherine had to go over and pat him in the back while laughing hysterically.

“Okay, okay… I’ll stop. Geez you’re so fun to tease. Haven’t had this much fun on a case in years.” She laughed quietly and turned away to go back to her room but Tom grabbed her by the wrist and spun her around.

“You think this is funny?” He asked in an intimidating tone.

“Isn’t it? You’re so tense Agent Holland you need to relax.” Catherine said ignoring the slightly faster beating of her heart when she realized how close Tom was to her own person.

“How can I?!” Tom suddenly shouted, his eyebrows furrowed and his pupils shook as he stared back at her, “How can I relax knowing that it was my fault that you almost died?! Knowing that if we didn’t take those drugs out of you in time you’d be a corpse right about now?! How can I relax when I’m suddenly feeling all these stupid things for you after just one night and you’re treating it like a joke?!”

Catherine was stunned. She didn’t expect the sudden outburst. Tom was shaking in anger and she could feel it as he gripped her hand tightly. She didn’t think Tom had so much guilt in him about what happened. See that was her problem, and she knew it, she didn’t think.

“Tom.” She finally called when Tom wasn’t looking at her anymore but down on the ground. He didn’t expect to lose his cool but he couldn’t hold it in anymore, his guilt about what happened and how he felt after was eating away at him.

“Look at me.” She said and when he didn’t move she grabbed his chin with her free hand and lifted his face up. “It wasn’t your fault.”

But Tom shook his head and Catherine sighed.

“You have to stop bearing the responsibility of what happened to me on your shoulders. It wasn’t your fault, it was mine. You couldn’t have stopped me from what I was about to do even if you wanted to.” She added.

“And whatever stupid thing you felt right after what happened between us…” She stopped and Tom caught her gaze before he blushed furiously and looked away.

“I’m sure it was just a spur of the moment.” She suddenly said and dropped her hand from Tom’s chin which made him look back at her in surprise.

“I’m sure it’ll go away. It’s not a big deal. It didn’t mean anything. It was just the drugs. You said it affected you too right?” She asked with a wary smile but Tom couldn’t smile back or even answer. He didn’t want to. Why did her response suddenly change? Or was this how it was supposed to be and he was just holding on to something maybe different and impossible?

“It’s fine. It’ll go away. We have a job to do.” She muttered and turned away but before she could Tom pulled her back and crashed his lips onto hers.

The kiss was hard at first, full of frustration and desperation but then it turned soft and calm and nothing like the kiss they’ve had before. Tom wrapped an arm around her waist as she tangled her fingers in his hair. They both melted into the kiss and when they pulled away breathless, Tom rested his forehead on hers.

“I don’t want it to go away.” He mumbled and heard Catherine take a sharp breath.

“I can’t.” She whispered and Tom looked at her. She wasn’t meeting his gaze but she held on to him like her life depended on it. It was just like the drug, her mouth said something completely opposite to how her body was reacting.

“Is it because of Wilson?” Tom asked and Catherine’s head shot up to stare at him in horror and she tried to take a step back if not for Tom holding her in place.

“Who… How did you know about that?” Her voice shook along with her now tense figure. She felt like she was about hyperventilate then pass out. No one besides Colin and Bradley knew about the asshole that betrayed the agency and tortured her for ten days leaving her bruised, dehydrated and traumatized.

“Catherine calm down,” Tom soothed her arms when he noticed the panic in her face and the sudden change in her breathing pattern, “Colin and Bradley told me when you suddenly started to talk in your sleep. Or more like, scream in your sleep.”

Catherine shook and looked away. She felt tears brimming in her eyes and she dug her fingernails on the palms of her hand. She thought after all these years she’s forgotten all about that incident, she thought that if she focused more on work and just let loose she’ll forget about the torture, the blood, the wounds, the needles, the knives. But it’s not how it seems. Somewhere in the back of her mind that memory is still there.

Tom brought her closer to his body when she suddenly looked down and shook like a scared child. He brought his hand to rest on her hair and he kissed the top of her head and his lips didn’t leave that spot until she finally calmed down.

“I would never…” He started and pulled back to look Catherine in the eyes, they were close to tears but she still had enough strength in her to draw them back, “Ever, hurt you.”

He softly and hesitantly brushed his lips on hers, he was about to pull away when Catherine’s hand held him in place and deepened the kiss. The built up tears in her eyes fell and Tom brushed them away with his thumb before pulling her closer. As they parted, Tom looked at Catherine, there was still a bit of hesitation in her eyes but there was also acknowledgement and that was a good enough start for the both of them.

There was just silence between them as they held each other close. Catherine had never felt this way before, she felt safe, protected and all the negative feelings at the back of her head started to subside. Tom on the other hand felt relief wash over him when Catherine relaxed in his hold. He felt protective of her, now more than ever and he was damn sure he’d never let anything happen to her.

“Oh yeah, before anything else,” Catherine suddenly said and pulled back from his embrace.

“You gotta talk to Colin and Bradley about this since those two are like my brothers. Pretty sure you just got lucky last time.” She grinned and Tom groaned in frustration before running a hand through his hair.

“Do I have to?” He asked.

“Hey, if you wanna be my lover you gotta get with my friends.” Catherine said and the playful smile on her face was back that Tom couldn’t help but smile back and laugh.

“Fine. But if they kill me I’m blaming you.” He replied and Catherine chuckled.

“That’s just the way it is.”

A/N: OKAY. WHAT? I totally forgot this was supposed to be a serious fic it suddenly turned a little domestic wth.

Tagging: @silverofthunder - I didn’t get to reply to your reaction to the third chapter and believe me I was going to but I forgot hahaha! THANK YOU FOR CONTINUING TO READ THIS.

@empressdreams - you requested for more as I hit you with a sea of feels so here it is :D

3 notes · View notes

thedc-verse · 7 years ago

Text

Age Gap (Harrison “Harry” Wells x Reader)

@bartallenisbae

Age Gap (Harrison “Harry” Wells X Reader)

And

Y/n, L/n could always be seen with Harry Wells. Meetings, interviews, business trips etc. She was young, bright, sarcastic and creative. Which is exactly why her college professor recommended her to Harrison Wells for the personal assistant job. (There was an opening after the last one quit.)

You happily accepted the job hoping to pay off some college debt faster and to learn from a great mind such as the Harrison Wells.

After a month of working as his PA, you quickly realized why the other one… correction. Other oneS quit. You were under the impression that he’d had at least two PA’s before you but one day you overheard Harrison’s colleagues talking about how you where the first to last longer than two weeks.

Hearing this caused you to do some digging around and found a list of over two-hundred PA’s Harrison had gone through just this year.

With this new information stored in your mind, you now understand why his colleagues respond the way they do. They even through you a small one-month survival party.

But honestly, you could see why the others quite. Harrison is quick to correct people, full of himself, and a hardass. Because of his odd personality you contemplated quitting on multiple occasions but for some reason, you hadn’t. Maybe because Harry wasn’t always that rude and asshole-ish figure. Occasionally Harry was grouchy and would whine till you got him his coffee and he was also very kind at times, not often but he had his moments. And sometimes in the right illumination of his office lights, he was attractive.

Ignore that last one. You told yourself.

But as time went on you realized that there was more to him. So one night you lied and told him he had a dinner conference at eight to discuss his autobiography. You arrived about ten minutes past 8 wearing the most expensive outfit you could find without going bankrupt. You knew his habits and you knew he’d wait about fifteen minutes before leaving if nobody showed.

When you took a seat across from him he assumed you forgot to tell him something. Once again Harrison was to slow, not even noticing your flawless appearance. (But you always looked flawless in his eyes.) You explained to him that you’d liked him for some time and that knowing him even if he did like you back, he’d never make time for a date into his busy schedule.

He was mad at first but then realized it was just a young girl trying to take charge of her life. So the rest of the night was giggles and tipsy arguing about how glass is a liquid not a solid. (This is a legit argument between scientist)

Now it’s been a year since that day. You’ve had to keep it a secret for obvious reasons but that was manageable. It was a classic love story scenario and since Harrison Wells is one of the greatest minds around who would think he would get involved in such affairs. What helped hide it from everyone was the fact that you both had an excuse to be around each other twenty-four-seven. So if you ever where in his car, at his house, out to dinner with him, paparazzi and bystanders would assume the meeting was simply business related.

It was a secret that you both hid well. But like all secrets, something goes wrong and word gets out. The thought of someone finding out about you and Harrys relationship never crossed your mind until you met his Daughter, Jesse. You feared she was too clever for her own good and would figure it out.

And yet here you are still hiding the hushed secret that not even the security cameras have seen.

You walked into Harry’s office scrolling through your tablet filled with meetings. “Okay, Love, you have an interview at twelve at that little restaurant we had our first date…” You trailed off as you noticed he wasn’t in the room. You glanced around before checking the time. The interview was going to start in thirty minutes.

It takes ten minutes to pack up all his belongings, fifteen to get to the location, with little or no traffic, and five minutes to spear so he’s sure he’s not late. So being the amazing person you are, you sat down in his chair and started digging through his desk drawers.

Pulling out his bag and putting his laptop, his theory book, his autobiography, glasses case, and his wallet inside. “What are you doing?” A familiar voice called out as they entered the room. You looked up to see Harry checking his watch. “You have an interview at 12 and I was trying to be helpful.” You smiled as you noticed the blue tie over the white button-up shirt. “What’s with the fancy-fancy? You always wear black shirts.” You raised a brow as he approached the desk, now standing next to were you sit.

He leaned over pecking your lips. “I thought I’d change things up.” You bit your lip as you grabbed his tie and pulled him back down. Willingly he let himself be pulled to you. Lips meeting passionately, your hands moving behind his head.

“Hey, dad have you seen my-” Jesse froze in the doorway as the two of you quickly pulled apart. Harry cleared his throat. “Jess what a pleasant surprise.” He coughed into his fist. “Don’t pretend like I didn’t just witness that.” She stated firmly as she pointed a finger at her dad.

“Um… She’s like twenty-five. We’re almost the same age!” Jesse yelled. “Actually I’m twenty-two.” You spoke up. “Not helping babe.” Harry sighed as he turned to face you. “Sorry,” You said rising from the chair. “But Jesse aren’t you overreacting? I’ve been in college for two years and you’re just starting. So it’s not like were that close in age.” You tried to reason.

She turned to her dad with a questioning look. “Do you even talk about me.” She stated more than asked. “Some…times…” Harry trailed off. Jesse turned to you. “I’m twenty-one and I have five majors, working on a sixth.” She told you. “That means you graduated high school… When you were 15.”

“Wow, you picked a smart one, Dad.” She scoffed. “Hey, she didn’t know.” Harry defended you. “Fine, it’s whatever,” Jesse mumbled. “Welcome to the family.” She gave a small wave goodbye before storming out.

You looked at Harry. Waved in her direction “She’ll be fine” He said with a hint of nervousness in his tone.

#harrison wells x reader #earth 2 harrison wells #harrison wells #earth 2 harrison wells x reader #harry wells #harry wells x reader #harry x reader #jesse wells #jesse quick #the flash #dc comic #dc comics #x reader

127 notes · View notes

weemsbotts · 4 years ago

Text

The Extraordinary Ordinaries of Colonial Dumfries

By: Emma Tainter

Emma Tainter is a current M.Phil of Public History and Cultural Heritage student at Trinity College Dublin. Emma grew up in the Dumfries area and is thrilled to be able to help share its history and that of the Weems-Botts Museum, which is also the first museum she volunteered at.

When a constructing a town, there are many things one must take into consideration. Where will the main road be? Where will people live? Where will the courthouse be built? And lastly, where will the people eat, drink, and generally be merry?

The answer to the last question lies within Colonial Dumfries’ many ordinaries – or what today we would refer to as a tavern, bar, or inn. Ordinaries served a multifaceted and vitally important role in the social fabric of a colonial town.

The establishment of ordinaries was a constructed effort on the part of the local government to sow a reputation for hospitality – a crucial ingredient for a reputable town. Before the court would enter into a bond (or an agreement) with a potential ordinary owner, the owner had to prove that they could financially support a welcoming space for locals and travelers alike. Although courts issued a majority of the ordinary licenses in Dumfries in men during the 18th century, it was not uncommon for women to own and operate their own ordinaries.

While ordinaries could be built as standalone buildings, some of them were attached to the owner’s home. It seems the popular choice in Dumfries was to operate an ordinary attached to your home; between 1783 and 1784, Dumfries residents John Chick, William Lynn, William Tyler, Catherine Blancett, John Shute, Susanna Franklin, Joshua Baker, William Skinner were all granted licenses to keep an ordinary or tavern at their house. [1]

Either way, the ordinaries had to follow strict rules in terms of their rates for accommodation, food, and beverages in addition to keeping a tidy and clean space. Ordinary owners took pride in their businesses, as we can see from William Tebbs’ advertisement from April 1785:

Virginia Journal & Alexandria Advertiser 14 Apr 1785

THE SUBSCRIBER begs leave to inform the public that he has opened a Tavern, in the house lately occupied by Miss Susanna Franklin, in the town of Dumfries, where he is accommodated with every thing requisite for the regularly keeping a genteel house. Those gentlemen who [would] please to favor him with their custom may be assured that every exertion in his power shall be used in order to render them the most agreeable satisfaction, and such favors be gratefully acknowledged, by their most humble servant.

The Ordinaries became an extension of a person’s home into the community, and a place of community itself. It was in ordinaries where the townsfolk gathered to exchange business dealings, enjoy a meal, and most importantly, catch up on the gossip.

If you wanted to hear the latest court proceedings, you could head down to an ordinary to chat with your neighbors, or you may even be lucky enough to sit next to a witness who was waiting to be called to the stand – as the ordinaries were often filled with “witnesses waiting to be heard” in hearings in the neighboring courthouse.[2] If you happened to stop by Mitchell’s Tavern on November 7th, 1796, you would have bumped into a meeting of the Overseers of the Poor, where of Thomas Lee, John McMillion, Alexander Bruce, Philip Dawe, and Thomas Harrison met to discuss various accounts.[3]

A depiction of a lively American tavern. Krimmel, John Lewis. (1813-1814) Oil on canvas. Toledo Museum of Art, Toledo, OH.

The outside of the ordinary was often full of activity as well. It was common for people to hold auctions on the doorstep of ordinaries for the sale of land, property, and enslaved persons. The central locations of the ordinaries, as well as its already established usage as a gathering place, made it a sensible place for those wanting to buy or sell. The Virginia Journal & Alexandria Advertiser is full of advertisements such as the one below posted in February 1785:

TO BE SOLD on Monday the 7th of March next, before Mr. William McDaniel's Door, in the town of Dumfries, TWELVE SLAVES, belonging to the personal estate of the Rev. James Scott, deceased, consisting of Men, Women, and Children; and on Friday in the same week at Westwood, in Prince William County, the remainder of the Household Furniture, belonging to the said estate, consisting of tables, chairs, bedspreads, one bed and furniture, a neat pier glass, and other articles too tedious to enumerate. Credit will be allowed for all sums exceeding Forty Shillings for 12 months, the purchasers giving bond and approved security to bear interest from the date, if not punctually paid.

T. Blackburn, Administrator.[4]

Newspapers of the era, such as the Virginia Journal & Alexandria Advertiser and the Virginia Gazette & Agricultural Repository served as bulletin boards for these auctions and continue to be a great source of information about the inhabitants of 18th century Dumfries. Those newspapers mention the ordinaries of Mr. Tebbs, Mr. Mitchell, Mr. Smock, but the one that current Dumfries’ residents might be most familiar with is Mr. William McDaniel’s ordinary, or the Williams Ordinary. Later owned by George Williams, Williams Ordinary is still standing on Main Street, and today houses the Prince William County Office of Historic Preservation. Williams Ordinary hosted many famous figures during its heyday, including Thomas Jefferson, the Comte de Rochambeau, the Marquis de Lafayette, and George Washington.[5]

The reputation of an ordinary varied: while one could be known as the local meeting house of the Overseers of the Poor, another could be associated with more nefarious dealings. While people filled the ordinaries during the day and evening, the night could draw a very different (and perhaps a much rowdier crowd). Ordinaries that were discovered allowing gambling and overindulging were quickly reprimanded by the courts; a lesson Hugh Guttray learned the hard way. Just two months after opening an ordinary in his home, he was appealing his suspended license in court after he was found to be ‘permitting excessive gaming in his ordinary.’”[6]

The ordinaries all had different personalities and atmospheres. Some were known for their excellent food, such as the case of a woman who owned an ordinary attached to her home near the Bull Run Mountains. Her name is lost to history, but her food became legendary. So legendary, in fact, that George Washington himself is purported to have named a peak of the Bull Run Mountains in her honor. She was known to wear a leather apron and jacket all year round, and so the peak west of the Thoroughfare Gap became Mother Leathercoat Mountain.[7]

There are many things we can know for certain about Dumfries’ ordinaries, but the everyday conversations and meetings will have to be left to our imagination. Perhaps they weren’t so different than our own conversations today – something to ponder as we are able to venture into our modern-day ordinaries more and more.

Note: Thanks to Emma for the excellent research and interesting blog!

Enjoying our blog? Consider supporting us through memberships! Our memberships cost anywhere from $10-$30 for the entire year! From free tours & research to discounts on our popular programs, we have a lot to offer. Click here to learn more and here for our store.

[1] Prince William County, Virginia Court Orders 1783-1784. http://eservice.pwcgov.org/library/digitalLibrary/PDF/PWC%20Court%20Orders%201783-1784%20Final.pdf

[2] The Early History of Dumfries, Virginia. Carrol E. Morgan. April 21, 1994. 34.

[3] Records of Dettingen Parish.

[4] Prince William County Virginia 1784-1860 Newspaper Transcripts. Ronald Ray Turner. http://pwcvirginia.com/documents/PWC1784-1860NewspaperTranscripts.pdf

[5] Prince William: A Past to Preserve. 30-31.

[6] The Early History of Dumfries, Virginia. Carrol E. Morgan. April 21, 1994. 35.

[7] An Anthology of American Folktales and Legends. Frank Caro. 320.

(Sources: Morgan, Carrol E. 1994. “The Early History of Dumfries, Virginia.”; de Caro, Frank. 2015. An Anthology of American Folktales and Legends. Routledge, Taylor & Francis Group; Prince William County Virginia 1784-1860 Newspaper Transcripts. Ronald Ray Turner. http://pwcvirginia.com/documents/PWC1784-1860NewspaperTranscripts.pdfl; Wieder, L. C., ed. 1998. Prince William: a past to preserve. Prince William County Historical Commission.; Prince William County, Virginia Court Orders 1783-1784. RELIC: Prince William County Library System. http://eservice.pwcgov.org/library/digitalLibrary/PDF/PWC%20Court%20Orders%201783-1784%20Final.pdf; HDVI Archives: Records of Dettingen Parish PWC)

#localhistory #museumfromhome #taverns #virginiahistory #politics #townlife #primarysources #socialhistory #culturalhistory #enslaved

0 notes

justanoutlawfic · 7 years ago

Text

The Truth Will Set You Free

Summary: Gold discovers that his nanny has been living a double life.

Based on a story idea I had forever ago but never actually wrote. Please tell me what you think. :)

Also on AO3

Gold stood practically paralyzed as the events of the morning replayed in his head. He had hired Lacey Richards to work for him 6 months prior and thought that he knew her well. She was a kind, gentle woman who was probably the best nanny he could’ve asked for in terms of his son. He knew he was falling for her, there was no doubt in his mind about that.

He wanted to do something nice for her, to pay her back for everything she had done for him over the past few months. She had decorated her room in his house to her liking and he decided to take a peek inside to get an idea of something he could buy to help it feel more at home.

That’s where he saw the ID. Which to his surprise, didn’t read Lacey Richards…instead, Belle French.

His heart sunk in his chest as he researched her. While Lacey Richards was a Yale graduate with a PhD in child psychology, Belle had dropped out of the university and was married. Her husband, Gunther, was a wealthy and well respected man. As far as he could tell, everyone assumed that Belle French was dead. Yet, he knew that she wasn’t.

She had dropped his child off at school and was running errands for him.

Dear God, he had trusted her with his child. Baelen was the one good thing that he had in his life, he couldn’t lose him. How could he have trusted her? How did she pass his severe inspection?

A part of him wanted to call the police and let them know that whatever was buried in the cemetery back in California was definitely not Belle French. At the same time, he found himself returning the phone to the cradle and waiting.

Lacey…no, Belle, would be home soon. And he hoped to hell that she had a good explanation for everything.

Belle made her way into the large pink house, a load of groceries into her arms.

“Mr. Gold,” she called out. “Are you here? Your Cadillac is in the driveway, I thought you’d be at work by now.” She made her way closer to the kitchen. “I could fix us some lunch, if you’d like…”

Walking in, she smiled as she settled the groceries down. Try as she might, she had fallen for Harrison Gold. He was a handsome man, a devoted father and overall kind individual. Who wouldn’t be attracted to him? He was silent, so she went ahead to putting some of the groceries away.

“Did you hear my offer for lunch?”

“I’m fine, thank you…Belle.”

She froze in place, swallowing. He knew. But how? Her mind raced and she cringed, remembering the night before. She had a few glasses of wine after putting Bae to bed and had been thinking about her whole life, taking out the few mementos she had left…including her ID. But how had he found it?

“You searched my room,” she whispered.

Gold laughed, bitterly. “I didn’t have to search. I went in there to…” He stopped himself from explaining why. “It doesn’t matter, this is my home and it was out in the open.”

Belle slowly turned around and saw the confusion laced with hurt in his eyes. “Did you look me up?”

“Yes and according to the state of California, you’re supposed to be dead. Give me a good reason why I shouldn’t call and tell them that’s false.”

“No, please.” Tears clouded her eyes. “Don’t tell anyone.”

“What is going on here? Why did you lie to me? How did you fake your background? Why does your family think you’re dead.”

Belle let out a slow breath, sitting across from him. “When I married Gunther, things were good…at first. I soon realized he was a very powerful man and that he had secrets. If anyone stood in his way, they were taken care of. One night…” She shut her eyes in an attempt to keep the tears from falling. “One night, I came home and witnessed him killing his business partner. I was scared, so scared.”

Gold felt his heart sink into his stomach. He wasn’t sure if he could trust Belle, but hearing her speak, he knew she had to be telling the truth.

“I tried to leave before he saw me, to call for help, but he found me, threatened me. He told me that if I told a soul, no one would ever remember that Belle French had existed.” Belle’s eyes flickered open. “I talked to a cop friend, he had dealt with Gunther before. Any case brought up against him was thrown out. So, he…he helped me.”

“Helped you fake your death?”

“Fake my death, come up with a new identity, the works. He found out about the job listing and said it’d be a good place to fit in. In small towns, everyone smiles at you from their fences, but they don’t get invested in your life.” Belle shrugged, a single tear falling down her face. “I hated lying to you, there were so many times I wanted to tell you the truth…”

“So, why didn’t you? I’m a lawyer, Lacey…I mean, Belle. I could’ve helped you.”

“Because then you’d be involved and you or Bae could get hurt.”

“You don’t think we’re already involved by you working for me?” Belle averted her glance and he sighed, rubbing his temples. “If you had just been up front and honest…there is so much I could’ve done for you.”

“I didn’t need your help,” she whispered. “I needed a fresh start.”

“You needed to lie.”

Belle sighed, biting her lip. “I understand that I’m fired now. I beg of you, just don’t tell anyone. I’ll talk to Graham, get a new identity. I can be out of here as soon as tonight.”

She was going to leave, run. A part of Gold knew he should just let her. She had lied to him for months, had put him and his son at risk. If Gunther had found out at any time, he could’ve shown up and hurt all of them. There was no reason for Belle French to be anywhere near his life.

And yet…he loved her. He didn’t want to lose her or see her go anywhere. As betrayed as he felt, as much trust that had been lost…he wanted to protect her.

“What else did you lie about?” Gold asked, quietly.

She shook her head. “Nothing. I really did go to Yale, I only dropped out with one semester left to marry Gunther. I love books and tea, I really did love the symphony we took Bae to.” She softly smiled. “I’m still the woman you hired…just with a different name.”

“You can stay,” he said.

Belle raised an eyebrow. “Mr. Gold…”

“If you really are who you say, then running won’t solve your problems. If anything, it’ll just make you more susceptible to your husband’s wrath. You need to stay here, with us. I can protect you.”

“How?”

“I don’t know yet. What I do know, is that you shouldn’t be alone and you won’t be anymore.”

“But after all I did, I lied to you…”

“Yes and I’m not exactly thrilled with that. I’m not sure how much I can trust you…but I do care about you. And I don’t turn my back on people I care about.”

Belle let out the breath she had been holding in and the tears streamed down her face. Gold reached forward and took her hand. She knew it was more than she deserved in that moment and that he was risking everything, for her. The love she had for him was growing by the second.

“I still have to be Lacey,” she whispered. “No one else can know.”

“It’ll be our secret.”

“You don’t have to do this…”

“I don’t do anything I don’t want to do.”

She nodded and he slowly wiped her tears away. Gold didn’t know what the next step was, but they could figure it out together.

#rumbelle #rumbelle au

6 notes · View notes

daylflay · 5 years ago

Text

The Fashion Show

The Runway

As I’ve progressed through Twitter’s cold, violent, and virtual theater of war amidst the rhetorical conflict that is 2020, which is not (figuratively) dissimilar to the frozen and bloody tundra of Russia circa 1941-1944, what I’ve realized is that this struggle is one of aesthetics rather than principle. Individuals with considerable online followings aren’t concerned with much beyond the consolidation of their brands, and that means walking a certain walk. In Feminist sexualities, race and the internet: an investigation of suicidegirls.com, Shoshana Magnet “argues that the capitalist market serves to depoliticize queer activist movements and assimilate their members – drawing ‘social movements focused on winning rights’ into ‘market-based tactics and objectives”. The individuals I’m following, some of whom are queer and most of whom are “activists” of some sort, are selling something, and they strut that something while walking the virtual runway.

The Models

Rick Wilson is the only white person I’m tracking, and his Twitter feed is unsurprisingly devoid of anything related to people of color; he really doesn’t even try to broach issues related to minority communities, which isn’t shocking for a former GOP strategist (he clearly hasn’t shed ALL of their values). The only people-of-color related visibility on his Twitter are the occasional photos/gifs he posts in a comedic context, seemingly as a way to address the whiteness of his online presence. Wilson comes off as the anti-Trump/GOP persona for white people that still aren’t particularly comfortable with people of color. In a selfie Wilson tweeted out on February 17th, he’s featured in a large, idyllic looking backyard enjoying his morning coffee (or so I assume that’s what it is) and flanked by two dogs running around in the background; the text accompanying the photo reads, “morning. I have had two days off the road from the book tour and I’m starting to feel human again”. I believe Wilson’s aforementioned tweet symbolizes his brand perfectly: He’s the embodiment of classic Americana, but with a neo-conservative twist (he’s staunchly anti-Trump, as his most recent book’s title, Running Against The Devil: A Plot To Save America From Trump – And Democrats From Themselves, suggests) that serves to draw (some) conservatives, centrists, and (some) liberals into his following.

Mehdi Hasan, as a liberal journalist, man of Indian descent, and a self-professed Muslim, is very active in addressing and criticizing the oppression of various minority groups on Twitter; most of his recent tweets target some issue pertaining to minorities, such as this one condemning Mike Bloomberg for unethically surveilling/targeting Muslims in New York: [2/27/20] “Finally, finally!, Bloomberg gets asked about his spying on Muslims in New York and his answer is... to double down and defend it as the right thing to do. (He also brazenly lies about what it involved.)” Having said all of that, Mehdi is not very conservative/traditional regarding his religion, at least not in terms of sartorial choices, in fact he dresses very white, but that’s most likely due to the (probably negative) attention such a cultural performance could engender for someone with as large a following as himself. In New Media, Old Racisms: Twitter, Miss America, and Cultural Logics of Race, J. David Cisneros & Thomas K. Nakayama address the prevalent issue of racism online (specifically on Twitter) and connect the issue to Nina Davuluri, who is a woman of Indian descent (like Hasan) and the 2014 winner of the Miss America title; here’s a tweet they point out directed at Davuluri: “How the fuck does a foreigner win miss America? She is a Arab!#idiots...congratulations Al-Qaeda. Our Miss America is one of you”. This is likely the kind of attention Hasan is trying to avoid by presenting himself and his brand the way he does. In a selfie Hasan uploaded on 2/10/20, he’s wearing a suit in front of a Starbucks with fellow, blue-checkmarked-Twitter-user (not to mention, white man) Andy Lassner; this is about as safe and culturally innocuous as one can play it on Twitter.

Patti Harrison, as a trans woman of color and the dual-minority category that places her in, puts less focus on ethnic minorities like herself (I could only find a single instance of Asian advocacy on her Twitter from months ago, but the person she was advocating for was also trans), but more of a focus on trans-related issues (maybe because that garners more attention on Twitter?). I’m not entirely sure what counts as Vietnamese sartorial chic, but she doesn’t represent it, instead vying for outfits that looks as if they came out of Carrie Bradshaw’s (of Sex and the City fame) closet, as evidenced by a selfie she tweeted out on 1/24/20. In general, she doesn’t seem to put a huge spotlight on neither trans nor Asian matters on Twitter, and I believe it’s because she represents the 2 aforementioned cultural minorities and as such she would engender double the amount of potential negativity; she’s not dissimilar to Mehdi Hasan in this case with his Indian and Muslim identity. It comes off as rather tragic to me that one would have to choose between which minority identity one performs.

In Tweets, Tweeps, and Signifyin’: Communication and Cultural Performance on “Black Twitter”, Sarah Florini talks about a concept known as “signifyin’”: “Black users often perform their identities through displays of cultural competence and knowledge. The linguistic practice of ‘signifyin’,’ which deploys figurative language, indirectness, doubleness, and wordplay as a means of conveying multiple layers of meaning, serves as a powerful resource for the performance of Black cultural identity on Twitter... Signifyin’ is often...derived from Black Vernacular English and phonetic spellings that convey specific pronunciations. Often, this is a relatively minor modification like ‘wit’ (with), ‘tryna’ (trying to), or ‘you’ instead of ‘your.’” In other words, signifyin’ abbreviates online language to more accurately portray offline language/pronunciation, which subsequently consolidates Black culture online. The two Black women who I follow don’t engage in signifyin’ very much on Twitter, but for different reasons: Kashana Cauley does well with bringing issues regarding people of color to the forefront of her Twitter, but she is very careful with diction, probably due to her occupation as a writer (which causes me to ponder that particular industry and its whiteness). There are minor instances of Cauley signifyin’, though, such as in this tweet from February 16th: “Kinda wild how the most far-left, extremist, militant position you can take on health care is that people should have it”; the “kinda” was a very minor example of her signifyin’, but it’s something, and besides that she also performs Black culture via her publicly displayed hairstyle (the image in question is her current profile pic), which she wears in its natural fashion. Cauley ultimately is willing to perform Black culture on Twitter much more-so than the other Black woman on Twitter that I’ve been paying attention to.

Candace Owens (the aforementioned other Black woman that I’m following) has no problem invoking Blacks on Twitter, and in fact makes many Black-centric arguments, but framed through a conservative (and thus white, due to the demographics of the conservative ideology) lens. Owens makes it a point to deliberately style her tweets without the use of signifyin’, i.e., she tweets like a white person because she’s appealing to her conservative brand; the pinned tweet on her account exemplifies this as well as demonstrating her intent on selling more copies of her book (not unlike fellow conservative Rick Wilson): [8/6/19] “LET’S GO AMERICA!...After 2 years of fighting and challenging the status quo— I finally wrote it. The book Democrats don’t want Minorities to read. BLACKOUT: How Black America Can Make Its Second Escape From The Democrat Plantation. Available for pre-order on Amazon today!” In addition, many of Owens’ tweeted selfies are of her dressed like a white woman (with always-straightened hair, in contrast to Kashana Cauley’s display of her natural hairstyle) while appearing on (the veritably conservative) Fox News; she seemed to take particular pride in a pic of her with President Donald J. Trump (Fox News’ favorite person) tweeted out on January 21st. Owens’ brand is as translucent as the skin-color of the majority of her followers.

Vladimir Lenin, when he was walking the political runway, once said: “Politics begin where the masses are, not where there are thousands, but where there are millions, that is where serious politics begin.” Lenin was a man of strong principles, and he was memorialized by his country via the former name of one its most well-known cities (formerly Leningrad, currently St. Petersburg). Leningrad during the second world war was the site of a 2+ year siege (9/8/1941-1/8/1944), but Russia persevered and were critical to fighting off the threat of Nazi Germany; the Russian people who fought and died during said siege were, ostensibly, like Lenin, men and women of principle. These individuals I’m tracking on Twitter, with their potential access to people numbering in the millions, are capable of engaging in the “serious politics” Lenin referred to, but are they people of principle? If they can be bought and seduced by capitalism and its associated power, an ideology despised by Lenin, and are fearful of repercussion from those with views antithetical to their principles, then I’d argue that they do not share the aforementioned strength of principle, and considering the theoretical power they possess, that should worry us all.

0 notes

newsbiteswithjennysok · 5 years ago

Text

July 30, 2019

1. It's been a good year for Brie Larsen. The ups weren't without some downs though, calling off her engagement to musician Alex Greenwald in January.

But it appears she's moved on as she was spotted Tuesday locking lips with a handsome mystery man.

The new couple then took their romantic outing to a theater in Malibu, where Larson had a bouquet in hand from the market.

Larson got engaged to 39 year old Greenwald in 2016 after several years of dating.

In January, a source close to the couple told People: 'They have taken a step back from their engagement for the time being but they remain close.'

2. According to Entertainment Tonight, Cabello, 22, and Mendes, 20, are a definitely a thing and they've 'really fallen for each other.'

The 'Never Be The Same' hitmaker has sparked speculation that she and her 'Senorita' collaborator are dating after they started spending more time together following her split from 32-year-old love guru Matthew Hussey last month.

And, although they were initially claiming they were just friends, she and Shawn are reportedly 'committed to working on a relationship.'

'Shawn and Camila originally were just enjoying spending time together and having a summer fling. Camila had just got out of a relationship and Shawn was in the middle of a massive tour,' a source told ET.

'However, Shawn and Camila have really fallen for one another.'

3. Tanoai Reed spent nearly 20 years as Dwayne 'The Rock' Johnson's stunt double.

He's stood-in on The Scorpion King, Fast & Furious franchise, Hercules and more.

The Hawaiian, 45, has broken bones, torn ligaments and severe muscle damage.

Reed, 6ft 3in and 260lb, has to mirror Johnson's exercise routine and diet.

The pair's favorite cheat foods are pizza and doughnuts and share food spots.

Johnson even bought him a new truck last year in an emotional video.

Dwayne 'The Rock' Johnson's stunt double of nearly 20 years has revealed their exercises routines, diets and the favorite unhealthy snacks they both indulge in.

In between films, Reed recommends taking long periods without exercising specific areas in order to let muscles and other injuries heal.

He keeps his physique in check with stretching and yoga to ensure the muscles remain loose.

Each routine changes every couple of months, he told the site, and for every sessions they spend up to 1 hour 30 minutes training one specific body part.

'You’re not going to get more results from staying in the gym,' Reed told the site.

'You’ve got to work out the muscles, then rest and recuperate. That’s when you make your gains, is the rest time.'

Johnson has a chef preparing his meals for a new role, 'weighing out to the ounce,' counting his macros and ensuring he eats every two hours.

Meanwhile Reed who does not have access to the same facilities, often uses 16-hour intermittent fasting, where he will only eat for eight hours of the day.

He also revealed that while they work hard they play hard too, with both of them sharing a strong passion for their two favorite unhealthy snacks.

Reed said: 'Dwayne and I share a love for donuts. He’ll actually get donuts from certain places and send them to me, or bring a box to set from somewhere else.

'Pizza too. We’ll always share our newfound pizza and donut spots with each other.'

4. Tarek El Moussa was 'spotted kissing' reality star Heather Rae Young, 31, in Redondo Beach this weekend, who looks shockingly similar to his ex-wife Christina Anstead.

The 36-year-old home renovation expert looked cozy with his new lady love, a former Playboy Playmate with golden blonde hair and a deep tan.

5. Jason Momoa is fine with a little flab. The hunky matinee idol was photographed shirtless earlier this month on vacation with wife Lisa Bonet in Italy as online users commented on his fuller appearance.

'Oh, that's alright,' the laid-back Hawaiian native, 39, told TMZ on Tuesday. 'No, not at all,' he added when asked if the negative attention bothered him.

And the carefree answer came after the handsome hunk was reunited with his Game Of Thrones costar Emilia Clarke at his surprise 40th birthday party on Saturday.

6. Hannah Brown got engaged to Jed Wyatt on the season finale of The Bachelorette on Tuesday, but quickly dumped him after feeling betrayed.

The 24-year-old former beauty queen after getting engaged to Jed, 25, learned that he lied to her about having a girlfriend immediately prior to the taping of the show.

'I am not with Jed anymore,' she told host Chris Harrison, 48, as she filmed the show's follow-up After The Final Rose in a Los Angeles studio.

To truly close the book on the relationship, she then asked his competition, fan favorite Tyler Cameron, 26, out on a date.

The revelation that Nashville singer/songwriter Jed had been dating someone right before he met her had totally devastated Hannah, and made her wonder whether he had simply used her to promote his career.

7. The backlash against Quentin Tarantino‘s latest film “Once Upon a Time in Hollywood” has gained a new voice: Bruce Lee’s daughter.

Shannon Lee spoke out to The Wrap in an interview published Monday, saying she was disappointed with the way Tarantino portrayed her father in the film.

“He comes across as an arrogant a–hole who was full of hot air,” Shannon said of her father’s portrayal in the film, which she saw Sunday.

In it, Bruce (played by Mike Moh) trades insults with Brad Pitt‘s stuntman character Cliff Booth, and the pair eventually engage in a best-of-three brawl, which ends in a draw before being interrupted.]

“I can understand all the reasoning behind what is portrayed in the movie,” Shannon said. “I understand that the two characters are antiheroes and this is sort of like a rage fantasy of what would happen … I understand they want to make the Brad Pitt character this super bad-ass who could beat up Bruce Lee.”

8. Goop director of brand partnerships and Instagram influencer Marissa Fuchs, whose “surprise” engagement — complete with a pitch deck sent to brands — went viral, has “been exiled” following the arguably tacky stunt, according to a source.

Page Six heard fashionistas tittering in the Hamptons this weekend that Fuchs — who goes by the handle @fashionambitionist on the social platform, where she has 184,000 followers — had tried to attend a party hosted by H&M at Crow’s Nest on Thursday in Montauk, LI.

“She wasn’t invited and was turned away,” says a source. “She’s been exiled.”

But a source close to Fuchs insists she was at the spot with pals for dinner, and spontaneously decided to go down to the lake — where the bash was held — to have a drink with a view.

“It was a private event, and she asked to go in for one drink and the guard told her, ‘If I let in one person, [I] have to let in 20.’”

A rep for H&M told us “This was a very intimate private dinner with a set capacity. We always welcome new friends to the brand and would love to include her in future events.”

Fuchs gained international attention back in June when she was sent on a multi-day scavenger hunt to find the spot where her then-boyfriend, Gabriel Grossman, planned to propose to her.

It was later revealed that the proposal had been pitched to brands to have their products involved months before Grossman surprised Fuchs by popping the question.

9. It’s a big news day for Real Housewives of Atlanta exes! Earlier today we shared the news that Phaedra Parks’ ex-husband Apollo Nida has been re-released from federal prison in Pennsylvania. Unfortunately, Kenya Moore’s troubled ex Matt Jordan has seemingly balanced the karma jail scales by getting arrested in Arizona after allegedly punching his girlfriend in the face in a Denny’s parking lot.

Matt (full name Matthew Jordan) was arrested in Pinal County, Arizona on Saturday and booked on multiple charges that include aggravated assault, theft, and threats/intimidation with damage to property. He was also charged with trespassing from an outstanding warrant in nearby Maricopa County from an incident in early April.

According to the police report, obtained by TMZ, the altercation was between Matt and his girlfriend Valerie Bell. Valerie alleges that “Matt punched her in the face at a Denny’s parking lot in the early hours of Saturday morning — this in the presence of a second woman, who says she witnessed it go down.” It’s important to note that Matt is a trained boxer.

10. Numerous 90 Day Fiance: Before the 90 Days fans were shocked to find out that Season 2 star Ricky Reyes was still married when he ventured to Colombia to date Melissa and then Ximena — the latter of which he eventually proposed to. And it may shock fans to know that even after all of Ricky’s ridiculous antics on screen, he and his wife Natalia are still legally married. However, it appears that won’t be the case for very long as Natalia officially filed for divorce last month, which included a protective order preventing Ricky from seeing their young daughter Kira.

According to online records, initially posted by 90 Day Fiance social media mogul John Yates, Natalia filed for divorce on June 17. The filing included the temporary protective order, which was signed by a judge on June 28.

In the filing, it is revealed that Ricky must have been accused of “family violence,” which he denies. The motion also states that Ricky was unaware of the initial court hearing, a claim that appears to be corroborated by the fact that Ricky was not officially served until mid-July. (Ricky’s filing states that he was served on July 16, while Travis County court records indicate that service was executed on July 19.)

Ricky denies that he was responsible for any sort of “family violence” in the motion, but he has suggested many times over the past four months that he’s done things he regrets — including his appearance on 90 Day Fiance: Before the 90 Days. Back in March, everything seemed to be going well for Ricky after he quit drinking and smoking and began to focus on his health.

However, just a day after posting a positive update about his progress, Ricky checked himself into a mental health facility. “Officially lost it, my will and strength,” Ricky wrote the day he checked in. “Will be gone for [a] couple of days…I’m upset at myself for losing composure…Need to make finer adjustments…Bye.” The post was accompanied by a cover of the Trent Reznor song “Hurt.”

Ricky would later issue apologies to his wife Natalie and his former fiancée Ximena, although neither appeared to be very receptive to his contrition. “Delete that photo,” Ximena responded in the comments of his post. “I’m getting tired of your immaturity and desire to be noticed and appreciated and no one believes in your lies loser.”

0 notes

mclennunf · 8 years ago

Text

This Boy - Chapter 33

A/N: im so sorry its taken this long... really i am... but i thank each and every one of you for the support. please enjoy!

~John’s~

The morning of the trial was like any other, regardless of the fact that Paul and I had to dress all posh and fancy like. He knew how much I hated it, and he milked it for sure. I popped my pill in my mouth and washed it down with a sip of water, waiting for Paul to finish primping and priming himself. So far, he seemed to be dealing with this well. It was the fact that we hadn't actually arrived at the courthouse yet that I was worried about. But, my Paul is strong.

"Ready, love!" Paul called as he trotted proudly down the stairs. "Beautiful." I smirked at him as I pulled him in for a quick kiss. Gin and Mike came down the stairs after him, and Paul pushed me away. I knew our relationship was a secret and always had to be, but Lord was it getting annoying. The drive to the courthouse felt like an eternity for me. I could only imagine what it felt like for Paul. I kept glancing at him and giving him reassuring smiles, and he would flash me a not-so-convincing smile back. But, he wasn't having a freak out or a break down and I had to be thankful and proud of him for that. When Gin finally found a bloody parking spot, it took all of me not to take Paul's hand and proudly walk into that courtroom like we owned the bloody place. Paul and I sat down at the front, Gin and Mike in the observers seats. "Ready, lads?" Mr. Edison greeted us as he sat down next to Paul. We both nodded hesitantly.

Paul's eyes made the same change they always did when he was feeling numb. I looked over to see what he had been staring at, and it was Jim being escorted in by his lawyer and a police officer. They sat parallel to us facing the Judge's bench. "M'love," I whispered, catching Paul's attention. "Thank you." He half smiled and tilted his head. I could tell that all either of us wanted was to kiss right there and then. "All rise," An officer announced. We stood as the Judge entered, and I brushed my hand lightly against Paul's. The touch was soothing. He brought his hand back to mine and pressed his knuckle against mine. The warmth of his hand almost brought my mind away from what was truly happening, this trial. I imagined Paul and I lying on our backs in Strawberry Fields as we had the first night everything happened for us. The way we fell asleep and woke up holding hands. Moments like those remind me to be strong for him, in moments like these.

"Be seated." The Judge ordered. She was a middle-aged woman with long blonde hair and a few wrinkles. We did as we were told, our hands still dangling at our sides so that our knuckles could secretly touch. "Mr. Edison, proceed." The judge gestured toward our lawyer. My stomach did a flip, and I watched Paul's face turn completely white. Mr. Edison stood up and walked up to stand in front of the Judge's bench and the jury. A small group of people I had never seen before, which made me assume they were from Blackpool. Everybody knows everybody in Liverpool. Guess they have to keep it anonymous, or whatever. "Good morning, ladies and gentleman. Let me introduce myself. My name is Mr. M. Edison, and I will be representing Mr. James Paul McCartney and Mr. John Winston Lennon throughout this important case." He gestured toward us as he spoke our names. I felt Jim's eyes on me, falling back and forth between myself and Paul. Paul stared ahead at Mr. Edison.

Mr. Edison was very good, and very smart. He turned back to the Judge and jury. "My reason for being here this morning is to help you anticipate what you will hear over the next few hours when listening to evidence. We have both of the victims and their witnesses here to make statements and I do trust that you, the jury, and Your Honor, will do your job to it's fullest extent and see that there is no other choice than to find the defendant guilty on all counts." Mr. Edison nodded a thank you to the Judge and sat back down next to Paul, who smiled at him. I had a feeling this was going to go well, regardless of how terrible it would be to hear Jim McCartney defend himself and try to win custody back of Mike. Mike. I spun my head around quickly to check on him. He was glued to Gin, staring at Paul and I. I gave him a small smile and thumbs up, and turned back around. "Will the defendant rise with your opening statement." The Judge pointed to Jim's lawyer, who then stood in the same spot Mr. Edison had.

"Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, Your Honor, we have been brought together today in regards to a tragedy that has taken place. An innocent man lost his wife to cancer." The lawyer referred to Paul's mother. I glanced over at him, but he didn't even flinch. "You or I could've easily succumb to this undeserving loss and would've dealt with it the same way Jim McCartney had. He tried to take care of his two sons on his own, with none to little help. When his oldest son began rebelling and acting out, Mr. McCartney Sr. felt unwanted and unloved. This is something that we can blame on our so called victim, Mr. McCartney Jr." The lawyer pointed at Paul, who did flinch this time. It took everything I had to stay seated and not pounce on the little bastard, but I needed to stay calm. For Paul. "We would like to call Michael McCartney to the stand." Mr. Edison spoke up. Paul and I both watched as a small, young Mike made his way nervously up to the stand. It was horrible to me that they would put the poor lad up there on his own. But, when he moved, I noticed George and Ritchie sitting behind Gin. I half smiled, and focused my attention back on my young brother-in-law. "Michael, thank you for joining us!" Mr. Edison was sweet to Mike, thankfully. Paul had a very worried, protective look on his face. Who could blame him though, really? Mike only nodded back at Mr. Edison. "Do you remember when your Daddy started drinking?" Mr. Edison asked, leaning on the front of the stand in hopes that Mike would forget he was speaking in front of a room full of people. "N-no, sir. My Daddy always drank." Mike's small voice replied. "Okay, you're doing great." Mr. Edison gave him a high five, causing Paul to smile like a proud Poppa. "Do you remember when your Daddy started hitting your older brother, Paul?" Mr. Edison asked another question. Then another, then another. It got to the point where Mike was describing the day that Jim had hit Paul over the head with the chair, down to the nitty gritty details of blood and teeth and what the sound of ribs breaking sounds like. "I-I want Paul," Mike finally broke down into tears. Mr. Edison and the Judge allowed Mike down from the stand, where he ran over and jumped into Paul's arms and cried into his shoulder. "Shh, Mikey. I'm here." Paul was biting his bottom lip the way he always did when he was fighting back tears.

"We would like to call Mr. McCartney Sr. to the stand." The other lawyer spoke up, and the Judge nodded in approval. Here we go. Mike stayed on Paul's lap for this. "Mr. McCartney, you admit to hitting your son. But, you were ill. An alcoholic. Do you think you can be held responsible for these accusations?" His lawyer asked, pacing back and forth in front of our bench. "No, sir. I was under the influence of alcohol and dealing with severe depression." Jim replied with a nasty grin. "And your son, James, he was a troublesome child who caused you nothing but stress?" He asked. "Yes. He was always causing trouble at school and at home. Reckless and careless." Jim lied through his bloody teeth. I clenched my jaw in tension. But, Mike put his small little hand on top of mine and I felt my jaw release. "Objection." Mr. Edison spoke up. "We would like to call George Harrison to the stand. A long time family friend of the McCartney's." Mr. Edison gestured to where George and Ritchie were sitting. Jim limped his old arse back to his bench and sat down, but not before giving me a long, threatening glare. George made his way up to the stand, wearing a nice dress shirt and tie with his tight black pants. They reminded me of Hamburg, and I smiled at the younger lad, thankful for the fond memory and good mate.

"Mr. Harrison, how long have you known the McCartney family?" Mr. Edison asks with a kind tone. "All me life. Me Mum 'n Da' always had tea at the McCartney's, even before me 'n Paul were born." George's voice was shaky and nervous. Which, he had every right to feel. He glanced around the court room. It was rather large, but all of the benches, seats and people made it seem extremely small. "Can you remember Mr. McCartney Jr. ever being a troublesome child? At home, or at school?" Mr. Edison went on. "Well, y'know, all kids are a little troublesome. But Paul was always a sweet lad, me best mate, he is. Always has been. Only time he ever caused a problem at home was when 'e stood up for 'imself against 'is Da's fist." George was brutally honestly, causing an actual small reaction from the jury, which gave me more hope. Paul was bouncing Mike on his leg soothingly, but I could tell it was also due to his nerves. Mike's little hand was still on top of my now very sweaty hand. "And, Mr. McCartney Sr. stabbed your other mate, Mr. Lennon? Is that correct?" Mr. Edison pointed to me. As the words escaped his mouth, Mike tightened his grip and laced his fingers with mine, holding tight as if to tell me it was all okay.

"That is correct, sir." George nodded. "And why did he stab Mr. Lennon?" Mr. Edison crossed his arms and glanced briefly at the jury, and back to George. "Uh, well, Paul's Da' wanted them to move to Scotland. Paul said he didn't wanna go, and Jim needed someone to blame. So he blamed John, and attacked him." George explained, looking over to me with sorry eyes. I blinked at him to reassure him that we were all okay. "Thank you Mr. Harrison." Mr. Edison allowed George to go back and sit beside Ritchie, who definitely was hiding his tears, unlike Gin, who had been crying since the second Mike walked up to the stand. "Mr. McCartney Jr. Please come to the stand." Mr. Edison said with a smile, trying to keep his client calm. Paul picked Mike up and placed him over to me, on my lap. I wrapped my arms around his little tummy and held him close as Paul walked up and sat in the stand.

And then Paul had to tell the story from his point of view. Which is the story we all know, and hate. Hearing Paul tell every little detail made it seem as though I was reliving it, as I can imagine it made him feel, too. I could see everything playing out in my head. The bathtub. His black eyes. His cigarette burns. His broken bones. All of the horrible moments I had witnessed in Paul's life flashed before my bloody eyes. Thankfully, Mike was getting fidgety and brought me back down to Earth. I was extremely proud as I looked at Paul. He kept himself together quite well, better than I had expected, anyway. He had a few moments of tears where he couldn't speak anymore, but regardless, he did an amazing job. Once again, if only I could kiss him in front of all of these people. "I have heard enough." The Judge interrupted him with a stone cold expression. Paul seemed surprised by her cutting him off, just as we all did. "I would like to dismiss the jury, take a short recess and come back with a sentence. Thank you." The Judge banged her gavel rather loudly, and everybody dispersed. Mike went back to Gin, who took him to get some water. Paul and I sat on a little bench outside of the courthouse to have a smoke.

"I love you." I whispered as I lit the cigarette that was already hanging out of his mouth. He took in a long, drawn out drag and blew the smoke down toward our feet. "I love you too." Paul didn't look up at me. "You did amazing." I reassured him. "Wish I could reward ye." I nudged his side lightly with my elbow as I smoked my cigarette with the other hand. "She cut me off, though. Not a good sign." Paul objected. Before I could make a statement about that, Mr. Edison poked his head out of the door. "The jury has come to a final decision. The Judge is ready for sentencing. Are you.. Are you ready?" He asked in a concerned manner. I nodded, and poked Paul's arm. "Are you ready, babe?" I said quiet enough for Mr. Edison not to hear. "One second," Paul called back to him. He nodded and closed the door. Paul took a quick look around, before throwing his cigarette on the ground and crashing his lips against mine, wrapping his arms around my neck. I breathed in his heavenly scent and smiled into the kiss. When he unfortunately pulled away, he was smiling too. "Never let go of me." He whispered. "Never, m'love." I winked. We made our way back into the crowded court room.

"Let the jury state their finding and majority vote." The Judge gestured. "Here we go." Mr. Edison whispered as he shifted his body to face the jury. The jury representative stood up. Paul and I both held our breath, waiting for the decision to be announced. Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion, the way everybody turned their head toward the jury's bench, the way the jury representative fumbled with their papers and forms. Even the way Paul took a glance at me, seemed like an eternity.

We were about to find out a decision that could change our lives forever.

#mclennon #mclennon fanfiction #this boy

18 notes · View notes

harrisonkitteridge-blog · 8 years ago

Quote

Sherlock Holmes was a thing of the shadows. He was also the bearer of the light that drove out the darkness.

Before Holmes Met Watson by Harrison Kitteridge

Prologue

Sherlock Holmes was a thing of the shadows. He was also the bearer of the light that drove out the darkness. Living out this paradox could be quite stressful. Obfuscation. Lies. Deceit. He had always been fascinated by people’s attempts to subvert the truth while living in a world in which there were cameras everywhere, constantly recording, sending everything back to The Archive, where anything governments or other powerful entities hadn’t obscured was searchable. Everyone could see everything, know everything about everyone else. “The Age of Transparency” was how the headlines had heralded The Archive coming online. Mendacity now took careful planning. Saying you were working late when you were really at a seedy motel rolling around on the bed with a colleague was a nearly impossible sell now. As were most forms of impersonation. The ubiquity of biometric readers employed to do everything from unlock doors to sign for packages meant most impostors quickly set off alarms when The Archive recognised someone was in two places at once. It had become so difficult to hide, and detective work was about uncovering concealment. The spotlights The Archive shone into people’s lives made Sherlock’s illuminating insights seem like a flickering candle, and he feared he was obsolete.

As a boy, Sherlock would spend hours upon hours neglecting his school assignments to browse the Personal Archive Files of strangers. He watched in fascination as the chain reactions of their ill deeds accelerated towards their explosive finales. All the evidence was there. The outcomes were predictable, yet the affairs, the embezzling, the betrayals always seemed to blindside the victims. They see, but they do not observe, Sherlock often thought. More damningly, they thought The Archive could do the observing for them. Everyone was watching everyone else all the time, so the misapprehension wasn’t wholly unreasonable. Nevertheless, it didn’t erase the simple consequence: Sherlock Holmes was a detective who almost never had any cases to solve. If you are what you do, what did it mean that he was constantly doing nothing?

John Watson was a doctor and a soldier. He lived and worked in a war zone. He saved the dying and on rare occasions had to pick up a gun and kill the living. He’d been trained well to do both. He preferred the former. There were moments when John was alone that it seemed to him his life was some sort of dream or even a simulation. War was terrible and chaotic and hellish. It was also thoroughly ludicrous. There was always something to do, though, and that left you with little time to realise that nothing made sense. The why of the fight was impossible to appreciate when you were in the valley of death. And when you stepped away far enough to look in at the mass slaughter, you realised the why was never good enough, and the true insanity was anyone thinking the depth of the suffering was justified. John struggled with the contradiction in himself: he was a healer and a killer. There was something he enjoyed about the risk of standing next to that yawning, dark abyss. He tried to ignore that part of himself and focus on the bit that spent exhausting hours in the operating theatre patching up the wounded. He thought of himself as a surgeon first, but his title belied that. Everyone called him Captain Watson.

Day One: Shopping

Adaptation. It is the driving force behind evolution. The species that is better adapted to its environment is more likely to survive. Humans are incredibly adaptable. We can adjust to almost any circumstance, survive nearly anything. John Watson pondered these things as he broke into a clammy sweat and hid behind one of the large potted plants lining the gleaming hallways of the mall. He’d adjusted to life in Afghanistan, to the gunfire, the bombs, the blood, the death. Calm in the face of chaos had become his default setting, and all this… peacefulness had his nerves singing and his pulse racing. He wished he’d thought to spend his leave in his hotel room and just have everything he needed delivered: food, spirits, companionship, but especially the items he’d promised to pick up for his mates stuck back in Kabul. He’d thought the novelty of going to one of the few remaining shopping centres would be a bit of a lark, but he hadn’t realised just how much he had changed. He’d always managed to take leave with friends he’d been deployed with, and without that familiar buffer he was flailing wildly and on the brink of a panic attack all because he was in a shopping mall that was too brightly lit and filled with civilians whose situational awareness rivalled that of a thick plank. He was beginning to get strange looks.

In another part of London, Sherlock Holmes was doing shopping of his own.

They claimed the stigma had been removed, but it hadn’t. He could see it in the eyes of the pedestrians who saw him make the left turn into the building; he could see it in the eyes of the staff. There was always a measure of contempt chased with a sharp spike of moral superiority. It was the pity that rankled him the most, though. But he kept coming to the Controlled Substances Dispensary because he knew the molar concentration of what he was getting down to four decimal places. The precision of it all provided a sort of comfort, although he found the blankness of the stark, unadorned white walls sinister – their cool inhospitality was quite deliberate. He provided a retinal scan and was assigned a number. He’d long realised that no one liked to sit by the vents on the north side of the room, which blew arctic blasts in the summer and seemed to ooze positively equatorial humidity in the winter. It was early spring, so predicting the temperature was a bit chancier, but he took his usual seat directly under the openings and was shocked to find the problem seemed to have been repaired. A pleasant, gentle breeze wafted over him, and, as he watched a young man (early twenties, art student, hooked on some variant of methamphetamines) shamble towards him, he knew his day would go poorly.

“Nice day for it,” the art student said, smiling as he took the seat right next to Sherlock.

“Is it?” Sherlock replied, giving him a scathing look.

“I suppose not,” the young man said, recoiling slightly. At least he had the decency to take the hint and move a few seats away. Sherlock sighed in relief. He abhorred familiarity.

Back in the shopping centre, John had abandoned his cover and made his way into a supermarket. He’d picked up some chocolates and biscuits for his colleagues at the hospital and was consulting his list for what to buy next when he came to the fresh fruit section. He paused in front of what seemed like acres of bananas and stared. The sheer abundance of it all seemed preposterous to him. It’s all that unblemished yellow, he thought. He picked up a hand of seven and added it to his basket. He consulted his list again and headed off to find some authentic hot pepper sauce for his Jamaican anaesthetist.

Sherlock’s number was called, and he was ushered into the back room to receive his standing order. He’d never seen the woman manning the inventory before. She had brassy red hair and a nosy demeanour. He braced himself.

“Mr Holmes?” she asked, and her nasal inquiry made him want to throw things. Of course he was Mr Holmes. Hadn’t his number just been called? Hadn’t he just been escorted in?

“Yes,” he replied. He could hear the faint whir of the machinery retrieving his medicine and felt the blood in his veins pulse a bit faster. The vials popped up from beneath the counter.

“A bit strong, isn’t it?” the clerk said, examining one of the labels.

“I prepare the final solution myself,” he replied, reaching for the vials. She withheld them.

“And you’re allowed?” she asked.

“Yes,” Sherlock responded, clenching his fist. “I’m allowed.” He stared at her without blinking, and after several moments she handed him the vials.

“Would you like some syringes?” she asked.

“I have my own, and I don’t share,” he replied, tucking the vials into his coat pocket. Part of him didn’t like the profound sense of relief he received from feeling their slight weight set him ever so marginally off balance. But hearing them clink together, knowing he had them if he needed them set his mind at ease in a way nothing else could.

As Sherlock left the dispensary, he witnessed a strange phenomenon. In the distance, dark objects were falling from the sky. At first, he thought they might be delivery drones that had been clumsily hacked and were part of an inept terrorist attack, but they were the wrong size and shape. In addition, there were no wailing warning sirens, no people running, no screams. There was only an ominous silence that seemed to have swallowed the noise of the city.

John heard them smack into the pavement wetly before he saw them out of the corner of his eye. It took every ounce of his self-control not to yell “Incoming!” and dive into an improvised foxhole. But they weren’t bombs; they were birds, plummeting from the sky like giant black hailstones, already dead before they hit the ground.

“It’s raining crows,” a woman wearing a mauve dress stated as their small crowd stood and watched disbelievingly as the avian projectiles exploded as they hit the pavement, splattering blood and entrails astonishing distances. “It’s raining a flock of crows.”

“A murder,” John said mostly to himself. “That’s what you call a flock of crows.”

“I think they’re ravens,” a man said, grimacing at the carnage and flinching at each thudding splat. “They roost in the bell towers of some of the cathedrals and in the Tower of London.”

“What are they called?” a boy asked, pulling at John’s sleeve. “If crows are a murder, what are ravens?”

John looked down at the boy. He was slender to the point of breaking, white as milk, and something about the seriousness in his pale eyes and the wildness of his dark curls set John on edge. He reminded John of the stories of the Daoine Sith his grandmother had told him. The strange boy standing there looking like one of the faie, the dead birds, the constant prickle down his spine – it all seemed to augur ill, and suddenly he wished to be back in Edinburgh starting his medical studies. That’s when he’d been happiest. Hadn’t he? “An unkindness,” John finally answered, feeling compelled by the child’s unwavering stare. “They’re called an unkindness.”

Day Two: Gardening

It was dark, dank, and everything smelled of shit. But that was how you grew magic mushrooms, Sherlock mused to himself. Psilocybe Stantonia to be precise – powerfully hallucinogenic and highly in demand. They were the fungal equivalent of precious gems – more valuable than truffles even – and, while not strictly illegal, trading in them was a dodgy business. But dodgy businesses were Shinwell’s speciality, weren’t they? That and bare-knuckle boxing.

Sherlock Holmes had met Shinwell Johnson at The Ludus, an underground club dedicated to the pugilistic arts. It was a dark, cave-like, medieval sort of place with sawdust on the floor to soak up the blood and sweat. In the pits of The Ludus there were only two rules: no weapons, and you couldn’t kill anyone – it was too much bother to clear up the bodies. Oh, and there were no rounds; the bout ended only after one of the fighters couldn’t get up any more. Shinwell had grown up there, taking on his first fight at the age of sixteen. Twenty-five years later, he had seen every combination, every dirty trick, and the vastness of his experience more than made up for the slight slowing of his reflexes. He also still had a right hook that could drop a mule.

Sherlock’s first night at The Ludus had become the stuff of legend. According to Shinwell, he had “fooking swanned in like His Majesty, the King” and stunned the onlookers by requesting to fight in the open category. To keep the fights fair and the bets coming in, there were rough weight classes, and the organisers tried to match fighters by skill. In keeping with the spirit of the founding of the club, however, there remained the open category where you could fight any and all comers. Over time, it had supplanted the heavyweight class, but every now and then some arrogant sod swaggered in and received a spectacular thrashing. There were a flurry of bets on Sherlock’s fight, and when he stripped to the waist and revealed the track marks on his left arm, the odds against him surviving more than three minutes soared to 50-to-1.

Shinwell had objected on principle – an addict wasn’t in the proper state of mind to appreciate the consequences of the suicidal decision he was making. That, and he was obviously a toff. If he died, it would bring the filth. Shinwell had nearly come to blows with the bookmakers, and only his long history prevented him from being thrown out and barred. He looks made of marble, Shinwell thought as he observed the swathe of pale skin stretched over Sherlock’s thin frame. He’ll shatter at the first blow. Shinwell had watched in concern as Sherlock meticulously wrapped and taped his hands. At least he knows to do that much, Shinwell thought, some of his worry easing. As he watched Sherlock warm up and stretch, he began to wonder if he’d jumped to a parlously mistaken conclusion. Yes, the man needed feeding up, but there wasn’t an ounce of fat on him, and Shinwell recognised the camouflaged strength in his muscles and tendons that practitioners of kung fu called “iron wires”. But more than that, it was his economy of movement; there was a precision there that could only be the product of a disciplined mind. He began to shadow box, beginning with some simple combinations, and Shinwell choked on his chips. God, but his hands were fast. His strange, almost translucent eyes were clear and focussed, and there was something distinctly lethal lurking behind them. Shinwell had seen enough of them in his time to know: The man was a killer. Shinwell downed his pint, headed back over to the bookies and placed all of his night’s winnings on Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock’s opponent went by the moniker The Butcher, and he was a literal giant – enormous, thick-necked and notoriously able to absorb punishing blows. But he had grossly underestimated Sherlock’s speed, skill and strength. The quick combination that had The Butcher stunned then out cold before he hit the ground came after only thirty-five seconds. Shinwell had never heard The Ludus so quiet. Sherlock asked to fight again, and Shinwell let his substantial winnings ride.

The next bout remained one of the most beautiful fights Shinwell had ever witnessed. Sherlock’s adversary, a skilled mixed martial artist who called himself The Sword, was much more careful than The Butcher had been, circling Sherlock warily, trying to get the measure of the new phenomenon. Sherlock waited patiently until he had no choice but to attack, and Sherlock seemed to melt away only to surge back towards him, raining exquisitely placed blows to his vital organs. Shinwell almost wept at the elegance of the execution. Wherever The Sword went, Sherlock was there first. Can he read minds? Shinwell thought as he watched Sherlock sidestep a blow that would have at least glanced anyone else and viciously box his opponent’s ears. Shinwell knew how disorienting that ringing inside your head could be and was unsurprised when The Sword met his end.

Sherlock retreated to his corner seeming deaf to the cheers at his triumph. He was glistening with sweat and flushed, his dark curls nearly sopping wet. Shinwell was straight enough to calibrate a level, but he realised the enigmatic stranger could have nearly anyone in the room if he thought to ask, but he seemed uninterested in making any acquaintances. He had come alone and wasn’t celebrating what were thrilling victories that would be talked about for ages. He quickly cut the tape from his hands, towelled off and dressed. When he left, ignoring the many offers to buy him a pint, Shinwell followed.

Too many egos had been bruised and too much money lost for there not to be an attempt at retaliation. Sure enough, a group of The Butcher’s mates already had Sherlock cornered when Shinwell exited the building.

“Now, now, lads,” Shinwell warned. “No one likes poor losers.” There were enough of them to subdue someone of even Sherlock’s prodigious skill, but with Shinwell added to the mix, the odds had shifted out of their favour, and they wandered off muttering threats.

“I could have managed,” Sherlock said.

“Of course you could,” Shinwell replied. “There’s nothing like a good street brawl, though, is there?”

“I suppose not,” Sherlock said, something approaching humour entering his expression. At that moment, Shinwell Johnson decided to adopt Sherlock Holmes. He was an absentee parent, but Sherlock found he could count on him whenever another pair of fists were needed, and Shinwell actually had someone clever to consult about his schemes. That’s how they’d ended up covered in shit, harvesting mushrooms in a derelict greenhouse.

“How long will it take you to test them, then?” Shinwell asked.

“Most of the night,” Sherlock replied, looking at Shinwell’s thrice broken nose and scarred knuckles. All the abuse he had taken would soon tilt him towards a dilapidation that matched the disrepair of the greenhouse they had just been picking through. Sherlock turned away, wondering if he had caught a glimpse of his future.

Approximately 40,000 feet above, a military transport plane had just reached cruising altitude. One of its passengers was John Watson. He hated flying. He wasn’t frightened of it or anything; he just found it depressing. Shouldn’t there be some sort of teleporter that beamed you thousands of miles away in seconds? Or at the very least a hyperdrive that could complete the journey from London to Kabul in minutes not hours. What on earth were they doing on an aeroplane in this day and age? He sometimes wondered if they were part of the problem – he and his colleagues. Ready bodies to throw in front of the canons and pull the triggers made the decision to fight more palatable than it should have been, and violence and war thrived on fear. Fear is a powerful motivator, but it is also the destroyer of dreams. They’d stopped dreaming, hadn’t they? They lived perpetually crouched in a defensive position, their minds crippled by the uncertainty wrought by decades of instability.

Not liking the direction his thoughts were taking, John rifled through his bag in search of something to eat. He was slightly overwhelmed by the variety of snacks he’d crammed into his baggage, but he managed to decide on some savoury crackers and a paradoxically firm but creamy new variant of White Stilton. He offered some of his meal to his neighbours, who gladly accepted in lieu of army rations. The crackers were crisp but not hard and flaked pleasantly on the tongue. The seasoning was well balanced if just the tiniest bit over-salted, and the cheese complemented it well. Some wine was in order, John thought in disappointment. Curious about the ingredients, he read the label as he bit into another cracker. Rosemary, thyme, and (yes!) that was a bit of dill. He didn’t have a sophisticated palate, but he grew up with a father who was an excellent cook, and his mother had kept a small herb garden in the back yard. John was often called to help with the weeding and harvesting. As light as the work had been, he had always complained.

“Johnny,” his mother would say. “I want you to always remember that we are connected to the soil. We have to respect it.” And she would plunge his hands into the wet earth and laugh as he grimaced.

He’d made her stop calling him Johnny when he was a teenager. It had seemed so important then. When his parents had left him at his dormitory that first day at medical college, their eyes had been shimmering, and his mother had embraced him. “I’m so proud of you, Johnny,” she’d said, ruffling his hair. He’d blushed and smoothed his hair down, embarrassed for his roommate to see him being coddled. The insane idiocy of youth: making people ashamed of being loved.

“I told you to stop calling me Johnny,” he’d said, not wanting her to leave but desperately needing to be out on his own.

“She’ll call you whatever she likes,” his father had said gruffly, pulling him into a tight hug. “Work hard,” he’d admonished.

“I will,” John had promised.

That was the last time he’d seen them. The accident had been so bad they’d had to close the caskets. Everyone told him he should have sued the automobile manufacturer and the company that had made the self-piloting software, but that would have meant reliving it all, thinking about them like that. He couldn’t have borne it. Someone else had brought the court case, and he’d eventually received part of the settlement. He gambled the money away over the course of a single weekend.

John had started an herb garden many times over the years, and each time neglect had caused the plants to wither and die. He lived a soldier’s life, and it censured the delicacy required to make things grow.

Day Three: Gifts

Besides the quaintness of the mode of transport, the thing John hated the most about flying was how shattered he always felt after a long trip. It didn’t matter if he’d had a good kip and drank his weight in fluids; he always got off the plane feeling disorientated, dehydrated and in the mood to punch things. It’s all that recycled air, John thought, blinking to try and moisten his arid corneas. Kabul was parched, and so was he.

John was taken aback by the immense relief he felt when he entered his stark quarters. The tightness in his chest had eased with each second he got closer to the base, and the sight of his cot, camp stove and canteen almost brought him to his knees. This temporary structure in the middle of a war zone, these humble necessities created more of a feeling of home than the country of his birth. Part of it was his comrades-in-arms. The smiles and warm greetings of “Captain Watson” provided succour he hadn’t quite realised he’d needed. There were people here who knew him, who valued him. There was also a bracing sort of comfort in how unequivocal the mortal threats that surrounded them were. Death comes to us all, but for most it was an abstraction. Its proximity removed some of the fear. John found there was a certain purity in living in purgatory. Afghanistan was filled with friends and foes bent on destruction; England was filled with strangers. John strongly preferred the former.

As news of his return filtered through the base, his surgical team, poker and rugby mates all dropped by to welcome him home with warm hugs and claps to his back. And this was his home. He could see that now. He swallowed over something tight in his throat and emptied his luggage onto his cot. He sorted through the gifts he’d brought back, feeling a bit like Father Christmas. Nearly all of them had asked him to see if he could find the sweets and biscuits that had been their favourites when they were children. John supposed it lessened the sense of insecurity somehow, brought them back to a simpler time, made massive problems seem solvable. A few bottles of spirits also made the rounds. Those were for a bit of fun over a game of cards or to obliterate even temporarily the memories of the particularly bad days when it seemed they’d wandered into hell itself and the Devil had everything turned up to eleven.

John could spin a good yarn when he was in the mood, and his recounting of his sojourn to the mall had his visitors in stitches. He left out the bit about the ravens, because it seemed like too ill an omen. None of the gathered were religious or superstitious, but imagery had the power to lower morale, and, as an officer, it was his duty to keep their spirits up, even if he had to sacrifice a bit of his pride and admit he’d been overwhelmed enough by his shopping expedition to take cover behind indoor shrubbery.

They all shared a bit of scotch, and John listened as they recounted what he’d missed. Thankfully, there’d been only a few minor skirmishes, and, while any single death was keenly felt, the days when the bodies (or what was left of them) had to be stacked like cords of wood were nearly impossible to manage.

A few hours later, John was on his own again. There was one gift left in his bag. Once he’d stumbled across the snow globe with the single, blazing red poppy inside it, he couldn’t leave it behind. He’d even taken the time to have it wrapped at the store. He lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, waiting for the gift’s intended beneficiary to come and welcome him home.

Back in London, Sherlock had managed to wash most of the stink of excrement from him and was in one of the laboratories at St Bartholomew’s Hospital testing the potency of the mushrooms he and Shinwell had collected. Shinwell had a mate of a mate of a bloke who was flatmates with a mycologist. It was a convoluted history to which Sherlock had paid scant attention then routed away from his long-term memory. At the centre of the labyrinth was the claim that this particular variant of Psilocybe had been bred to produce enhanced psychedelic effects. Sherlock’s preliminary tests confirmed that the mushrooms consistently contained much higher levels of the psychoactive compounds than would be expected – enough to defeat the purpose of their creation. The dosage of psilocybin was well above what was ordinarily consumed and would almost certainly poison anyone who consumed them.

Sherlock thought of the greenhouse Shinwell had shovelled full of shit and where he had devoted hours to meticulously minding the spores he’d spent nearly his entire savings on to ensure they sprouted. He called the fruit his “gold nuggets” – they were meant to fund his retirement. There had to be hundreds of pounds of the things.

Shinwell was a good sort for a degenerate, Sherlock thought. They weren’t exactly friends, but there was a measure of trust and loyalty in their relationship that Sherlock felt bound to respect. If the mushrooms had to be scrapped, Shinwell would get spectacularly drunk and instigate a pub brawl, but the next day he would bounce back and find some other get-rich-quick scheme. He always did. But the mushrooms could be salvaged, Sherlock pondered, if instead of drying them and selling them as edibles, the psilocybin were extracted into some sort of tincture that would administer the correct dosage. A new delivery method would set Shinwell apart from his competitors and perhaps even allow him to charge a premium.

Sherlock sketched out some ideas for the extraction and began a rough first attempt at the procedure. In the lab next door, an exhausted graduate student had fallen asleep standing up and missed a crucial step in her experiment, which exploded. It was nothing catastrophic, but it was enough to startle Sherlock into knocking over his equipment and breaking some of his glassware. He cut his hand rather badly and sucked at the gash while he reached for paper towels to staunch the bleeding. He tamped down on the wound and looked for the first aid kit. He spent longer than he’d care to admit awkwardly using tweezers he’d hastily sterilised to remove the splinters himself. He was minutes away from the casualty ward of a major hospital, but he didn’t want to wait for hours to be seen for a laceration, which, while nasty, didn’t appear to need stitches.

After he cleared all the debris from the wound, he cleaned it thoroughly and bandaged his hand. As he replaced the first aid kit, he heard the sound of bees buzzing. How on earth had they found a way in? He turned around and saw an enormous swarm across the room, and his usual fondness for the creatures was supplanted by a deep fear. They were too large, he realised. They were the size of sparrows. They weren’t real.

“I’m hallucinating,” he said.

He was suddenly and violently ill, turning himself inside out vomiting. The extraction. When he’d cut his hand, some of the concentrated extract must have got into the wound. It was being delivered through his blood, and he’d ingested some of it when he’d sucked the injury.

The bees were coming.

There was someone laughing maniacally.

Was it him?

His heart.

He could feel it slowing down.

It would stop.

He would die.

He needed to speed it up.

The cocaine. It was still in his coat pocket. He needed a syringe. He managed to pry the first aid kit back open, sending its contents flying.

Everything was tinted hot pink, and the sound of the bees tasted like burnt roast.

What was he looking for?

He picked up some ointment and some tablets. No, that wasn’t right.

His heart. It was dying. That’s it: a syringe for the cocaine. He rifled through the mess on the floor until he found one. He crawled back over to his work station and pulled his coat down from the stool where he’d laid it. His hands were too big to fit in the pockets, which were filled with tiny crabs. He shook the coat upside down, emptying everything in his pockets onto the floor. The crabs scurried away, and he slithered on his belly on the floor, following the rolling vials across the room.

He ripped the syringe from its packaging with his teeth. His hands were too small to hold it properly. It told him to go away, that men with small hands weren’t to be trusted. He roared at it to be quiet and shoved its pointy mouth into the vial of cocaine, pulling up the plunger to fill its throat and choke it with the solution.

A vein. He had to find a vein.

He injected himself, felt his heart begin to race, stumbled out of the lab into the hallway and collapsed.

KEEP READING

#sherlock #sherlock holmes #john watson #fanfiction #fanfic #sherlock fanfic

2 notes · View notes

jennmoslek36 · 6 years ago

Text

JUNE 19TH, 1954

AFTER BEING DECLARED “incompetent” by a Jackson County court, a 15 year-old boy is transferred into the custody of the Florida State hospital; Within 48 hours of his arrival, he is pronounced dead. But Cause of death? Well that would depend on which page of the boy’s file that you’re looking at. Only one of many questionable things that could be found within the roughly 200 pages that I was handed back in August of 2018. By the time I read through the content, I would be so confused that I would have to go back & read through the pages two more times, spending considerable time on each individual page taking notes; So many things failed to make sense, reminding me just how evil what we were dealing with was.

THOMAS HERBERT WIGGINS

BORN TO OLLIE & Jeffie Wiggins in March of 1937, Thomas Herbert Wiggins was the youngest of 2 boys. His life would begin in Opp, Alabama but the Wiggins family would eventually relocate to the Florida Panhandle to continue raising their boys. At 1st they would report only seeing subtle differences between their oldest & youngest sons. Where Thomas’s big brother was very social & outgoing, Thomas was extremely introverted, preferring to be by himself. He showed no interest in playing sports OR becoming involved in other activities, unlike his sibling who excelled in both sports & academics & was also popular amongst his peers. While this may have been reason to give pause for a moment Mr. & Mrs. Wiggins didn’t panic initially, however, by age 11, Thomas began showing signs of extreme paranoia. He started to fixate on his food being poisoned. His course of action would be to refuse food, often go days without eating.

The Oshner Clinic ~ 1950

WHEN THOMAS’S “SPELLS” became violent, his parents would finally seek help for their son. He would 1st be evaluated at Oshner Clinic in New Orleans, Louisiana.

WHILE HE WAS there, Dr. C. Harrison Snyder & staff would perform extensive testing before issuing their findings & recommendations to the Wiggins family. Dr. Snyder reported that ALL tests were normal, including his cognitive functioning & intelligence. He recommended that Thomas be kept at home & receive plenty of love & positive attention from his family as well as be returned to his previous school where he was thriving & happy. In a nutshell, Dr. Snyder stated that being loved & cared for by his family within the security of his home would be key to Thomas being successful in life.

IN HIS FINAL statement, the doctor requested to be notified within a month’s time of Thomas’s progress. I can say with confidence that they didn’t follow up with the Oshner Clinic as specified. I’m also positive that the Wiggins’ decided that keeping their family intact would not be an option as a little over 2 years later, he would be committed to the Florida State Hospital & when removed by his father, just 3 months after admission, they would send a letter to the medical director reporting that they were looking at boarding schools.

OTHER THAN THAT letter there is nothing else recorded about how Thomas was doing OR his whereabouts for over a year until he was sentenced to the Dozier School for Boys in September of 1953. It’s easy to wonder:

WHERE THE HELL WAS THOMAS WIGGINS FOR THE YEAR IN BETWEEN??

PAGE BY EXCRUTIATING PAGE

IT WOULD BE an impossible task to list out every page of Thomas’s file in detail BUT what I am going to do is list out some of the more interesting & questionable items that I’ve seen. For the sake of everyone’s sanity, I’m only going to talk about some of the more questionable details leading to his 1952 commitment to the State Hospital in Chattahoochee, Florida through when he would become an inmate at Dozier in September of 1953. Everything after will be covered in the next couple of posts.

Anyone interested in reading it in its entirety can click here:

Wiggins Case File

SO LET’S START with the basics….

WHAT IN GOD’S NAME IS THE DIAGNOSIS??

I COUNTED NOTHING short of half a dozen different reasons for Thomas’s commitment to the Florida State Hospital in 1952. That’s right SIX different diagnoses, ALL independent of one another, each listed on separate areas of a form OR on a completely different form altogether. Though most were pretty common by today’s standards, one REALLY stuck out like a sore thumb. See if Y’all can figure out which one I’m talking about…

1) Schizophrenic

2) Agressive Psychosis

3) Dementia Praecox

4) Homosexuality

5) Vivid Hallucinations

6) Mental Incompetency

DOES ANYTHING ON the list jump out at you?? If you said number 4, you’re definitely NOT alone! When I saw “Homosexuality” listed as a diagnosis, I was stunned…At least initially. It didn’t take long for the shock to wear off & everything started to make sense. I’ll cop to the possibility that Tommy may have had some serious mental health issues BUT it was all too clear that the family’s major concern was that he may be gay.

THIS PARTICULAR “ISSUE” had got me thinking; Was Thomas gay & the fact that he was unable to express this the reason for some of these other issues that he was having OR did these other mental issues exist within him already, only to be exasperated by the frustration that he must have felt not being able to be his true self?

UNFORTUNATELY, WE WILL probably never know the answer & even if we did, it’s far too late to help Thomas now.

THE PROOF LIES IN THE INCONSISTENCIES

OFFICIALLY LABELING THOMAS’S “problem” would NOT be the only inconsistency. I have to bring up one of the most careless, idiotic mistakes that someone in an official capacity can make; Getting a patient’s date of birth/age incorrect on forms inside of their chart. I wish I could say that this was just a one time deal that was due to a typo BUT it wasn’t.

THIS PARTICULAR INDISCRETION became a common occurrence over a number of Thomas’s documents. His year of birth was changed from 1937 to 1938, even at one point listing his birth month as May instead of March. His age often fluctuated. For example, one form would list Thomas as being 14, however, another would show his age at 15, even though the completion date on both matched.

IN ALL ACTUALITY, the entire file was so chaotic that it took forever to get through. Every time I’d begin scanning a page, I’d notice something odd & have to stop to make a note about it. For instance, I’d read a doctor’s comment about how Thomas was only apt to self harm & then the next page would have that same physician noting that his “Propensity was to harm others.” My personal favorite was when the attending physician reported that there was really nothing outstanding about Tommy but immediately goes on to state that “Tommy is extremely ill.” Did this educated physician, who was the Medical Director of the Florida State Hospital, realize that he contradicted himself on a regular basis? If he DIDN’T, he’s an idiot & if he DID than he’s a jackass…Either scenario made poor Tommy up shit’s creek when it came to receiving ANY type of reliable treatment.

IN SPITE OF Thomas’s illness being described as dire, it ultimately didn’t prevent his father from discharging him only a few months into his treatment. Though we have no record of what happened during his year away from FSH, we can assume that he continued to decline…OR as I see it, he wouldn’t stop being gay. Thomas would resurface again BUT this time he wouldn’t be receiving hospital care, he would be sent to a brutal reform school located in Marianna, Florida where he would live out the remaining days of his way too short life.

TO BE CONTINUED…

♤Please Consider Helping In The Fight For Justice By Signing The 1st Petition: https://www.change.org/p/jenn-moslek-re-investigation-of-the-arthur-g-dozier-school-for-boys♤

☆ IF YOU OR SOMEONE YOU KNOW SUFFERED ABUSE, PASSED AWAY, WENT MISSING OR WITNESSED ANY WRONGDOINGS WHILE AT “THE FLORIDA INDUSTRIAL SCHOOL FOR BOYS” AKA “THE ARTHUR G. DOZIER SCHOOL FOR BOYS” OR THE OKEECHOBEE SCHOOL FOR BOYS, PLEASE REACH OUT VIA findingflorida.blog OR ANY OF THE CONTACT INFO LISTED BELOW!!☆

Want More “Finding Florida?” BE SURE TO “SUBSCRIBE”!

FOR PRIVATE CONTACT SEND EMAILS TO: [email protected]

FOR ALL DOZIER RELATED INFO:

http://thewhitehouseboysonline.com

AND

http://www.whitehouseboys2007.com

FOR FULL PHOTO GALLERIES & ADDITIONAL LOCATION INFO FOLLOW ME ON FB AT: @GRAVEAdventuresFL

INVESTIGATING DOZIER: THOMAS Pt. 1 ~ The Road To Commitment JUNE 19TH, 1954 AFTER BEING DECLARED “incompetent” by a Jackson County court, a 15 year-old boy is transferred into the custody of the Florida State hospital; Within 48 hours of his arrival, he is pronounced dead.

0 notes

dani-qrt · 7 years ago

Text

Seymour M. Hersh — the Journalist as Lone Wolf

REPORTER A Memoir By Seymour M. Hersh Illustrated. 355 pp. Alfred A. Knopf. $27.95.

The lone wolf — in journalism, as in nature — is a rare creature. Many reporters prefer the reassuring comfort of the pack. But every age throws up a few hunters who prefer to go it alone, scorning the safety and consensus of the crowd. They are often noble beasts, even if they can present formidable challenges to their handlers.

Seymour M. Hersh (better known as Sy) is perhaps the most notable lone wolf of his generation. Now 81, he has nearly always operated on his own: There has been no Bernstein to his Woodward; no investigative team into which he could easily blend. He broke some of the biggest stories of his time. He fell out with editors. He threw typewriters through windows. He could be petulant, unreasonably stubborn and prudish. But, boy, could he report.

His memoir is — with some niggling reservations — a master class in the craft of reporting. People sometimes shorthand the act of dogged discovery as “shoe leather” journalism — pounding pavements rather than sitting at the desk Googling. In Hersh’s case reporting involved long hours in libraries as well as jumping on last-minute flights to far-off small towns to hunt down reluctant witnesses. It meant knocking on doors in the middle of the night; learning how to read documents upside down while pretending to make notes; painstakingly cultivating retired generals; showing empathy, winning trust.

His chosen areas of investigation were often the hardest to penetrate: He burrows away at the secrecy of the state, the military, intelligence, foreign policy and giant corporations. Over nearly six decades he exposed brutality, deception, torture, illegal surveillance, government-sponsored fake news and much else. More often than not — much more often — he was right. From the My Lai massacre of 1968 to the degrading treatment of detainees in Iraq’s Abu Ghraib prison in 2003, Hersh delivered the goods.

He introduces himself as a survivor from the golden age of journalism, “when reporters for daily newspapers did not have to compete with the 24-hour cable news cycle, when newspapers were flush with cash from display advertisements and want ads, and when I was free to travel anywhere, anytime, for any reason, with company credit cards.” Back then reporters were given the time and money to tell “important and unwanted truths” and made America “a more knowledgeable place.” He makes the classic case for public interest journalism.

The book has its journalistic heroes — Harrison Salisbury, I. F. Stone, Neil Sheehan, Bob Woodward among them — and political villains, including Richard Nixon, Henry Kissinger (“the man lied the way most people breathed”), Dick Cheney and neocons. It also has its editorial enemies. He scorns the practitioners of “he said, she said” journalism as stenographers. He ridicules reporters who claim not to have an opinion on what they’re writing about. He chides other news organizations for not following up his exclusives. He holds in especial contempt the Vietnam-era press room of the Pentagon for what he regarded as its collective lazy gullibility.

The skepticism that made him such a considerable reporter extended to the organizations that employed him and the editors who commissioned him. There is a fine line, in Hersh’s ever-suspicious mind, between editing and censorship. His nose was always twitching for a sniff of cowardice or collusion. On one occasion he investigates his own editor, suspecting that a loan from the company’s directors to help him buy an apartment could have compromised him when he should have been solely “beholden to the newsroom and the men and women in it.”

That editor was A. M. Rosenthal, executive editor of this newspaper from 1977 to 1986, one of several editors with whom Hersh had a complicated relationship torn between mutual respect and something close to despair. Hersh — brought up in a lower-middle-class family on the South Side of Chicago — grew up revering The New York Times and is beyond honored when he finally makes it to the paper in 1972. But the story of Hersh and The Times involves a troubled courtship; a sometimes happy marriage; a trial separation and eventual divorce.

Image

His work on Vietnam — an “obsession” he thought he shared with Rosenthal — initially appeared to please his editor, though Rosenthal was ever anxious about his “little commie” reporter’s overt politics. But the paper — being comprehensively outgunned by The Washington Post on Watergate — soon redeployed its star scoop-machine to Washington to try to retrieve some journalistic dignity.

Hersh performed well, but struggled to understand the paper’s pathology, in which it was “a bitch” to get important stories into print. He quotes his former colleague Bill Kovach, later the Washington bureau chief, bemoaning the difficulty of “managing Sy at a newspaper that hated to be beaten but didn’t really want to be first. … The arguments and the debates and the rassling back and forth on every Sy Hersh story were almost endless. It wasn’t because Sy was sloppy. It was material they didn’t want to be out there with.”

For much of the time he felt supported: Hersh recognized in Rosenthal an editor with guts. But there were not infrequent screaming matches, temper tantrums, middle-of-the-night phone calls and accusations of betrayal. He was mortified in January 1975 to learn that top editors at the paper had enjoyed a private lunch with Gerald Ford in which the president had told of setting up a commission to investigate alleged C.I.A. abuses. Ford told the assembled editors that he needed to keep some things secret — “like assassinations.”

Hersh is appalled that this startling admission from a president should have been allowed to be off the record and — more than 40 years later — there is real bitterness in his rebuke: “Talk about unrequited love. The guys running my newspaper who for years had showered me with praise and raises had a higher loyalty to a president … than to someone who had pulled them out of the Watergate swamp.”

Hersh decamped to The New Yorker (where he had written before his stint at The Times), first under Tina Brown and then the “superb” David Remnick. Here he did much good work — but his habit of asking readers (and editors) to take on trust his heavy use of anonymous sources got him into scrapes. Many of his sources were — as time has shown — impeccably informed. But his more recent sources have also included, for instance, the Syrian president Bashar Assad. Some of his writing on who should bear responsibility for chemical weapon attacks in Syria has been vehemently contested.

Remnick — worried about his journalist’s reliance on “the same old tired source” — had already declined to use Hersh’s reporting that questioned the official narrative around the assassination of Osama bin Laden. Hersh is enraged — “editors get tired of difficult stories and difficult reporters” — and takes this and subsequent investigations off to The London Review of Books or to the German paper Die Welt.

It was painful for some to see Hersh’s 2014 and 2017 reporting of chemical attacks in Damascus forensically interrogated by the British blogger Eliot Higgins, who criticized his reliance on a tiny number of unnamed sources. Higgins is a new breed of reporter, encyclopedic in his knowledge of the weaponry deployed in this conflict, meticulously bolstered by video footage, as well as by multiple on-the-ground sources and satellite photographs.

Hersh skates over these challenges to “the truth as I found it.” There’s an octogenarian weariness — to his mind — in this cycle of doubt followed by vindication: “I will happily permit history to be the judge of my recent work.” But even Hersh’s admirers may feel that history will judge some of the late-period articles in a different light from the blazing trail of his earlier investigations.

Even so, society needs reporters like Hersh — skeptics who take nothing on trust and who go to exhaustive lengths to dig beneath the thick veneer of gloss, dross, fakery and spin. “If your mother says she loves you,” an early news editor declares, “check it out.” He did, time and time again.

He sees the writing on the wall when, in 2011, Remnick calls him and — in an embarrassed near-whisper — asks him to interview an important source by telephone rather than fly 3,000 miles to see him face to face. Will most future newsrooms ever again be in a position to allow their reporters the resources and time to do the kind of work that Hersh, in his prime, so magnificently produced? His memoir is a compelling argument for why they should.

The post Seymour M. Hersh — the Journalist as Lone Wolf appeared first on World The News.

from World The News https://ift.tt/2sUSXhe via Online News

#World News #Today News #Daily News #Breaking News #News Headline #Entertainment News #Sports news #Sci-Tech

0 notes

cleopatrarps · 7 years ago

Text

Seymour M. Hersh — the Journalist as Lone Wolf

REPORTER A Memoir By Seymour M. Hersh Illustrated. 355 pp. Alfred A. Knopf. $27.95.

Image

The post Seymour M. Hersh — the Journalist as Lone Wolf appeared first on World The News.

from World The News https://ift.tt/2sUSXhe via News of World

#Daily World News #Daily Entertainment #Daily Sports #Today News #World The News

0 notes

dragnews · 7 years ago

Text

Seymour M. Hersh — the Journalist as Lone Wolf

REPORTER A Memoir By Seymour M. Hersh Illustrated. 355 pp. Alfred A. Knopf. $27.95.

Image

The post Seymour M. Hersh — the Journalist as Lone Wolf appeared first on World The News.

from World The News https://ift.tt/2sUSXhe via Today News

#Daily News #Daily World News #Daily Business News #Daily Sports News #World The News

0 notes