#and no I cannot utter a word about my plight or tell anyone what I’m up to. gotta start over if I do

[dandelion-de-deus]

no I CANNOT talk about my problems (it’s the curse)

[fierypen37]

Virtue a Veil, Vice a Mask Chapter 9

Chapter 9

 Raquira was under way again. The sailors kicked the boarding bridges free, tossed the corsair corpses overboard and unfurled her sail to catch the strong eastward wind. The ship’s cook, who doubled as their healer, tended the wound to Jon’s leg under Daenerys’s sharp eye. The gash was jagged, but shallow—thank the gods. No need for suturing. On the edges of her hearing, she heard the cook grumble over the lost rum. She and Missandei had done enough to ensure their freedom and Daenerys didn’t feel a speck of misgiving over taking what they needed, yet perhaps she should offer to repay their purser. A problem that can wait.

The captain and crew milled about on deck, trying to set everything to rights.

“Where is your dagger, khaleesi?” Aggo asked. Daenerys wiped a smear of blood from his craggy cheek with the hem of her cloak. In answer, his black eyes warmed with tenderness. The wind buffeted them, and Daenerys wrestled with the cloak flapping around her.

“I stuck a corsair bent on capturing me near the stern,” she said. Though she had no skill with it, Jon’s wry advice rang in her inner ear: Stick ‘em with the pointy end. Aggo nodded.

“I will find it.”

“All the bodies were tossed overboard, milady,” the first mate said. Kovarro’s scowl turned murderous. He hauled the man close by handfuls of his tunic and shook him.

“Who took it? Who steals from the khaleesi?” he barked, his accent thickened in his ire. Aggo loosed his bloody whip from where it lay coiled around his chest. Daenerys laid a stalling hand on his arm.

“Peace, blood of my blood. There is no reason to think it was--” a thud. One of the sailors tossed the sheathed Valyrian steel dagger at her feet. The captain lumbered up hefting a heavy sack and laid it beside the dagger.

“Take this. It’s all our coin. A fair sum of gold,” he said.

“Ser, I cannot--” He held up a hand to stall her.

“Without you and your men, all of us would be dead or wearing slave’s collars by now. Take it. We will sell our cargo in Pentos and make a lean profit. We thank you.” Daenerys scanned the crowd of faces. Though nonplussed, none seemed to protest the offer their captain made in their stead. His words rang true. Without her and Missandei, the corsair ship would have chased them down. Without Grey Worm, Aggo, Kovarro, and Jon, more of them would have lost their lives.

Under the healer’s ministrations, Jon uttered a half-stifled grunt of pain. Daenerys hid her wince.

“You have our thanks, captain. My husband and I will retire now. I would appreciate some hot water to wash with, and food at your earliest convenience,” Daenerys said.

“As you say, milady,” the captain replied.

Once Jon was settled in their berth bed, Daenerys set to washing away the soot and seawater. An ewer of hot water, and a dish of her favorite lemon-scented soap from Pentos went a long way to restoring her composure. As she washed, the weight of Jon’s ink-dark eyes felt . . . odd. Worshipful, almost. Twined together in the throes of passion, she understood that impulse—she’d felt it too. Now it was unnerving. Her belly felt taut as a drum.

“What is it?” she asked, draping her clean, dripping hair over one shoulder to comb. Jon shrugged.

“Nothing.”

“No, what is it? Forgive me for not telling you about it earlier. I did not mean to cause you pain,” she said, focusing on the strokes of the comb. A delicate scrape on her scalp, through the heft of her wet hair, snagging on a tangle. A glance darted at Jon saw another casual shrug. He took a long draw from his waterskin.

“It’s all right. Have you . . . have you always been immune to fire?” he asked. Daenerys uttered a bark of mirthless laughter. Gods, how it must sound to him! In her heart, as the pyre burned, she knew no harm would come to her. Her sons needed her to be born.

“I don’t know. Looking back, I never remember burning myself cooking or the like. Bathwater was never too hot.” Jon’s dark eyes widened.

“You heard your dragons sing, and walked into the fire not knowing if you’d survive? You truly are a wonder.” Daenerys threw down the comb in frustration.

“Don’t.”

“Don’t?” Jon asked, frowning.

“Don’t look at me like that!” she snapped.

“Like what?” Jon said, matching her in sharpness and volume.

With a wince, he swung free from the bed and stood. Daenerys cursed and moved to help him.

“Jon, your leg--” he waved off her concern, instead pulling her close to him, rock-steady against the pitch of the sea beneath them. Gods, the strength of him, the woodsy smell of his skin. She was fast becoming addicted to it.

“It’ll keep. Now, what’s this about?” he asked more softly. Daenerys rested her forehead against his chest.

“Don’t look at me like I’m some goddess or blessed one.” She was mortal, fallible. She would fail him in some way, and what would be left of her once he moved on?

“But you are, or as close as any mortal woman can be. You walk through fire unharmed. You wake dragons from stone. How can I not look at you and think you’re a goddess? A myth from the Age of Heroes at the very least?”

“Demoted from a goddess to a myth?” she teased. Jon laughed.

“Aye,” he said, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead.

“Jon, I can be vain and foolish and petty like anyone else. I just don’t want you to think--” Jon stoppered her words with a quick kiss on her lips.

“I know that, Dany. But that doesn’t make you any less miraculous to me. Now stop fretting and come kiss me,” he said. Daenerys grinned. It was so easy for him to cajole her out of a mood with a bit of humor. And kissing sounded wonderful.

“Very well, my dragon.”

 The rest of the journey to Pentos was uneventful save for the fact that Jon’s stomach refused to calm. Bless him, he was only able to keep down dry bread, and that only half of the time. Between that and his injured leg, he was by turns clinging and snappish. Daenerys sat with him, telling him lighthearted tales of the places she’d seen. How the Sealord of Braavos had spilled his wine and stained his new tunic at the Titan’s roar at sunset. How the street performers danced in the streets of Myr. There she’d learned the deft cutpurse’s trade when she was no older than eight. Though the stories often educed his half-smile, half-grimace, his misery deepened as the journey wore on as the sailors fought an indifferent wind. Jon paced and growled around their cabin, cursing the ship, the waves, the crew, the food.

At the helmsman’s horn on the morning of the fifth day at sea, she sighted land. Jon limped to the prow, squinting into the sun.

“Land,” he said. His tone was caught somewhere between lust and hunger. He looked thinner, his face drawn and wan. Dark circles cupped his eyes. Daenerys shared a worried look with Missandei. Her friend squeezed her arm in passing. Perhaps her Dothraki women could mix something for her new husband. It was midday by the time the ship docked and Kovarro led the horses off.

“Thank you for allowing our passage,” Jon said stiffly to the captain.

“Thank you, my prince and my silver lady. Enjoy Pentos,” he said. Jon and Daenerys walked arm in arm down the pier, staggering drunkenly as they shed their sea-legs.

“Land, thank the gods! There were times I thought that voyage would never end. I could kiss the ground,” Jon said. Daenerys eyed the grey timber pier spattered with gull droppings and furred with lichen.

“I wouldn’t,” she said. Jon snorted in reluctant amusement. Already, his color looked better. They found Kovarro, Aggo, Grey Worm and Missandei with the horses at a cookstall. Kovarro peeled morsels of fried meat off a stick with his teeth.

“Here, Jon of the Dragon Tent. Dormouse. Very good!” he said, grease shining on his mustache. Daenerys watched Jon’s jaw flex, sweat popped on his brow. He stalked away toward the pier to retch into the swampy shallows. Her own stomach lurched in sympathy.

“Milk men,” Aggo muttered, crunching on his own morsel. Daenerys reprimanded him in Dothraki. Her gaze followed the flex of his shoulders as he retched. Wiping his mouth on his cuff, he approached them. A stormcloud had a gentler look than Jon.

“Jon--” she said.

“Leave me be,” he snarled. Daenerys shared a bewildered look with her group.  

“Come now! We must find Rakharo,” she said briskly, swinging astride Ciri. Jon climbed astride his bay, adjusting his sword at his hip. Still wearing his scowl, his silence tasted like hoarfrost. Daenerys exhaled a frustrated breath, trying to master her irritation. Was it a Stark trait to be so mercurial?

Riding two-by-two, they meandered through the busy markets of Pentos. Larger than the same sort she had seen in King’s Landing. The world seemed broader and more vivid in Pentos. Criers boasted of their wares in half a dozen languages. The air was alive with spices and cooking oil, perfumes and dung. Here were rich Myrish textiles, there the reek of Ibbenese tar. As they passed a gated manse, there was the tang of Yi Tish saffron in the air. Palanquins carried by servants stoppered surging foot traffic. Jon nudged his bay even with Ciri.

“I thought there were no slaves in Pentos,” he said in a low voice. Oh, have you calmed, Husband? She bit down the words. No use to quarrel in the midst of the city.

“There are ways of bending the law, if you’re rich enough. Some servants are slaves in all but name,” Daenerys said. The thought made her feel ill. Through her childhood, she’d seen their plight and loathed it.

“It is the same amongst the smallfolk home. It is a shameful thing,” Jon said. Daenerys’ eye fell to a woman trailing after her mistress, arms laden with packages while yolked to two large water pails. The careworn face. The downcast eyes. Nausea roiled in her belly.

“Yes, it is,” Daenerys said softly. The image of her collar lingered long after the slave disappeared from sight.

The Dothraki would shelter in manses when it suited them, but they preferred the cloth and leather tents of their fathers beneath an open sky. Dragons too, did not do well cooped up in stone walls. Thus, their camp sprawled on the bluffs on the outskirts of Pentos, just as she’d left it. So much had changed in little more than a sennight. They arrived, dusty, thirsty, and unkempt in the heat of mid-afternoon. Daenerys urged Ciri into her liquid-smooth canter as the summited the bluff. She stood in the stirrups and shouted: “Drogon! Tessarion! Vyrmax!”

The bond between them was young, fragile like a dandelion bloom. But through it, she felt such joy. They had missed her. Tears pricked her eyes. Her loves. Her sweet sons.

“Look, Jon!” she said, swinging down from Ciri. In the deep blue of the cloudless sky to the north, she saw them. At this distance, they could have been mistaken for birds.

“There, you see? Drogon is in the center. Black as midnight,” she said to Jon, watching his face. Though stoic in the fashion of his mother’s people, Jon’s ink-dark eyes were as wide as a child’s.

“Tessarion is aloof, a hunter. See his bronze?” As he rolled in the air, the bronze streaks of his chest scales flashed in the sun.

“And to the left, Vyrmax. My youngest and the swiftest. White as snow.” White and gold. The colors of snow and sunrise. Mayhap he and Jon would be a good match. Their music filled the air, shrieks and clicks. Too small a sound to be roars, just yet. But fierce and valiant. From the tail of her eye, she saw her people gather in a ring around them.

“They’re beautiful. Gorgeous beasts,” Jon said softly.

Closer now. Gods, they’d grown! Daenerys braced herself, used to her children’s rambunctious greetings. The three of them flared their wings at the last instant. Drogon struck her chest, Tessarion and Vyrmax either shoulder. Her feet knocked from under her, Daenerys wheezed out a breathless laugh. Her sons had never gotten the knack for landing on her gently. It was a confusing tangle of wings and limbs. Each of them butted her face, clamoring for attention. Daenerys laughed, petting their warm scales.

“Peace, peace my loves! Settle. Settle, now,” she said sternly. Drogon nibbled her first finger, Vyrmax climbed on her shoulder and burrowed under her braid, Tessarion nestled in the crook of her elbow. Jon tentatively offered a hand to help her up. Drogon growled, black smoke curling from his slitted nostrils.

“Hush, darling,” Daenerys said, accepting the proffered hand, “my children, this is Jon. My husband.” She looked into Drogon’s amber-red eyes, then Tessarion’s bronze ones, and then Vyrmax’s citrine-gold. Through the bond, she unfurled her feelings for Jon: love and joy and fear and welcome and worry. Her dragons watched her husband. To his credit, Jon bore their scrutiny well, calm and focused. Not even her bloodriders could boast that. Vyrmax broke the moment by slithering down her leg to sniff at Jon’s boot. Tessarion followed suit, while Drogon was content at his usual place on her right shoulder.  

“Husband, khaleesi? Is this so?” Rakharo asked, eyebrows raised so high they nearly disappeared into his hairline. Whispers rippled through the gathering. Hard black eyes scrutinized Jon. Another thing he bore well. No doubt he had been bearing up under harsher scrutiny since he was born, due to the circumstances of his birth.

“It is,” Jon said, “wed in King’s Landing some sennight ago.” Though his attention was fixed on her dragons, Daenerys could hear the steel in his tone. Vyrmax tilted his head this way and that, clicking in a friendly dragon greeting to Jon. The wonder hadn’t left Jon’s eyes and he squatted down to offer his flattened palm. Vyrmax hissed and scurried back to cling to her leg.  

“Irri, Jhiqui could we have baths drawn? I would like to wash off the memory of the poison water,” Daenerys said. Her handmaidens giggled and did as they were bid. Later, after rest and refreshment, she and Jon would join her people. They would see him as she did: brave and strong, kind and trustworthy.

“As you say, khaleesi. I am eager to hear tales of the Sunset Lands,” Rakharo said, “I’ll leave you to your rest.”

Daenerys ducked under the lintel and waited for Jon to follow. She looked about the tent, trying to see it through his eyes. The interior was cool and dim. A section of either end was raised partway to allow in any breeze. Woven grass mats covered the floor with cushions scattered here and there. Her bed was a heap of sleeping furs with a few plump embroidered pillows. At the foot of the bed was a battered chest that held Daenerys’ clothing and possessions. Sitting atop it were two candles on either side of a clay bowl. In it were the shards of her children’s eggs, gleaming like jewels in the light. An oil lamp hung suspended from the central pole, casting wavering light in spangled shapes. Blue threads of incense burned, filling the room with the scent of wildflowers. Not a palace or a castle, but clean and comfortable. Home.  

Her dragons flapped to settle on the rug, snapping and pawing at each other. Jon set down his pack, the whole of his worldly belongings was even less than hers. A prince scratching out a place to sleep in the dirt. Anxiety wound her belly taut. Was it too wild, too rash a choice? Chewing on her lip, Daenerys took a moment to furtively admire him. Even sweating, with dusty boots and trousers, Jon was more handsome than any man had a right to be. The hard neat lines of him. That lovely wild hair, his stormy eyes, his square jaw and full lips. His curls disliked the more humid air of Essos and lay in a riotous tangle around his face. Perspiration gleamed on his skin. He rubbed his mouth, eyes wandering over his surroundings. Tessarion climbed up to his niche. Vyrmax nipped at Drogon’s tail. Drogon snarled at his brother, bursting into flight. His wing knocked the oil lamp. It jangled in protest.

“Drogon, zohhe!” {Down!} Daenerys said sharply. Drogon settled on her shoulder, butting her chin with his head.

“Don’t fight with your brother,” she said in Dothraki, setting him in his niche. Vyrmax, not one to be left out, picked his way up her leg. She kissed his frilled head and set him in the nest of straw.

Jhiqui ducked through the leather partition with a whisper of sandsilk.

“Your meal, khaleesi,” she said, setting the tray down on the low table along with a clay carafe. Steam floated up in white tendrils along with a tantalizing savory aroma. Daenerys’ mouth filled with water. It had been much too long since the stale biscuits on the ship. Skewers of goat meat roasted in garlic and black pepper, spiced goat cheese, round loaves of brown bread speckled with seeds and—

“Lemon cakes?” Daenerys asked, delighted. Jhiqui’s smile was broad.

“Yes, khaleesi. I tell the cooks to make your favorites for your return.”

“You spoil me,” Daenerys said, kissing her cheeks. Jhiqui shrugged, uncomfortable with thanks as most Dothraki were. Another thing Daenerys planned to change.

“Irri draws your bath, yours and . . . and the khal’s,” she said with a wary glance towards Jon.

“My thanks,” Jon said with a nod. Dothraki followed strength, her strength in walking through the flames and birthing her dragons. Jon had proven his valor in fighting the corsairs on the ship, but some of her khalasar might cling to stubbornness. Jhiqui took her leave. Daenerys knelt and settled on a cushion at the table, pouring two horn cups of water.

“Are you well enough to eat, Jon?”

“Aye. It smells delicious. I think I could eat a whole side of beef myself,” he said with his half-smile, half-grimace. Daenerys giggled.

“Perhaps I could teach you Valyrian. To speak to your dragons.” Daenerys nodded, covering his hand with hers. Jon twisted his wrist to hold her hand.  

“I would love that, thank you,” she said. He shrugged, as uncomfortable with attention as her Dothraki.

“You are a daughter of Valyria as well.” She made a mental note to speak with her bloodriders on fitting Jon with Dothraki clothing. Sandsilk and rider’s trousers breathed easier than Westerosi leathers. They slaked their thirst and sated their hunger with alacrity. The two of them shared a plate, teasing morsels from the skewers, tearing bread to scoop up the cheese. Jon offered her a bite and she nibbled delicately from his hand, ‘accidentally’ tracing her tongue over his knuckle. Jon’s lips parted, eyes dark and longing.

“Dany,” he whispered, “forgive me. I’ve been . . . boorish.”

“You’ve been ill. Ill and injured--”

“That’s no excuse for snapping at you like a jackal,” he said. Daenerys uttered a rueful laugh.

“You’re forgiven, Jon. It has been a tumultuous wedding week, hmm?” Jon gave her a solemn nod.

“Though . . . I could use some tending,” he said.

Daenerys moved to rise.

“Do you need a healer? Jon, you should have said something--”

Jon grasped her wrist and tugged her down for a slow, drugging kiss. Mm, oh yes. Arousal unfurled, hot and sweet. Daenerys bit her lip.

“Would the khaleesi tend me?” he whispered, turning his attention to her hand. He pressed hot kisses on the tender skin of her wrist, her palm, her thumb. Daenerys shivered.

“Gods, Jon. Yes.”

Jon pulled her to her feet, seizing her mouth. Daenerys whimpered. His kisses melted and inflamed her. She lost herself in the sweet duel of hungry lips and tongues, twining her arms around his neck. Her fingers sank into fistfuls of the thick hair at his nape. Gods, he filled her senses. He smelled of sweat and leather and male. He tasted of salt and the lingering tang of meat. Warm, rough hands smoothed over her body, tugging and insistent at the laces of her trousers. He slid a hand down to caress her, gentle fingers fluttered along her inner seam. He found her wet, already greedy for him. Daenerys squirmed, straining her tiptoes as he circled her pearl. The pleasure was sweet. So achingly sweet. It made her throb and thrash in his grip.  

“Fuck, Dany,” he panted, tracing his tongue over the shell of her ear. As she peeled off his jerkin, his pale skin gleamed in the low light. They parted only to pull off their boots and shuck off their trousers. Jon made a sound very much like a growl, seizing her bodily. Daenerys hummed in approval, notching her arms and legs around him. A loud hiss broke the haze. Three pairs of eyes watched them. Amber-red, bronze, and gold.

“Will they eat me, do you think? For touching their mother?” Jon said, gently biting her bare shoulder.

“Hmm, depends on how well you treat me,” she teased. Jon chuckled, kissing the underside of her chin. Daenerys gripped his hair, moving his head so she could kiss him. Yes, so good. Daenerys sucked on his tongue. Ground her hips against the hot throb of his cock trapped against her mound, weeping silky fluid. They fell back onto her bed of furs. The musty smell and sleek texture felt sumptuous on her bare skin. Jon ground his hips into the cradle of hers. Daenerys tightened her thighs and twisted, rolling Jon beneath her. Jon craned his neck to kiss and suck on her nipples. The pleasure was sharper, hotter. The pressure of his thick cock against her—oh gods. The crest swept her up.

“Yes,” he hissed. Jon twisted her beneath him and slid inside her. Daenerys gasped. Jon cradled her head, watching her face, her eyes as he thrust.

“Daenerys. My wonder, my wife, my love,” Jon whispered against her lips. Daenerys scraped the thick flexing muscles of his back, his buttocks, spurring him on.  Jon rose up on his hands, thrusting deeper, faster. Tendons stood out on his neck.

“Dany, I’m—oh gods!” he said, throwing his head back as he spilled inside her. Gods, she loved it when he let go. His pleasure brought on hers. A glorious clenching euphoria. In the sweat-slick aftermath, Daenerys kissed his neck, petting his hair. They drowsed in silence for a while. A faint clap outside.

“Your bath, khaleesi. When you’re ready,” Jhiqui’s voice floated in from outside. Jon cursed and rolled off of her. Wild-eyed, he clutched one of her furs. Daenerys laughed.

“Do you think they heard us?” Jon asked. Her mighty, brooding husband was blushing!

“Of course they did. The Dothraki think me prudish for needing walls at all. It is sacred in their culture to couple beneath an open sky.” Daenerys drew him down for a lingering kiss.

“Don’t worry, my love. I’ll guard your virtue.”            

[darkfalcon-z]

You cannot take it back, make it undone chapter 3: Vegeta

DBZ AU fanfiction.

Raditz, Gohan, Vegeta, Nappa

over 1600 words, space fantasy/soft science fiction/slice of life (I know, right), gen

warning: expect things you’d expect from Saiyans (authors note by chapter one)

Many thanks to Over8000 for proofreading this chapter. 

Comments welcome. Come on don’t be shy!

first chapter, second

next chapter

chapter directory

on AO3

Several months prior.

Raditz woke up from artificially induced sleep. His tiny spacecraft neared its destination. Soon he was going to meet Vegeta and Nappa for their new assignment. He checked his position in relation to the navigation beacons.  Everything had run according to expectations. He looked at the chronometer. Thirty seven hours had passed since he left Earth, or ten times that long, depending where you took the measure. There was only an hour remaining until landing. He needed to prepare himself mentally.

On his lap, the sleeping cub stirred. Oh  yeah, right, he had to somehow prepare the boy as well. 

There was no way to make this particular cub look acceptable in such a short time, but if he kept cool, he probably would survive this. They both would.

He nudged the cub. He had slept even longer than Raditz, it was time to wake up. 

The cub yawned and stretched out. Then he realised where he was, and with whom, and  started panicking. In the limited space, there was no getting away.

"Calm the fuck down!" Raditz ordered. 

It worked. Somewhat. The cub settled a bit but continued sobbing and snivelling. 

Raditz eyed him critically.

"Cease your cries! Do you want to be seen like that? If your enemies saw you crying they would know your weakness and  they would attack to take advantage of it. And if your allies saw how weak you are they'd abandon you," he admonished.

"What enemies?" The cub whimpered. "I'm just a little boy. Where is my Dad?"

"I wouldn't fucking know. He saw you cry and decided you are not worth it." Raditz was irritated. The cub’s plight felt a little close for comfort.  

"You lie! Dad would never do that!" The cub looked angrily at him, tears slowly drying up.

"You called it. I lied." Raditz admitted unabashed. "The truth is, he's dead." The truth was, he 

wasn't happy with the turn of events either. 

The cub looked at him, mortified.

"You've killed him,” he said with audible disbelief. "It's false. You're lying again."

"He is dead." Raditz repeated. “but it wasn't me who killed him. A green guy did it." At those words, the cub started to whimper again.

"Don't worry, I killed the green bastard myself, so your father is avenged." Unfortunately those words of assurance didn't have much effect on the cub’s mood. It couldn't be because the cub wanted avenge his father himself. He was obviously much too weak to handle that green guy now and he had to know it. He wouldn't want to delay his revenge for gods know how long, would he?

Raditz didn't quite know what to do. He would opt for violence, but they were inside the pod and he didn't know how would the cub react. He suspected more crying would ensue and he didn't want that. Then again the cub could always try to retaliate, which in different situation would be a welcome outcome. In that case, Raditz would just overpower him and that would be the end of it. However they were in a space pod, where their freedom of movement was greatly limited. It would be ill advised to start a fight, which could lead to breaking some part of the machinery.

Unsure of how to proceed, Raditz decided to give the cub a few minutes to collect himself before intervening any further.

Between the sobs he heard the cub murmuring. "... I don't believe...Daddy...lie...bad man... no, no, no...all his fault..."

"You fucking done?" Raditz finally lost his patience.

The cub looked at him, startled and angry.

"Now, your father is dead and as you may've noticed, we are travelling through space in my pod. You are now my responsibility and you have to do as I say. You do what you are told, and you get to live. You don't and you die one way or another. Soon we’ll land on planet Skwash and meet up with our comrades who are Saiyans as well. They are stronger than us, born better. You will show respect and composure. That means no crying. Got that?"

"You took me away from Earth?"

"Oh, we have an intellectual here," Raditz said, half mocking. Truth to be told the cub was quite articulate for the age Raditz suspected him to be. "You got that right. More questions?"

The boy shook his head. Raditz expected he had lots of questions, but was too overwhelmed to formulate them right now. There would be time for that later... or it wouldn't matter at all. Raditz was reasonably sure he was going to get his way, but you never knew with Vegeta.

At least the cub was somewhat calm right now. Raditz took the occasion to snatch the canister of water from under the armrest and drink some.

"Great. I have some questions for you. What's your name?"

"Gohan."

"That's not a Saiyan name. I should give you a new one, a better one."

"But I like my name,” the cub protested. "I don't want any other name!"

"We'll see. It's not like anyone will bother to remember how you are called for now."

The cub did not answer, just gave a tearful, angry stare.  Raditz could smell fear on him. It was definitely the dominant emotion right at the moment.

He thrust the water canister into the cub's hands. "Here, have some."

The cub looked up at him startled, once again. Untrusting.

Raditz groaned. "Don't give me that look. You're dehydrated from all that sleep and your stupid fucking, crying. It's just water."

Hesitantly, the cub lifted the  big canister to his mouth.

Raditz knew he still needed to instruct the cub about how to act in front of his superiors, but first he had more questions. Also, he needed to assess the cub's abilities before they met up  with Vegeta and Nappa.

He started with most obvious one. "How old are you?

***

No one was on the landing site on the foreign planet when they arrived. Raditz checked the coordinates on his scouter, grabbed Gohan, and took to the sky. After several minutes of flight, Raditz dove to the ground and dropped Gohan in front of the awaiting Saiyans.

Gohan knelt on one knee, like he had been instructed, but he was still so shaken, that he needed both hands to support himself in that position. Afraid but curious, he looked up.

There were two of them. One was huge and imposing, so much bigger even than Raditz. Gohan recognized him as Nappa. The other one was... not so much. Next to Nappa, he could pass for a child.  That, Gohan knew, was Vegeta. And somehow Gohan didn't even need an explanation that Vegeta was the one to be most afraid of.

Raditz stepped ahead of Gohan, knelt in front of Vegeta, and hit the ground with his fist in a show of reverence.

"Prince Vegeta, my brother is dead," he reported.

"In that case, you have failed your mission. Is that right?" Vegeta inquired.

"Yes, my Prince." Raditz dropped his gaze toward the ground in anger and shame. His jaws tightened. He knew what to anticipate.

Vegeta smiled an ugly smile. "I see."

Upon uttering those words, he kicked the kneeling Raditz in the jaw with enough power to make the latter fall backwards. Without delay, Vegeta stepped on Raditz's stomach and forced him to unwrap his tail or have it smashed. Too quickly for eye to follow, Vegeta grabbed Raditz's tail and squeezed tight.

All of Raditz’s strength abandoned him and all of his attempts of resistance ceased.

"Look at you. You are pathetic," Vegeta proclaimed.

Vegeta yanked Raditz’s tail painfully, then stepped on his head with one foot.

"It's not like I expected any better from you." Vegeta snorted. "You’ve disgraced yourself. We heard everything. You were too lenient. Fucking low-born!" he shouted and kicked Raditz in a frenzy. "You were all too forgiving. You have gave him too many chances. You should have at least disciplined him properly before making him such a generous offer. You should have shown your power. Why do I have to tell you how to do your fucking job?!"

Gohan watched the scene in shock and fear. To think that someone had brought the powerful Raditz so low so easily! Remembering Raditz words earlier he was determined not to cry: “Don't show weakness to people around you - they will use it to take advantage of you. Crying would make things worse. Don't cry before your enemy. “

"Apologies my Prince," Raditz was barely able to mumble. In response, Vegeta merely kicked him once more and then let him go.

"And what have you brought with you?" Vegeta eyed the quivering Gohan.

Raditz shakily gathered himself up from the ground. Blood ran from his nose and bruises already formed on his skin. He winced  with pain, but otherwise seemed able to move without much of a problem.

"He's my brother’s son, Your Highness. I want to train him into a proper warrior."

Vegeta pressed the side button on his scouter.

"Raditz, he’s not worth it. His power level barely registers," he stated in a dismissive tone.

"I know that. His father neglected his training. But he is the only Saiyan cub we know of, the only other Saiyan alive. It wouldn't hurt to at least try and train him," Raditz tried to persuade.

"Vegeta, I think Raditz's right this time. It's worth a shot. We can always kill the cub later if he shows no hope of growing stronger. But if he does, then we could..." Nappa trailed off. He was afraid of creating futile expectations.

"Do whatever you want," Vegeta spat. "He's your responsibility and your problem. But don't let it come in the way of your duties," he warned. "Either way, He can't become any sorrier excuse of an excuse for a warrior than you are. "

With those words of warning,  Vegeta flew away, much to Gohan's relief.

 directory

next chapter

first chapter 

[bsudharsan]

Three years is the time it took American author A P Duvall to write his debut novel Ichor. ‘And the entire time,’ says the recently turned 31-year-old, ‘I never knew if it was going to be finished or if anyone would ever read it.’ As the Florida-based author utters these words, I sense a mystical depth in his voice, a depth that cannot be described in words. Be that as it may, the sentences he constructs are well-articulated, and soon an urge develops deep within me to get to know and understand the author, who, by the way, pets a dog and a few cats.

Controlling my urge, I ask him to talk at length about Ichor, and he begins by telling me that the very first chapter of the book came in a flash, making him laugh, so he made a note of it and sat on it for a long time. ‘Ichor was strange at first,’ Duvall says with a laugh. ‘It started in one of those moments where your mind is empty and an idea strikes,’ he tells me, adding, ‘I had this idea for the first chapter and some more scattered ideas, so I thought to just throw it all in a pot together and decided to see what the hell would happen.’  

Duvall also lets out that he didn’t really have the entire plot in mind before he started working upon Ichor. ‘I had vague ideas of who I wanted the main characters to be, and others only revealed themselves when writing,’ he shares, going on to say, ‘The plot, especially the ending, changed drastically from beginning to end, but I knew how I wanted the audience to feel at the end, so that’s what I aimed for.’ There’s a large section of the novel, about three-quarters of the way through that Duvell had no idea what to do with, but he had written himself into a corner. ‘And the only way out’, Duvall says,  ‘was through’. He explains, ‘Once I got over the fear of not doing my idea justice, I just went for it, and of course, it became one of the easier sections of the book to write. So much so that there’s probably another novel worth of ideas just from that section alone that I just had to shelve because the novel didn’t need them!’

ALSO READ | ‘Through the Eyes’ of a Fantasy Writer

Explaining Ichor‘s storyline, Duvall says, ‘There’s an alien force that’s looking to stop the destruction of the universe, and they’re looking for any intelligent life in the cosmos that might hold an answer. They land in a small Floridian town that resembles the one where I grew up, and they unleash chaos, and no one knows why.’ Divulging the fact that this was his first attempt at a novel, and if it was going to be something, he wanted to swing big, Duvall, who started getting serious about writing when he was about seventeen, adds, ‘But ideas came with a lot of starts and stops. I’d spend months trying to figure out how to get from A to B and do it in a way that felt honest to how I saw the world, people, and storytelling. Life seemed to always find a way to point me in the right direction, and eventually, I hit the end and realized that as different as it was from what I thought it would be, it was everything I wanted it to be.’

Wanting to get to know about his personal life, I ask him to tell me a bit about his journey as a writer. Soon, Duvall begins talking about his childhood days, telling me he knew as a child that he always wanted to write. ‘I felt I was pretty good at it,’ he states, adding, ‘I read a lot as a kid, always wanted to read beyond what was approved for kids my age; and I was never discouraged from reading what I wanted. For a long time, I thought I was going to direct movies, write my own screenplays and all that, but I eventually realized I probably don’t have the patience that would be required.’

Nonetheless, it looks like writing novels and poems became more of Duvall’s style. In fact, while entering high school, Duvall already had it in his head that he was going to be some kind of writer, so a lot of things fell by the wayside. ‘I became kind of drunk on being creative – I couldn’t really help it or stop it. I’d write short stories, screenplays, poems – it didn’t matter to me, I just wanted to create something that would get a reaction from anybody,’ he explains. It was only then that the author’s need just ‘festered and grew’ over the years. ‘Finally, I was lucky enough to marry someone who wanted me to get serious about my passion, so I decided to be original and write a novel,’ he lets out with a laugh.  

ALSO READ | The Turner Interview

 On being asked what inspires him to write, the author, who loves to watch movies while procrastinating, doesn’t take a second to splutter author Stephen King’s name. Calling the veteran’s ability to hold his readers’ attention amazing, Duvall states, ‘I am in awe of how he can pull it off. As a horror writer, I have to bow at the altar of Stephen King.’ David Wong, who wrote the ‘John Dies at the End’ series is another source of inspiration for Duvall. ‘I knew of him from his comedy articles, then discovered he wrote a book, and it was incredible,’ he says. Besides, renowned late author Kurt Vonnegut also came into Duvall’s life at a ‘very weird time’. ‘And books like Slaughterhouse V, Timequake, and Breakfast of Champions, made me laugh, cry, think – all the things a great book is supposed to do. The way Vonnegut saw humanity was really helpful to me, not only in real life, but also in drawing characters,’ says Duvall, and I only end up finding his thoughts resonating with mine. 

Talking about his works-in-progress, Duvall, who uses music to help him write, says he is planning to release a collection of poetry sometime next year. ‘I’m thinking of doing a short story collection as well,’ he lets me know. And is there anything that he would like to tell budding authors who lose motivation if their works don’t succeed? ‘I think I would like to stress that it’s good to absorb as much as you can and wherever you can. Undoubtedly, you’ll have a lot to learn and you won’t even know which questions to ask, but all you can do is get to work.’ 

On being asked what’s the thing that he would want to be changed in the world, Duvall doesn’t take more than a second to give me his answer. ‘Greed seems to be the thing that is behind most catastrophes, plights, and sufferings, he says, adding, ‘so toning that down would probably change all things drastically for the good’. Although he feels it’s natural for humans to covet, he is not for what he calls ‘unquenchable greed’. ‘We’ve seen what such greed does to individuals, entire groups of people, and the whole of the planet,’ he signs off on a serious note. 

ALSO READ | ‘Rejection Doesn’t Define You, the Way You React to It Does’

© 2020 All rights reserved.

PS: Please feel free to connect up with me on Facebook, Twitter, and LinkedIn.

    It took three years for author @ap_duvall to write his debut novel Ichor. ‘And the entire time,’ says the recently turned 31-year-old, ‘I never knew if it was going to be finished or if anyone would ever read it.’ #WritingCommunity Three years is the time it took American author A P Duvall to write his debut novel…

[republicstandard]

Arbeit Macht Goy

In our travelling circles the question of the value of labor has been finely discussed. There are even subjunctions of the movement entirely dedicated to its cause; you have National Socialism and National Bolshevism, with individuated parties ranging in size and scope. The Traditionalist Workers Party is the most notable example that comes to my mind.

More often than not, the analysis directed toward the question of labor is (unsurprisingly) one of critique and pragmatism. It is noted, with acuminous alacrity, that a man’s identity is tied into and integral with what he does. It could be further said that a man *is* what he does. The main problem with this associative thinking being that when a man is, say, robbed of his work or his lot, than he shrivels up and blows away in the industrial gust.

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That, obviously, is a serious concern. To that end, many of our guys have, with beneficent intent, stipulated that man must have a core identity beyond mere work and lot. A man may work, he may be married, but he is more than that. One would, I think, be a fool or the worst kind of AmCap to legitimately and unironically argue that point.

However, there is an opposite side to that coin. In the wake of Modernism, in the wake of Post-Modernism and the increasingly futile isms that have come in their wake you delve increasingly, and by necessity, into the reactionary realm. I do not use the word flatteringly. In this case reactionism is a harmful influence, for it causes a pendular effect on the White psyche in which decidedly extreme outcomes are repeatedly traded in an utterly futile attempt to reclaim the now forgotten center.

You cannot reclaim the center from the extremities. You have to, and follow this revolutionary thought Brothers, meet it in the middle. What is the center? It is balance, equanimity, stability and consistency – overall. The center is not a particular ideological component beyond the necessity of having an even keel to retreat to, if for nothing more than to formulate your direction and directive. The center is a state of being. It is one of the major contributors to the formation of a lasting Folk Soul which have all been robbed us.

In the life of an individual man there are a collective of passing achievements that God or Nature, or Nature’s God have conditioned him to measure his worth and progress by. A man should have a stable, productive and contributory job. A man should have a stable, productive and cooperative marriage. A man should have a stable, positive influence in his selective community. These fulfill basic sociological needs as imposed by Maslow’s Hierarchy; they should also satisfy the ego of those who tout “common sense.” (As if there were such a thing.)

Evolution inclined man to labor. To the same degree that ideologically, society is owed the artist and philosopher, society is likewise owed structurally to the workingman. The workingman is the Greek Atlas to Rodin’s Thinker. The Workingman with his hands has built everything. I may begin with the house in which you sit, the chair upon which you read this article from. If you sit in your car and read this on a phone, the end is the same. There should be a degree of glory involved in the realization that we, workingmen, build the physical trappings of the world.

Of course, you may enter tragedy. The workingman is a slave to the capitalist system. There is little way around this. Unless you are some (((magnate))) of some kind or other, you are a slave. Even the (((magnate))) is a slave, for their worth is wrapped up in the acquisition of shekels. Your skills are utterly neglected: society refused to acknowledge the contributions of the worker. He has no respect. On the basic, preconscious sociological level, the implications cannot be overstated. A man who works with his hands uses his body. His entire physical being is his primary tool.

I am a carpenter. I enjoy decidedly real aches and pains – they are the primary reward for my efforts. Men who toil, they hurt. And pain, in the long term, can erode you. It can wear you down. When you go to bed in pain, and wake up in pain; day in and day out, come spring and winter gone, in pain, you begin to lose your sense of humour. A clever man like himself reminds himself that this pain makes him stronger, that he is better off than soft-palmed weaklings. And this is true, I endure what lesser men recoil at. An injury that would make me grunt, I have seen stop weaker men for the better part of a day. Workingmen are a breed upon themselves.

Yet, no credence is given to this. Our strength and our endurance have no merit in a victimocracy, nevermind the pain. Society values transvestites. Society values visible minorities of every stripe. The workingman knows his blood and sweat have paved the way for this pathetic spectacle. His efforts contribute to that mess. His taxes, the token of his hard work robbed by a greedy, filthy and unquestioning monetary (((system))). And what does the (((system))) do with his wealth? Redistribute it, of course.

There is no amount of niggling, dickering, mansplaining or Boomer TALKING LOUDER THAN THE OTHER GUY AND REMINDING HIM HOW WRONG HE IS EVEN THOUGH HE HASN’T SAID ANYTHING BECAUSE MIGHT IS RIGHTing that will change the fact that this is true, and proponents of welfare statery are wrong to imply their will in the form of such taxes without consent… and certainly without representation.

So the workingman shrinks into an abyss of ingratitude. He becomes angry, bitter, cynical and despondent, effete, and flagrant. Why wouldn’t he? He must put his body on the line to support a world that certainly neglects him, if it doesn’t outright hate him. After all, the White Workingman can count on this: to at some point hear about the evils of White “Supremacy,” White “Privilege,” and White “Advantage” while the blisters inside his calloused hands are festering, his knuckles bleeding and his migraine quite throbbing. He looks at his gnarly hands where his hard earned money should be, sees an ungrateful indigent in his mind that the government saw fit to redistribute his wealth to for “social justice.”

It is easy for the workingman to despair, in this world. If the White Workingman protests he is met with the battlecry of the Eternal Boomer which sounds a little bit like this: “I don’t care if you’re Black, White or Purple if you come here, speak English and work!” Yes. Work. The Workingman knows his lot becomes increasingly harder because of immigrant labor. He knows that his wage will probably be cut someday to keep that edge against the invading foreign, colored hoards. Yet he is preached to by a generation that has secured their existence and doesn’t have to fear so much the colored hoard they invited. If the workingman is clever he sees the irony in the infinite repeat of history that tells the story of a bloated fiscal oligarchy that is destroyed by the foreigners they invited to line their own pockets.

Of course, the ignorant generation that will not see the plight of the younger is not safe in their hubris. The multicultural virus will spare no man. I shall tell you a tale that haunts me even as my callous crusted fingers press the keys that make this article. My Grandfather worked. He worked until he retired. His wife died, he remarried. By all accounts, he was a damned good American. He followed the rules. He donated a fair sum of money to civic causes he believed in. When he was young, he had served in the United States Navy. He had worked as an engineer. I am told he had passed several patents. But like many American he had his stresses. The long and short of it was this, his wife, when he developed Alzheimer’s, condemned him to nursing homes. And this I shall never forget: I went to visit one day. And there are days you know you’re in for trouble, sixth sense, if you will. Nurses were moving in on a scene. And there they were, huddled around my grandfather. His forehead was bleeding. He was hollering: “take me to the Embassy! I am a United States Citizen and I have rights! I don’t know what country this is, but I want to go home!” Oh, the mystery! The nurses all cobbled and cawed as I arrived. “What does he mean? I don’t understand!” I knew. It was obvious to anyone who isn’t a brainless shill. The nurse closest to him was blacker than coal, with space alien dreadlocks, and if she was capable of uttering a complete thought with proper English diction… she wasn’t. What was there to question? When you give a man with dementia a creature that in his honest mind doesn’t look quite right, like a foreigner than you will have a confused man! Astounding.

I have other stories in my arsenal, but let that be a lesson to White Men who think that their defensive posturing to the ‘moral’ authorities on race and relations will save them in the end… it won’t. Our (((greatest allies))) will make sure the last things you see are things you won’t. They will rob your pensions, destroy your retirement – they will then pay for the third world nurses that neglect you in a nursing home you didn’t choose.

Diversity, I’m told, *is* our greatest strength.

I’d ask my Grandfather, but I can’t, because he is dead. But you’re not dead, and theoretically, neither am I. So what do we do with all this depressing truth? It is something to bear in mind, something to help us keep track of all the factors. When some moron with a caved in head entertains the favourite American pastime of feigning ignorance to avoid the plight of being thought to agree with you, you may remind them why the worker suffers. Tell them stories. It might not make a difference, but we can’t let these pixie-faced, limp-wristed know-nothings get away thinking there’s absolutely no reason for a problem. Because they will – if you let them.

We are American Citizens. We have Rights. We will, all of us die. Some at home, some in a home, others, hell, at work. But we have a right to die in America. What did my Grandfather do to deserve feeling like he was abandoned to a third world country?

The average workingman today, though, has no overarching purpose. He did not see the bright, White America my Grandfather knew. So he passes his time for the reasons we have discussed, in indignity. Maybe he copes with alcohol, or drugs. I am told that the Opioid Crisis has reached unparalleled proportions. A comrade of mine by the name of Emil Kraepelin goes to distinct lengths to dispel the myths and educate our guys regarding this plight.

One of the major problems in the laborial sphere is a sense of manifold purposelessness. It is part and parcel with the blackpill phenomenon. You work for people with more money than you to give them things you can’t have. It is a sense of backwards thinking, the fault of early education and a poorly managed modern culture.

Here is my advice to White Workers. Keep this in mind. Learn a skill, learn a trade. You’ll have to start small. You’ll have to weather insult and injury. Keep heart. If the American Dream is ever going to be ours, than we have to start collecting bargaining chips. We need to do that now. The reasons for this are as diverse as the reasons for being depressed. If you learn a practical skill: carpentry, masonry, plumbing, wiring, than you become more solvent. The eternal call for working revolt has never changed. Without us, what would all the pampered, rich and effeminate do, exactly? Here’s a scenario: without leeching off our skill, the rich would die of sepsis in crumbling mansions that they can’t fix, squatting in a shallow hole they dug themselves because they couldn’t fix the plumbing. They would be reduced very quickly. They owe us, dearly.

The present system in which we live will not last forever. It cannot, by definition. When infinity immigrants have finished crippling the labour economy and all that’s left is coding… you will still have your skills. There will unquestionably be other citizens in a position to need you. And, if, God(s) willing we of our persuasion ever achieve a degree of separation… we won’t much be able to survive on coding, computers and being a generic Millennial or Zoomer, will we? No. Civilization is a complex organism that needs every single skill we have to maintain any modicum of resemblance to the comfort and complexity it presently yields.

Unless you want #VargNat now.

You learn a trade. If you’re good, you can go to work for yourself. It may not be immediate, and you might lose a little at first, but any degree of independence makes a difference. That independence makes a difference in your life. Working for someone else can eat your soul. Work for yourself? It’s a gamble. In the current year, there are no guarantees. But if you make a successful business name for yourself, you can hand that off to your children someday. That used to be part of the European Dream. Families inherit from familial progress. It is not impossible to reclaim that. I don’t think any of our ancient cultures ever intended us to live hand to mouth at the will of a globalist agency because ‘muh capitalism.’

If in mass numbers the Nationalists reading this began to take their own reins, rather than being self-hating service workers, became plumbers, electricians or what-have-you than we could, as a movement, increase pour capital gains. We could become self-sufficient. Right now, our bread comes from ZOG. Why is this bad? You know (((why.))) You place five of our guys in one County: one of them is a carpenter, one of them is an electrician, the other three are generic Millennials and Zoomers. The carpenter and the electrician can build business names independently, and even start to work together. Carpenters frequently call on electricians as subcontractors. Those other three chuckleheads? Why not hire them as apprentices. Now you have five of our guys collecting shekels directly, rather than having them handed off by some retarded system job.

Those same five guys, if the SHTF scenario ever happens, would be better off. They not only have friends, but vital skills. With their money they can support our causes. As our numbers grow tighter and larger, we can call on our guys, rather than some guy. That means money will begin to stay with us. This is important because the ability to hold onto material wealth is integral to any cultural reform. Skill and finance are bargaining chips much harder to resist than tattoos and memes.

But more than that, returning to the original point of this article, labour is part of a man’s identity. If you haven’t been proud of something you built with your hands, I’m sorry my friend, but you haven’t lived. I think I shall you another anecdote or two in this vein before I sign off and go make myself and my wife some bacon and eggs.

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On a job site, another client, brother to the one we were working for, came to visit. He talked a while before addressing me. “I wanted to save the work for you, because, you know, you’re so goddamn strong.” I couldn’t help but smile, and he went on to say, “ah, I’ll never forget seeing you carrying that big fucking rock up the hill. Nobody else could’ve moved it!” I won’t lie, and I don’t care if it marks me guilty for the sin of vanity. It feels good to know in some cases that my name precedes me. He’s told the story to others, I’ve heard him do it (while I was carrying big beautiful rocks.) On another job I did for a relative, there was concern moving this and that and the guy that hired me said, “don’t worry about the weight, this one’s stronger than an ox.”

So it goes.

It all brings us back to the Havamal. Cattle Die, and so do Kinsmen – God(s) know anyone over age 20 has seen more death than they care to. But we know what does not die: the name of a good man dead. I know that I want to be known as a keen philosopher when I die, but I shall settle for being another Sisyphus.

To a degree, pride cures pain. Knowing my work is appreciated, it makes it worth the while. Knowing my deeds are worthy of someone else’s time in the form of a story told to strangers (to me) is an incredible ego boost. That is why we are supposed to work: our skills are pooled into larger projects and our endeavors are to be respected. Our strength and skill are to be respected. We are not just workers and helpers. Without us, your service economy would have nothing to house it, your wealth would evaporate, and you would most likely not be here to undervalue us.

Something to think about.

from Republic Standard | Conservative Thought & Culture Magazine http://bit.ly/2OYUFbm via IFTTT

[djrelentless]

“I Miss The Dream...Martin, Where Are You?”

January 19, 2014 at 10:18pm

It's January 19th, 2014 (Martin Luther King Weekend). I am thinking about how I would be celebrating this holiday back in the states. For over a decade I was the resident DJ for the longest running Tea Dance in New York City at Escuelita. And every year I made it my mission to create a mixed CD that gave a message of hope and freedom. But after spending most of my time in Toronto after getting married to a Canadian, I have had to get used to the people of color here being of a different background. Remember, my experience is that of an African-American. They do celebrate Black History Month here.

This year has been even more interesting. The headlines and buzz on the news and internet have been choked full of racial and anti-gay incidents. From Madonna taking to Instagram using the n-word to The Bachelor and Sherri Shepherd sharing their views on gays…..it feels like we are moving backwards while all these steps have been taken to go forward.Human Rights and Racism are dividing countries everywhere. And I can't help but wonder what Martin Luther King would have thought about the world today. King never said he was for Gay Rights, but he did work with a major homosexual by the name of Bayard Rustin who organized the march on Washington D.C. where King gave his "I Have A Dream" speech.  

I mean….just as I think how far the United States has come by electing its first African-American President, the harsh reality of how much hate is still in the world keeps me from seeing how things have changed. Just look around. I thought it was so innovative that B. Scott was hired by BET (Black Entertainment Television) and now Scott is suing the network for discrimination after they asked him to put on men's clothing so no one would think he was female. We have world leaders like Russia President Vladimir Putin and Ugandan President Yoweri Museveni coming out against the LGBT Communities in their countries. Thank God that Museveni vetoed the bill that would put homosexuals to death, but still called them "abnormal". Studies show that homosexual behavior has been found in over 1500 species. Yet homophobia is found in only one.

So, then I started thinking about what "The Dream" speech meant to me. I believe it inspired me to do my best to support equality. It inspired me to be the ambassador for my people. I believe that everyday when we leave our homes we are ambassadors for our people. Be your people black or white. Be your people gay or straight. You are a representation of your community and what you do in that day and space is a representation of your people. So, I always try to remember that I am a Black Gay HIV+ Man. My very existence…..me being a productive member of society……it all speaks volumes about me and my people. I try to always do the right thing.

For example, since I have been in Canada I have spoken out about racism in the gay community. And both times I have been attacked online, called names and told that I am wrong for expressing my outrage over injustice. Fortunately for me I have not had to endure the violence that Dr. King and his supporters did, but character assassination was just as hurtful. I am grateful for all those who have stood up before me and fought this battle for equality. And I try to remind everyone that activism starts with you. Anyone who knows me knows that I'm not a huge fan of RuPaul, but early in his career he said one of the most poignant statements: "The biggest political statement you can make is being yourself." So, if you are true to yourself and you don't hide who you are you are making a political statement.

Then I got to thinking about the racial barriers that I have broken. As a DJ, I became the first African-American DJ to spin at many venues that only employed white DJs. For this I have been accused of being a sellout or a wanna-be-white DJ. But many people and artists laid the groundwork for change by being the first. Louis Armstrong was called an "Uncle Tom" for his appearances at all white clubs and in films of his time. So, when I became the first black DJ at The Monster in Greenwich Village it was actually a big deal. I spun for the people who were there. All though the club only hired white or hispanic DJs, they never catered to their black clientele. I played for everyone in my room and I tried to be as inclusive as possible. That's how you build a night. That venue would never be the same. I got fired for playing Hip Hop. Today, they have all kinds of DJs playing Hip Hop for the floor downstairs in The Monster. I was only there for a short time, but I helped re-format that place and got them to change with the times.

Now, I appreciate Hip Hop as a form of the African-American experience, but I am still torn about the use of the n-word. Part of me leaving a gig recently had to do with being the only person of color in a room of white patrons singing along with the lyrics of popular Hip Hopsongs that use the n-word. I tried to point that out, but how do you solve a problem when the people involved don't realize there is a problem? If you have never been discriminated against how can you be expected to empathize with the plight of a person of color? WhenOprah asked Jay Z about the use of the word he stated that "Hip Hop tells stories that the police don't want you to hear." I am all for expressing oneself, but when your words reach around the world shouldn't your words be chosen carefully and represent the collective. The hatred behind the word "nigger" has not changed. No matter how many times you tell yourself that your taking the word back. When other races start believing that because they have a black friend or have a child of color in their family that it gives them a right to use the word, we have lied to ourselves that it is still okay to just run around uttering "nigger" to whoever.

And people like Madonna should know better. I don't care if you have adopted kids fromAfrica or how much black dick you have taken (sorry for being rude, but it's the truth), you are not entitled. There's too much history and pain associated to that word for too many people. I am married to a white man. We do not speak to each other with racial slurs. Out of respect for ourselves and our relationship, we cannot speak to each other like that. We have so much to learn from each other about our lives and cultures. I would hope that the rest of the world could learn that instead of finding new ways to divide everyone.

It wasn't until 2001 that I discovered how racism had evolved. It was my first trip to Londonand it was my first time ever hearing the racial slur, "sand nigger". The other day I ran into a friend who had never heard that term before and was called it to his face. His lover punched the guy and later had to explain what it meant. The sad part is that my friend had decided early on to change his name because he did not want people to discriminate against him because of his heritage. He told me that his teenaged daughter identifies herself as Araband he couldn't be prouder. Represent who you are….always.

As a performer, my alter-ego Jade Elektra tries to break down racial barriers with what a drag performer of color is supposed to be and look like. I have worked in bars and clubs since 1985. I have performed in and watched a lot of drag shows in my years. When I first started, I used to do a lot of Millie Jackson material (mainly because of her monologues really showcased my lip syncing skills). For those who don't know very much about Millie Jackson, she was a very popular R&B singer from the 70's and early 80's and she uses the n-word as a dialogue to speak to her black audience. When I first started female impersonation my early audiences were predominantly black. So, I never gave it another thought. It wasn't until I left Tampa, Florida for New York City that I started performing for a more diverse audience and it occurred to me that my choices of material was a direct reflection of me and where I came from. I wanted to reach a bigger audience and also tell my stories of where I came from. I still occasionally pull out a Millie Jackson track, but I now give a disclaimer about the n-word. Telling the audience that this is part of my history, but not in my everyday vocabulary. My mother (who was an English major in college) always told me to always be articulate when expressing yourself. People judge you by how you speak and what you say.

But it is hard to explain to Canadians about celebrating Martin Luther King's birthday when there are such disregards and disrespect for the man when his own people make flyers for club nights that have nothing to do with his legacy.

http://www.bet.com/news/national/photos/2014/01/twerk-for-mlk-the-worst-martin-luther-king-jr-party-flyers.html#!011615-national-mlk-martin-luther-king-day-fliers-2

I am not naive to think that every event that was held this weekend was really to honor Dr. King. It is still a business. But when Harmonica Sunbeam, Sugga Pie Koko and myself did our Tea Dance at Escuelita we had contests to see who could recite King's "I Have A Dream" speech. We tried to make sure that the entertainment that night reflected and represented our Black Gay Community and their belief in what that speech meant. And 'til this day, I always try to put a message of love, hope and freedom in my music.

When my uncle, Herbert King was teaching me about being a DJ and programing music back in 1980, he always said that you have make sure that you believe in what you are playing and to always know material to tell a story. So, when I do a mix set, I am not only playing for your listening ear but also for your subconscious. My cousin, Tarkesha introduced me to a site called Mixcloud and now I have found a great way to share my music and ideas. I did a mix this year for Martin Luther King and I hope you enjoy it.

http://www.mixcloud.com/djrelentlessny/martin-luther-king-weekend-mix-2014/