#because of his clothes and how he started the crowd to riot against the police

[pinktie]

[if-you-fan-a-fire]

“Funérailles Rouges Dans La Rue Arcade,” Le Petit Journal. March 12, 1933. Page 1. ---- Une foule considerable assistait, hier midi, aux funérailles de Nick Zynchuck, tui accidentellement par le policier Zappa lundi dernier. Communistes, chômeurs, curieux et policiers se coudoyaient dans une atmosphère de méfiance. presque meute. Notre photo de gauche montre l'extraordinaire densité de la foule autour du cercaeil de Zynchuck, au moment où on plaçait celui-ci dans le corbillard pour le mener au cimetière de Lake-View. Remarques les placards et les banderoles que portaient les chefs des sympathisants du mort. La photo de droite indique avec quel soin le Police prévenu les bagarres, On voit ici les “constables spéciaux" empêchant une bataille, tandis que trois femmes s'éloignent en tonte hâte.

[AL: The police did not ‘stop’ any fighting - the funeral of Zynchuk, himself killed by a policeman while resisting his eviction, became a police riot, as the special constables beat and abused men, women and children, including unconnected passerby and a Montreal Gazette journalist. Below the cut I’m including a lengthy English language analysis of this incident from Molinaro’s history of anti-Communism and the state of exception in 1930s Canada of this incident. Well worth reading.

The Murder of an Immigrant: Nicholas Zynchuck “The state repression of the 1930s increased in 1933, particularly in Montreal as Premier Taschereau launched his aggressive campaign against communism. If the Buck et al. trial was the start of the repression against Communists and fellow travellers during the Great Depression's exceptional state, the case of Nicholas Zynchuck in Montreal represented the depths of it. His case demonstrates how ethnicity and culture helped influence who was (and was not) a Communist.

On the afternoon of 6 March 1933, Montreal police were called to 3962 Saint Dominique Street in Montreal's downtown core. Saint Dominique contained a number of townhome complexes, many of which were rented to Polish immigrants, mainly Yiddish speakers, working in nearby factories and shops. On this afternoon, police walked in on an eviction, the history of which dated back to the previous Friday. John Wlostizosk was a Polish immigrant who had been renting 3962 with his wife. Wlostizosk had fallen on difficult times and become unemployed, probably because of the broken leg he was nursing at the time of his eviction. He was two months in arrears on his rent and was ordered to pay immediately or be forced to leave. Wlostizosk could not pay, and the next day a court-ordered bailiff and his assistants attempted to evict the family, claiming that they had an order to do so from the Supreme Court. They were unsuccessful, and Mrs Wlostizosk reported that she was thrown to the ground by the men and had her clothing torn.

The majority of the witnesses stated that the bailiff returned at 2:30 p.m. on 7 March; he and his assistants reportedly forced their way into the home and pulled Wlostizosk out of his bed, dragging him outside. Wlostizosk's wife, while screaming, clung to the bed sheets as her husband was dragged out of the home, and she was then pushed down the stairs. Her screams drew neighbours from all around, and soon a crowd of several hundred emerged, urging the couple to stand their ground and not leave." When constables Joseph Zappa, Paul Couchey, and Victor Jette of the Montreal police arrived at the scene (later joined by Constable A. Cloutier), they found an angry mob, the bailiff's truck half-loaded with furniture and clothing from the home, a screaming Mrs Wlostizosk standing on the steps to the house, and a clothed John Wlostizosk leaning against the house to keep him away.

At this point, Nicholas Zynchuck, a Polish immigrant, former Canadian Pacific Railway worker, and a border at 3962, arrived home. He ran up to the house searching for his clothes. When told by bystanders that the items were in the truck, he entered it but found nothing of his inside. He reportedly then grabbed one of the baillifs by the arm, saying, "I want my clothes." The bailiff replied that he could not have them because everything in the house was being sired When Zynchuck made for the house again, he was blocked by three constables. The crowd, which had grown to approximately two thousand, began removing furniture and items from the truck to prevent them from being taken."

From this point on, the eyewitness accounts differ drastically. Three witnesses and the officers claimed that they saw Zynchuck grab a bar of some sort (reportedly an iron bedpost) from the truck and begin swinging it at the officers, slightly grazing one of them. As he turned to attack the bailiff's assistant, Constable Joseph Zappa fired his revolver, hitting Zynchuck in the back mid-swing. Fourteen others claimed that Zynchuck had no bar." Yetta Rotter, of 3972 Saint Dominique, gave her account to the Toronto Star the morning after the shooting, and it was corroborated by the majority of the witnesses. Zynchuck, she said, "just asked them [the police) to let him get his clothes. Then someone said 'shoot him." and the constable pulled out his gun and fired" as Zynchuck turned to leave. 

On the morning of 7 March, Constable Zappa, seated at the back of police station no. 12, was interviewed by his superiors, who included Assistant Inspector A. Brodeur, with a Star reporter present. In the interview, which formed the basis for the official police report, Zappa claimed he had shot Zynchuck because he, Zappa, "was mad." "Why didn't you shoot over the man's head?" his superiors asked. The constable grinned and shrugged his shoulders: "He's a communist." 

When Zappa was asked if he was excited at the time, he replied, "No." Assistant Inspector Brodeur announced a half-hour later that the shooting was "justified under the circumstances though regrettable." The public had to understand, he explained, that this section of the city was "a hot-bed of communism." Police actions may not have been just, but the police did what was necessary for security. René Clouette, the attending bailiff charged with evicting the family, told reporters an account that differed from that of the other witnesses. He claimed he went to the house on the afternoon of 6 March with about a dozen assistants but found men in the home who were adamant that the furniture not be taken, and so he returned with about fifty assistants and began loading furniture into a truck. He claimed that one of the tenants, John Wlostizosk, entered the scene, walking in on his own accord but with crutches. Clouette denied the witness accounts that he and others had dragged Wlostizosk out of bed by his feet and pushed his wife down the stairs of the home. The shooting occurred, he explained, as the mob began taking things out of the truck that he and his men were loading.

Led by Deputy Coroner Dr Pierre Herbert, a coroner's inquiry with jury was ordered on 8 March to investigate Zynchuck's death. Antoine Senecal and Albert Berthiaume conducted the case for the police, and Michael Garber, retained by the Canadian Labor Defense League (CLDL), cross-examined witnesses The scene in Montreal was tense. Police were dispatched through out the city to quell outbursts of protests following the shooting. One hundred "communists" were reportedly dispersed from Viger Square. The courtroom itself was under heavy police guard, and a number of officers were armed with tear gas should protesters threaten the court. 

The first witness examined was Adolph Sasnofvska of 4370 Saint Dominique Street. He testified that Zynchuck was a Ukrainian born in Poland who had come to Canada five years earlier and who worked as a labourer. He was thirty-seven years old at the time of his death. Sasnofvska's description of Zynchuck's ethnicity reveals that he was an immigrant of Polish citizenship but that he identified as being Ukrainian. He was presumably born in the former Eastern Galicia. 

René Clouette, the bailiff charged with evicting Wlostizosk, told the inquiry the same version he had earlier provided to the media. His assistants gave a sensational account of Zynchuck grabbing a bedpost, letting out a cry in his native Ukrainian, and then charging the house in a crazed, barbarian-style attack, swinging the bedpost wildly. Zappa was called to the stand but did not want to testify. The coroner told him that he was not obligated to do so, but one of the jurors stood up to say that the jury wanted him to give evidence. A five-minute recess was called. 

After conferring with Senecal and Berthiaume, who represented the police, Zappa gave his account of what happened. He claimed that the crowd was getting difficult to control and that some people started taking furniture out of the truck. One of the people removing furniture darted towards him with a six-foot iron bar. The man began swinging the pole as he approached Zappa. After taking one swing at Zappa and missing, Zappa claimed that the man turned gun "kicked up" and the man "was shot in the back." "I was afraid for my own life," he stated, and that all he could do was fire in the man's direction to protect himself.

Under cross-examination, Garber asked Zappa if Zynchuck first asked to enter the house. Zappa replied that he did not, stating that Zynchuck got the bar from the truck, tried to hit him but missed, and took another swing at Bertrand the bailiff before being shot. Garber asked Zappa why he did not fire a warning shot in the air. Zappa replied that he had already threatened to do so, but it had no effect on the crowd. He claimed that no one ordered him to shoot. Garber asked, "Did you tell the reporter of the Star that you were mad when you shot?" Zappa replied, "Mad? Mad? Well I was not very happy." Garber continued, asking, "Were you asked by the Star reporter why you did not shoot over the man's head?" Zappa replied that the reporter had just asked his name and left. He also claimed he had never told Zynchuck to move or he would shoot. Zappa's account was implausible.

Witness testimony contradicted the scene painted by the bailiff and officers, Robert Dubareau, a passer-by who lived on Saint Catherine, claimed he saw Zappa shoot Zynchuck and that there was no iron bar in Zynchuck's hands or any swinging of a bar by Zynchuck. Another witness, Mrs Rotter, said the same thing. The papers did not detail the accounts of other witnesses that contradicted the officers' claims or note whether there had been other any other witnesses.

Inconsistencies in the bailiff and Zappa's testimonies went unad dressed. The press reported that some of Garber's questioning had been stopped; Garber was likely not allowed to question much of the evidence. The evidence that raised the most doubt about Zappa's version of events was the autopsy report. Curiously, the autopsy report was entered into evidence, but it is not clear if anyone discussed it further in court. The report, read into the record by Dr. Rosario Fontaine, stated that the bullet entered Zynchuck from the right side of the back and travelled right to left, tearing through a kidney before finally resting in his spine. 

Zynchuck was shot at a maximum distance of four to five feet (with one paper reporting that the autopsy report stated that he had been shot at a distance of eighteen inches). This meant it was impossible for Zynchuck to have cleared a minimum six-foot space around him with an iron bar. The report matched eyewitness accounts the morning after the shooting that stated that Zappa had shot Zynchuck as he turned his back to the officer. He was shot in the back on the right side, and the bullet travelled from right to left, which could have occurred if Zynchuck, facing Zappa, had begun turning to the left to leave, exposing the right side to Zappa's revolver." 

Either way the bulk of the evidence raised questions about the officers' version of events, but to no effect. In a closing statement to the jury, Deputy Coroner Herbert reminded the public: 

"We have never had any problem with the French-Canadians, and it is always the foreigners who start such trouble. When four constables are faced with 500 angered foreigners their lives are in danger... I hope that this will be a lesson for other foreigners who attempt to resist the police." 

Zynchuck's death would teach the foreign communists how they should behave and respond to police. The jury reached a decision in less than a minute and cleared Zappa of any misconduct.

That the coroner's inquiry failed to satisfy the Saint Dominique community was obvious from the way the community rallied behind their fallen member with one of the largest funeral processions the city of Montreal had ever seen. Fifteen to twenty thousand people marched from Verdun to the funeral parlour of William Ray at Arcade Street at 12:30 p.m. on 11 March. Some of those walking in the long columns of marchers hummed "The Internationale," and Canadian Labor Defense League (CLDL) musicians played for the marchers. Labour leaders made speeches reminding those in attendance of how Zynchuck was killed. The real culprit, some speakers claimed, was Bennett and his policies, while others said Zynchuck was killed because of private property. Some speakers insisted that the lives of workers were just as valuable as those of the "bosses." Workers Unity League (WUL) representatives spoke at the funeral. 

Zynchuck's death brought the community out in the tens of thousands, but it is doubtful that everyone was there to hear the CLDL or WUL use Zynchuck's funeral as a means for spreading propaganda. Indeed, there was serious doubt as to whether Zynchuck was ever a Communist or that he had belonged to the CLDL, the WUL, or any other labour organization. The Reverend R.G. Katsunoff of the Church of All Nations spoke at Zynchuck's funeral and stated that he knew Zynchuck as a member of the Ukrainian Greek Catholic Church who had no relatives and belonged to no Communist organizations. Some members of the CLDL and other Communist organizations went beyond condemning his death and used Zynchuck's funeral as a platform to preach political propaganda. They tried to paint Zynchuck as a Communist killed for being a Communist when he was actually killed because he was foreign born and because he was Communist on account of his ethnicity, class, and where he lived. 

Shortly after the funeral procession was underway, Montreal police sent an even stronger message to the foreign community as a reprisal presumed a for Zappa's inquiry and to prevent Communists from using his death as a spectacle for recruitment.

As the steady line of marchers quietly carried on down the street, many holding signs condemning the death of Zynchuck, plain-clothes officers entered the crowd, and so did eight hundred mounted officers who were lying in wait for the marchers. Officers charged into the funeral procession dispersing people, punching and clubbing any who quickly enough. Witnesses described the scene as chaos as droves of people fled in terror, fearing for their lives and safety. The crowd split into groups of fifty, and even passers-bys not part of the march were caught in the cross hairs of police. A woman on her way home, who could not move fast enough for the officers, was shoved into a snowdrift. Witnesses watched in shock and horror as marchers were knocked to the ground and, when they did not get up quickly enough, faced even more punches and kicks. One man was tossed from officer to officer, who kicked or punched him for the length of a city block. Others witnessed a man beaten badly by police she walked; he stopped walking to try to recuperate, only to have officers deliver a punishing blow from behind, knocking him unconscious to the ground, where he was left.

Neither young nor old were spared the fury of the police. Nor were the reporters: Henry Prysky of the Gazette, and son of Detective Sergeant Felix Prysky of the homicide department, was beaten by police even after he identified himself as a reporter. Mounted officers mowed over marchers, forcing them into the streets, where other officers forced them back onto the sidewalk. According to witnesses, the mourners never retaliated. They were determined to keep the march from turning into a riot or violent protest. Statements from witnesses. to the dismay of both the CLDL and Montreal police, affirmed that the vast majority of people at the funeral were there for Zynchuck and not in support of any Communist politics. The Verdun Workers Association, who led the procession, denounced some press suggestions of Communist activity, citing that 35 per cent of their members had served in the Great War and strongly denouncing suggestions that their loyalty should be questioned.

The mourners' non-resistance did not deter police. One machinist, as the Herald described him, was walking along the street when police began clearing it. "Suddenly I was tripped," he said, "and thrown into snow bank. While I lay there two other men bent over me and struck me in the face." The man claimed that police never asked him a single question before the beating started. A mile from the march, witnesses reported that a woman walking with a toddler was pushed by police for not walking fast enough and that when she protested, she and her toddler were forced into a snow bank. Police had deemed the funeral a political action by Communists and a security threat. They decided - they judged in the moment - what was and was not legal and what to do to stop it. 

Montreal residents felt outrage and condemned the events at the funeral. The Herald, in an editorial, denounced the actions of police and stated that "the actions of the police force on Saturday were a blot on the honour of the force... Had they been agents of Moscow they could not have served the cause of violence better." The Star, as well as the Gazette, was equally critical of the police for attacking the funeral. Besides reporting the attack on its own reporter, the Gazette detailed a bizarre scene in which two plain-clothes officers, each "taking the other for a communist," got into a fight. They were eventually separated by officers who recognized them. One officer lost some teeth in the scuffle, but he was dissuaded by other police from taking out an arrest warrant on the other officer. The two reportedly shook hands, and police refused to release their names."

The violence at Zynchuck's funeral prompted a strong response from community groups. Protests began immediately after the funeral. In one instance, 225 youth protested the death of Zynchuck and the events of the funeral at the Youth Forum on Drummond Street. Some of the most outspoken criticism of police actions, ironically, came from Christian churches and ministers who claimed that it was the police, and not the Communists, who were behaving in an un-British manner. On 13 March, members of the Protestant Ministerial Association voted in the majority to appoint a committee that could represent Protestant churches, as well as a diverse segment of prominent citizens, to press for a judicial investigation into the events of the eviction at Saint Dominique Street and Zynchuck's funeral. The committee was separate from religious institutions but provided them with some representation."

Called the Citizens' Committee, the group consisted of prominent community members such as ministers, lawyers, and academics. including Professor F. R. Scott and law professor Warwick Chipman, a prominent member of the bar in Montreal. The committee heard evidence from ministers such as the Reverend Katsunoff, who spoke at Zynchuck's funeral and now reiterated his claims that Zynchuck was no Communist. He described the funeral and the events leading up to it after Zynchuck was shot. Wanting to give Zynchuck a funeral, he explained, were a dozen representatives of different societies, such as various Ukrainian and Polish groups. Katsunoff explained that a Greek-Catholic priest was approached to conduct the funeral but that he was asked too late and could not do it in time. he claimed the police kept one of Zynchuck's closest friends detained for hours and compelled him to sign Zynchuck's body over to them to stop a funeral from being held. 

Montreal police recognized that a funeral for Zynchuck could become a spectacle for the Communists. Katsuwolf recalled how police tried to storm the funeral parlour in an effort get Zynchuck's body, but people jammed the entrance to the parlaour and stood watch until a funeral was arranged. Katsunoff told the committee that the funeral march was orderly until someone blew a whistle. Someone shouted, "Come on boys," and plain-clothes officers jumped into the crowd. A banner held by one of the marchers that read "Shot in the back" was grabbed by police as they entered the crowd from all directions, beating the crowd as they entered. Katsuwolf was sure that the two plain-clothes men that he had spoken to “smelt of some kind of liquor." The committee heard that several witnesses of Zynchuck's death claimed that they could swear under oath that they saw him shot as he turned his back to Zappa in an effort to leave. It was later reported that Zynchuck's grave site was purchased by an unnamed sympathetic citizen of Montreal who had never personally met Zynchuck."

The committee refrained from deciding anything and instead took a wait-and-see approach until further official inquiries were completed. Following the publicity that the committee meeting generated, Montreal deputy chief Charles Barnes, who oversaw the police response to the funeral march, commented on the funeral, stating that he had seen no trouble anywhere" and witnessed no violence, as the crowd was easily dispersed. Despite Barnes's attempt at damage control, a new inquiry into Zynchuck's death was about to be called."

On 14 March, Joe Batula, a former fellow officer of Zynchuck's in the Polish army, filed a complaint against Zappa in the death of Zynchuck so that an arrest warrant could be issued against him for manslaughter. Michael Garber and another lawyer retained by the CLDL. Oscar Gagnon, represented Batula. Justice Victor Cusson agreed to issued for Zappa's arrest. He set the date of the hearing for 21 March issue a prewarrant inquiry to investigate whether a warrant should be Gagnon explained that a hearing was needed because all the evidence at the coroner's inquest "was designed to exculpate the constable" and that they had had "no chance to present [their] evidence." Gag non's statement confirms that the evidence of witnesses that could contradict Zappa and his fellow officers was suppressed during the coroner's inquiry. 

Zynchuck's death and funeral spurred progressives into action and solidarity. In addition to the frequent protests throughout the city. Writers in the Canadian Forum claimed that these events symbolized the illiberal state of Quebec. Zynchuck's death and funeral became the source of inspiration for a variety of poems, stories, and plays, including a play entitled Eviction performed by the Workers' Experimental Theatre. Poet Dorothy Livesay wrote a poem entitled "An Immigrant (Nick Zynchuck)" and a story, "Zynchuck's Funeral.” As mentioned earlier, F. R. Scott was instrumental in forming an ad hoc group to protest the events and suggest reform. He had been outraged by witnessing a labourer who had been standing near the street during the funeral suddenly be knocked to the ground by a "ferocious punch to the jaw" from a man later identified as a plain-clothes police officer. The CLDL temporarily united with the Trades and Labour Congress and the Montreal Labour Party to protest Zynchuck's death and the funeral violence. They had support from the Protestant Ministerial Association, the Montreal Women's Club, the Delorimier Liberal Reform Club, the League for Social Reconstruction, and the Montreal United Church's Committee on Social and Economic Research.

The hearing began on 21 March. Oscar Gagnon of the CLDL stressed from the outset that this was not a trial, just an inquiry decide whether an arrest warrant should be issued, and thus a hearing of evidence ex parte as per article 655 of the Criminal Code was sufficient to issue the warrant. In an unexpected move, Justice Cusson allowed both sides to present evidence, including witnesses called by Zappa's counsel, Philippe Monette. Berthiaume was permitted to represent the police. Variations of Zynchuck's death were told to the court in English, Polish, and Yiddish. The courtroom was initially restricted to the public, but by mid-morning the judge had lifted the restrictions, and it became filled to capacity.

The bailiff Clouette retold his version of events. But the majority of the witnesses in this hearing told a different story than the one told by Zappa, his fellow constables, and the bailiff and his assistants during the coroner's inquiry. These witnesses described how Zynchuck was shot in the back by Zappa as he turned to leave. Several witnesses claimed that the bailiff's assistants shouted at the officers to shoot Zynchuck. Papers reported that Zappa's counsel, Mr. Monette, was very aggressive in his cross-examination of witnesses, leading Garber to ask the judge why cross-examination should even be allowed, as this was not a trial. The judge claimed he wanted all the facts before making his decision. The defence gave their interpretation next and followed the same story as told by the witnesses during the coroner's inquest. The autopsy report was read into evidence again by De Rosario Fontaine, who claimed that on the basis of the hole in Zynchuck's jacket, the shot might have been fired from a distance of four or five leet but not less than eighteen inches. Witnesses for Zappa claimed that the crowd was advancing until Zappa fired his gun.

On 24 March, Judge Cusson announced that he had decided not to issue a warrant for Zappa's arrest, citing that riot conditions had prompted Zappa to shoot, as Zynchuck was part of a crowd of thirty or more persons who were advancing on the officers. Whether Zynchuck was armed or not was inconsequential to the judge; "killing one or more," he stated, there being no other way to suppress the riot, constituted a "justifiable homicide." Exceptional measures were necessary. Curiously, Zappa's evidence, given on the day of the judge's decision, contained mention that the crowd was advancing on him, and yet, even after the coroner's report, Zappa claimed that Zynchuck was "six, eight, nine" feet from him when he shot.

The CLDL lawyers did not agree with the judge's finding, stating that it was significant that no iron bar was produced as evidence. When Cusson asked the lawyers what Zappa was to have done beyond shooting, Garber replied, "I believe that he'd have to read the Riot Act before shooting." The judge was taken aback, asking: 

"Do you believe that a Montreal jury - or a jury anywhere - (you are a lawyer of reputation, Mr. Garber, and I appreciate you highly) but do you believe that any jury would find Constable Zappa guilty?" 

The judge insisted on an answer from Garber, who replied: 

"It might happen. There might be a jury that would find him guilty of manslaughter." 

Cusson disagreed, stating that he had had no hesitation in refusing the warrant. The CLDL made one last plea to Premier Taschereau, but this fell on deaf ears. The Citizens' Committee did not seek to further fin any flames: the legal process had run its course. The committee recommended that police not send plain-clothes officers to break up crowds in the future, something the police force said it would consider. Joseph Zappa was completely exonerated,

The case of Nicholas Zynchuck shows the depth of the repression against Communists and anyone presumed of being one. For law enforcement, communists were automatically guilty of an offence and violence had become part of the construct of security. Members could never publicly admit that they were CPC members or even publicly state that they believed in the same ideology without exposing them selves to the possibility of a Section 98 charge. But the most significant danger to Canadian society was how individuals were classified as being communists.”

- Dennis C. Molinaro, An Exceptional Law: Section 98 and the Emergency State, 1919-1936. Toronto: Osgoode Hall Press, 2017. p. 171-182

[sugarmaplewings-fics]

Moments

Pairing: Kirishima x reader x Kaminari

Warnings: Near-death experience, mentions of blood and bleeding, general character distress, Y/N is in a hospital, happy ending, polyandry, me not knowing how to end things also i’m sorry the first two paragraphs are atrocious hhshdjc

Author’s Note:

Here’s the final request from this batch! Sorry for the wait but thanks for requesting! I hope this’ll do it for ya <3

-Sugar

⊱ ──── 《∘◦∘》 ──── ⊰ 

⊱ ──── 《∘◦∘》 ──── ⊰ 

Life is made up of moments, each one simple and brief. Some events may feel as though they are building, tragedy looming on a distant horizon. Others happen in a mere instant, only to turn everything upside down.

In a moment, you’d seen the elderly civilian man standing just a bit too close to the battle ground for comfort. Another second; your boyfriend, Kirishima, threw a punch to the villain, knocking him off balance. You saw it, the beam of light shooting straight towards the man. You knew you still had time to move.

Rushing over, you took the hit.

It hurt. Everything hurt. Your eyes rolled back and a shriek escaped your lips, body seizing with the foreign throes of agony. You must have blacked out for a moment, because suddenly you felt yourself being held in a pair of arms.

“She’s bleeding!” a voice said above you, but they sounded miles away.

In a tremendous show of effort, you forced your eyes open. Light from the afternoon sun only brought more pain, but you just had to get a glimpse of him one last time.

Yes, there he was, in all his heroic glory. Your Eijirou. But he wasn’t looking at you. He must have been calling out for someone else. Perhaps it was your mutual lover. Either way, the pain was growing to be too much to bear. You slumped further into his chest, letting your eyes close once more.

Denki. If only you’d been able to see him again one last time….

…

Kaminari was not having a good day. Although, to be fair, it’s hard to ‘have a good day’ when your girlfriend is rapidly bleeding to death in front of you.

Everything seemed to happen so quickly. One moment, you, Eijirou and him were all out on patrol and the next, you were being attacked by some guy with a crazy force quirk. And then you were hurt.

He honestly thought you guys had won, as he secured the final blow on the villain with a shock of energy. Once the guy was effectively fried, Denki was ready to celebrate. Except, neither of his partners were there by his side.

He turned—confused, searching—until his eyes finally fell upon the hulking form of Red Riot kneeling on the ground a few paces away.

“. . . (Y/N)?” Kaminari tried, his voice barely above a whisper. He felt frozen to his spot, unable to move his feet forward nor back.

“She’s bleeding!” Kirishima called over his shoulder, and somehow that was what Kaminari needed to snap him out of it.

It felt as though he was trudging through molasses on his way to get to you—slow, difficult, unwilling to accept the fact that you could be hurt.

But you were. And you weren’t looking good either. You were slumped unconscious against Kirishima’s bare chest, face somehow peaceful amidst all the chaos around your unknowing body. Blood seeped out of a large gash on your stomach, and it looked bad. Kaminari tried to hold back a low moan of distress at the sight of it.

He sunk to his knees, taking off his black hero jacket and pressing it to your midsection in an attempt to slow the flow of blood. It was hard to see the stain on the dark material of the clothing article, but Denki somehow knew it would only be a matter of time before it was soaked through in its entirety.

A small crowd of civilians had gathered to watch the battle, and were now anxiously trying to see if you were going to be okay.

“The police should be here any minute,” a woman informed the two heroes somewhere above their heads.

“Did you call an ambulance?” Kirishima asked.

Denki glanced up to see the woman nod, pulling her phone back from her ear.

“You’re going to be alright,” Eijirou whispered to you, cradling your head and damaged body closer into his own. “Just stay with us, baby, please.”

…

Your eyes cracked open, slow and feeble. Blinding fluorescent light pierced between your lids, making you wince and shut them again. Where were you? And why did it smell . . . strange?

You tried opening your eyes again, your vision blurry and swimming until you were finally able to make out a white-tiled ceiling. Turning your head, you saw a table next to your bed, with a vase of pretty flowers resting at its center. You also noticed an IV drip leading into your arm.

So you were in a hospital. Made sense.

You racked your memory, trying to think of what might have landed you here. Ah, yes, the villain and the old man, that must have been it.

You turned your head again, this time to your left, and it was then that you saw them.

Denki laid slumped over the arm of a chair, supported by Eijirou’s chest. Kirishima's head laid against the sill of a window, which you had to figure couldn’t have been all that comfortable. Both men were fast asleep, quiet snores emitting from the redhead’s chest while Denki left a small puddle of drool on the man’s shirt.

You couldn’t be more in love.

A few minutes passed; just enough to make you aware of the white bandages wrapped around your midsection. A nurse stepped in, looking over his clipboard before he noticed your conscious state.

“Ah, (H/N), you’re finally awake,” he acknowledged with a smile.

“They aren’t,” you snickered hoarsely, gesturing to your partners.

The nurse laughed brightly, which was just enough of a disturbance to rouse Kirishima.

“(Y/N)!” the redhead shouted as soon as he saw you, jumping up out of his chair.

Denki nearly fell forward out of his own seat, waking with a start and a pop of static. “(Y/N)?”

Eijirou hurried to your bedside, kneeling down and taking your hand in his. “We were so worried about you!”

Denki nodded in agreement, settling in next to Eijirou and leaning against his shoulder. “You almost died!”

“Well . . . I guess I didn’t,” you said, unsure of how to respond.

“You were lucky,” the nurse pointed out. “Too much longer and you probably wouldn’t have made it.”

You swallowed, the repercussions of your actions beginning to weigh on you.

“No need to fret,” he reassured you. “We have some of the best healers in all of Japan here. I’m positive you’ll make a full recovery.”

Your boyfriends stepped out of the room so the nurse could finish running his tests; checking your vitals and asking you a few questions.

“She’s all yours,” he said, opening the door and letting the two pro heroes step back into your room before ducking out himself.

“The guy you saved came in here earlier to visit you,” Denki informed you once he was back at your bedside. “He was so grateful.”

You smiled. “I’m glad it turned out okay for everyone.”

“But we almost lost you,” Kirishima said, taking your hand again and pressing a kiss to your knuckles. “Please don’t be reckless like that.”

Your face morphed into a slight frown. “What was I supposed to do, then? Let him die? You should know better than anyone that I couldn’t do that.”

Kirishima cast his eyes to the floor, torn.

Kaminari put a hand on the redhead’s shoulder. “You scared us both, (Y/N). You got hurt really bad, and there was so much blood . . . . You’ve been out for two days, and Eijirou and I . . . we couldn’t help but worry that you’d never wake up again.”

Sighing, your thumb began to stroke the side of Kirishima’s hand. “I’m sorry. I know how scary that is. I can’t imagine losing one of you guys.”

“I just want you to be safe,” Eijirou said.

“Of course.” You moved your hand so you could cup his cheek. “But the important thing is that I’m alright. You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”

Eijirou leaned forward so he could kiss your forehead, then moved back so Denki could do the same to your cheek.

“I can go get us some stuff to do together,” Denki offered. “Being in the hospital is boring, trust me.”

You and Kirishima laughed. The blond always had your backs no matter what.

And even after a moment of disaster, you were proud to say you could all bounce back. As long as the three of you stuck together, you could get through anything.

 ⊱ ──── 《∘◦∘》 ──── ⊰

Taglist: @aahilovetheatre @basicaegyo @hyunmin-1404​ @iiminibattlehero @katsugay @nabo39 @pyrofanatic @rainy-skys-and-bright-stars @sendhelpimstupid @sxngwoos-ash-box @xoxopam4

[whiteshipnightjar]

Do you ever think about Lola Montez?

Eliza Gilbert, an Irish dancer and actress who moved with her family to India as a child but then was so mischievous they sent her back to Scotland. How not wanting to consent to the marriage her mother had arranged for her, at age 16 Lola eloped with a visiting officer. How after an unhappy marriage and a family that disowned her and considered her dead, she fell back into her first love, dancing. How she abandoned names given to her by men she didn’t know or despised and took on her stage name, Lola Montez, the Spanish dancer. How audiences in London didn’t accept her because they only saw her as her husband’s wife so she moved to Paris to dance. How prince of Leipzig took to her, made her his mistress then when she proved to be too much for him, he got rid of her by arranging shows for her which led her to Berlin where she was “met with a mixed reception – her sensuality won over the crowd, but her lack of technique and variety offended the critics”. How she then moved to Warsaw and got involved in radical politics. How the manager of the theatre she performed at (who also happened to be Warsaw’s chief of police) didn’t like that so he planted his lackeys in the audience at one of her shows and ordered them to boo and hiss her but it only incited her supporters and a riot almost broke out. How she inspired resistance against the Russian occupation, so the regime made her leave Poland. How she then started a relationship with Franz Liszt. How he opened the doors for her to Paris. How she was friends with George Sand “(with whom, wearing male attire, she smoked cigars)”. How after struggling to establish herself as a performer in Paris she eventually befriended the bohemian side of Paris, including Alexandre Dumas, and was known to be very good at pistol shooting. How she met Alexandre Henri Dujarier, editor of La Presse, who fell madly in love with Lola. How he helped her enter the bohemian class she so loved. How there she found happiness and accepted his marriage proposal. How she didn’t care one bit that her divorce from her first husband made this marriage bigamy in those times. How purely for that they couldn’t officially marry. How one night he went to a party, got into an argument with a journalist from a rival newspaper and challenged him to a duel and got shot. How “Dujarier was killed, and Lola’s heart was broken”. How she moved around Europe, got back to Paris but found it too painful to stay. How she went to Munich, where she got introduced to King Ludwig I of Bavaria. How the public had mixed reactions to her performance but Ludwig had heart eyes for her. How despite the Bavarian people’s disapproval, Ludwig made her Countess of Landsfeld, granting her political power. How she used her influence to increase the salaries of school teachers and against the Jesuits. How wanting to get rid of her, the Bavarian intelligence service dug up dirt on Lola. How the king still came to support her. How as the revolution started across Europe, the counter-protests in Bavaria stood not only against the liberal reforms but also against Lola. How the students at Munich University were divided in their sympathies. How eventually the king revoked Lola’s citizenship and her title of nobility, wrote her arrest order and abdicated his throne. How she fled to Switzerland. How she ended up in London again, married a younger British officer. How his family identified her as Eliza James and she had to flee the country again to avoid arrest because the law said she couldn’t remarry. How her marriage fell apart and she travelled to the USA. How admired she was in America at first. How rather than trying to emulate the professional dancing (that the critics always mocked her for), she embraced the sensuality of her dances and made the absurdity of it into a virtue. How she popularized it with her famous “Spider Dance”, where she played an innocent maid whose clothes had become infested with spiders. How it helped shape the American burlesque scene. How she moved to San Francisco and married a local newspaperman. How a rival theater put on a play to mock Lola and how it was a blistering success. How she moved to Grass Valley and opened a saloon. How she left California to tour Australia with her young lover, along with a group of actors looking for adventure. How the trip was a success but ended tragically when upon the return to America, her lover fell overboard and drowned. How back in America, Lola published a book, The Arts of Beauty, where she articulated the importance of health to beauty. How later in life, as her health deteriorated, she lived a quieter life. How after suffering multiple ailments, she died one month before her 40th birthday. How she was portrayed in several films, how she inspired multiple Victorian novels. How there’s a Joanna Newsom song about her, how there are two lakes and a mountain in California named after her. How throughout her life she chose to live by her own rules. How many lives she lived in her short time on Earth.

Do you ever think how I just wanted to check one thing on wiki and ended up reading multiple sources on Lola Montez? How I couldn’t decide which fun facts about her life to leave out here, because every one is better, more insane and fascinating, than the last? How there was so much I had to put it under read more? Hmm, I do. About all of it, apparently.

Sources: pics, info 1, info 2, info 3, Lola’s book

[thingsifeelicantsayhere]

About Kink at Pride

One: Thanks SO Much to the person who decided to @ me about 6 different times after I already mentioned how I can’t reply. Edit: Just read them! Thank you for linking me to the same article twice. I saw that one to, and at least 7 others! I closed out of all of them. Read on to see why!! And I call everyone hon, hon - sorry if I offended you!

Two: Kink at Pride thoughts, below the cut. TL;DR: Yes, I was wrong on certain things. Does that change my opinion? Nope! Still think Kink shouldn’t be at Pride.

Note: an entire history of gay Pride is listed below, starting with the Reminder marches. I started there because it felt like the logical place to start, given the organizers of Pride participating in those as well. It’s a LONG one guys, so strap in.

So, starting out: Gay Rights Timeline (it’s brief, because I don’t have an entire night of getting triggered and showing I can research things)

July 4, 1965: “Gay rights activists gathered outside Independence Hall in Philadelphia carrying picket signs and demanding legislation that would secure the rights of LGBT Americans. Referencing the self-evident truth mentioned in the Declaration of Independence that “all men are created equal,” the activists called for legislative changes that would improve the lives of American homosexuals. Activist Craig Rodwell conceived of the event following an April 17, 1965 picket at the White House led by Frank Kameny and members of the New York City and Washington, D.C. chapters of the Mattachine Society, Philadelphia’s Janus Society and the New York chapter of the Daughters of Bilitus. The groups operated under the collective name East Coast Homophile Organizations (ECHO). It was called the “Annual Reminder” to remind the American people that a substantial number of American citizens were denied the rights of “life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.”

June 28, 1969: A police raid on Stonewall [a mafia run gay bar] occurs, leading to the Stonewall Riots. Marsha P. Johnson, a “transexual drag queen” and known sex worker, frequented the Stonewall Bar, being the first drag queen to go to what had previously been a bar only for gay men. Police raided the bar to check for unlicensed liquor sales, but also to arrest those who were in violation of the state’s “gender-appropriate clothing statute” (which meant that any female-presenting people in the bar who passed as female had their genitals checked by female police officers, and female-presenting people who did not pass were arrested). Fed up with harassment from the police, the community around the bar became agitated. After a policeman hit Stormé DeLarverie, a “dyke” lesbian on the head while pushing her into his police van, the crowd grew violent. Police barricaded themselves inside the Stonewall Inn for safety, which was soon set on fire. It is still debated whether police or the rioters began a fire in the building, but most sources claim the rioters began the fire. Marsha P. Johnson became well known as the one who “Threw the first brick at Stonewall” (though she herself has stated that she came late to the riots).

That night, while returning home, Craig Rodwell passed Stonewall, and alerted the press in order for there to be news coverage of the historic event. Rodwell was a well known activist at the time, one of the organizers of ECHO, sitting in on protests, opening the first Gay Bookstore (dedicated to Oscar Wilde), and of course, helping to organize the first Gay Pride Parade in the bookstore.

Five Months after the Riots: Among those who proposed the Gay Pride parades were Craig Rodwell and his partner Fred Sargeant (who later tried to claim transgender people and POC did nothing in the riots), Ellen Broidy (former member of the Gay Liberation Front, Lavender Menace, and Radicalesbians), and Linda Rhodes (genuinely having trouble finding information on her; I just know she was friends with Ellen and Craig). Together, they made a proposal for an annual march on the last Saturday in June where there were “no dress or age regulations.” Their proposal was given at the Eastern Regional Conference of Homophile Organizations (ERCHO) in Philadelphia.

After the proposal was made, Brenda Howard (a life-long bisexual and openly sex-positive activist, as well as anti-war feminist “radical” by some sources) helped plan it. Making use of the Oscar Wilde mailing list, word got out. It was Howard’s idea to turn this march into a week-long celebration. Also on this committee was L. Craig Schoonmaker, who had been arrested the previous year for talking to another male. He coined the term “Pride” for the slogan of the parade. (Note: L. Craig Schoonmaker was an INCREDIBLY problematic person, and discussing just how stupid that story is really deserves its own post – needless to say, I’m a little sad he’s the one who coined “Gay Pride” as the slogan.) This was the one and only contribution he had to the parade.

June 28, 1970: The first Parade, organized by Chicago Gay Liberation. The first parade was originally called the Christopher Street Liberation Day March, named after the street where Stonewall Inn was. These were different from the Annual Reminder marches, where those in the gay community “walk in an even line, wear professional clothing, and do not display affection for a partner of the same gender” (Waters, 1). “The march was 51 blocks long from west of Sixth Avenue at Waverly Place, in Greenwich Village, all the way to Sheep’s Meadow in Central Park, where activists held a “Gay-in.” Borrowing a technique that had been popularized by the Civil Rights Movement, the “Gay-in” was both a protest and a celebration.”

From there, there were more parades of course. But as promised, here’s all my research on Kink at Pride.

….

I would provide sources. I would share what I tried to look at for multiple hours tonight. But the fact of the matter is, this is the part where I got triggered, nearly threw up, and had to exit most tabs.

What I managed to find out: Yes, Kink has been a thing at Pride for a long time. I do not know the extent of this, but I do know at the very least (due to some image sourcing) that the 1980s saw men in leather that covered most of their skin (it was not inredibly revealing). I was incorrect about this fact, so shit on me I guess. Now, what all I saw was just… men in leather sometimes. I did NOT in fact see people on leashes, naked with only a bandana around their legs to hide genitals, or muzzles (as I have seen in modern-day prides). I saw people who took pride in being leather gays without doing strict sexual acts – costumes, not whipping their partners in broad daylight or walking them like dogs, which is sexually gratifying for the sub (which I have also seen at modern day prides).

Note: I have not personally been to a Pride parade, but I have seen pictures and videos of modern day prides showing these acts. For obvious reasons, I am not including them here.

The reason for the previous inclusion of kink in pride seems to have grown from the fact that, for many LGBT+ people, they are both kinky and LGBT+ in some way. I saw numerous sources talking about how being Kinky is just part of being LGBT, and how pride in being LGBT+ also means pride in being Kinky.

I deadass could not look at anymore sources because I am so physically nauseated by it, and reading about this (as I mentioned numerous times to every single person who DMed me tonight telling me to “Read fucking sources”) triggers me. But can’t stop getting screamed at unless I “do my research” right?? Joy of all joys.

So what do I think about getting rid of kink at Pride?

I still think we should move to phase it out.

Reasoning:

1.      The original people who thought up Pride were not the best. They thought up Pride through transphobic, sexist, radial feminist, insert-other-dated-views here. And I don’t blame them – it was the 1970s. But I feel that, by the 2020s, the idea of “Pride” should have changed. And it has! I saw that Ellen B. discussed how Pride had changed “Far” from what was originally intended in the interview with her (raising the entirely valid concerns that I agree with that Capitalism has too strong of a foothold in current pride). I just think that it should change more, to fit with what is currently needed.

2.      This leads to my next point: what is currently needed? Back in the 1970s, Gay Pride was about having pride in, well, sex. Pride was based so strongly in having sex with the same-sex, being deviant, being different. But that isn’t what Gay Pride is anymore, or at least, Gay Pride includes much more than just sex now. Pride is meant to be an inclusive place for all LGBT+ communities – including fucking asexuals. Like me. See, when researching all of this, I had a hell of a time, because I’m “damaged goods” so to speak. I’ve been hurt through sexual stuff in the past, and yes, that has probably influenced my asexuality. Am I against sex? No! I enjoy it! With my partner. And that’s basically it. Am I okay seeing sex stuff? Yes! Most of the time. On a consentual basis. Would I probably be okay seeing it at Pride? IDK Maybe? But it would spark bad memories, to the point that I would rather avoid Pride, avoid going to the Big Event™ that everyone always says You Have To Go To that would make me feel validated… than go to it. Because of Kink Gear. And I have had other people contact me tonight saying the same thing – they can’t go to Pride because you Kinksters. They can’t because of triggers, or the fact that it’s uncomfortable, or the fact that “well, my parents aren’t homophobic, but it’s too adult.”

3.      “Okay, so make a PG Space – we were here first.” “It’s not inclusive if Kink isn’t there.” “Children won’t even understand the kink in the first place.” Here’s my problem with all of this. Kink already has spaces, but PG spaces don’t exist in this much openness. See, I’ve always heard of kinky spaces. Expos, dungeons, etc. I’ve always heard of safe-spaces for kinky gays. Including Pride. But I rarely hear of PG Spaces for Gay People. I rarely hear of PG spaces at all. It’s hard to exist in this world without people making it about sex, so much so that I find myself often getting stuck in Children’s Fandoms, Children’s Spaces, because they’re the only spaces that haven’t been touched by sex stuff. So we need PG Spaces for Gay People - and yes, we COULD make a PG thing for gay people. I think that’s a great idea. I think a parade sounds nice. A PG Parade for Gay People!!! It sounds perfect, like a perfect solution ----- except now I’m not being Inclusive Enough.

We’ve wrapped around to my big problem with Kink at Pride. It always boils down to not being inclusive of Gay People. But the issue is… By keeping Kink at Pride, we aren’t being inclusive of a lot more people.

Banning Kink at Pride: We have gays, lesbians, trans folks, queer folks, people who still aren’t sure, allies, asexuals, aromantics, children, and yes, kinky people who are not wearing fetish gear. You can still come to pride and have pride in your sexuality. You have now excluded anyone who cannot stand to not wear leather/chains/leashes in a sexual manner for a few hours.

Keeping Kink at Pride: We have Kinky Gays, Kinky Lesbians, Kinky Trans Folks, Queer Trans Folks, People who aren’t sure but Are Kinky, Kinky Allies, a handful of Asexuals/Aros, please god don’t bring children, and kinky peope in fetish gear. You have now excluded anyone who is uncomfortable with sex, triggered by sex, or minors.

I assure you, the amount of people who are exluded keeping Pride Kinky is more than if you could just not be sexual for a few hours. Literally. I’m not saying Kink isn’t valid – fuck, dude, I’m kinky. But there is a reason sex isn’t meant to be public. Consent is important, and I’m shocked that people who insist they know about kinks and BDSM don’t understand that.

Pride has changed. In a lot of ways, not for the better, but in some ways, yes, for the better. It’s bigger, with more people, and more inclusiveness. But your idea of making a “PG Pride over there away from ours” --- well, where do you think we should? How can we do it without getting screamed at for not being inclusive? When can we do it without people screaming at us for “taking up too much time with being gay”? We already have a full month and a whole parade – and clearly everyone should be okay with the kinky shit that goes on.

My suggestion is this: Have Pride be PG, and have the Kinky Pride things isolated to Private Kink Party things that aren’t publicied on television because we don’t need people to know more about our sex lives – the majority of gay people just want to exist now. Those in 1970 needed to be loud, proud, and yes, openly kinky – but we don’t need that now. With keeping sex stuff private, you can still celebrate your Kinky Pride with all those who are capable of celebrating that Pride, while those who can’t, don’t need to be subjected to it. Because the fact of the matter is, Pride Parades are subjected to the eyes of the world – the most public thing you can have right now as a gay person. Subjecting people to nonconsentual kink is not the way to make people approve of sex work or kinky pride. It makes them rage against it. And I would rather be able to work for sex positivity through conversation and hard work, rather than alienating anyone who speaks against it (and those who speak for it).

 Some of the sources I used (not all - again, no kink sources here, because I closed all of them. I couldn’t handle it.)

http://www.phillygaypride.org/annual-reminders-50th-anniversary/

https://www.nbcnews.com/feature/nbc-out/lgbtq-history-month-road-america-s-first-gay-pride-march-n917096

https://www.history.com/topics/gay-rights/the-stonewall-riots

https://www.refinery29.com/en-us/when-was-first-gay-pride-parade-origin

https://www.smithsonianmag.com/history/first-pride-marches-photos-1-180972379/

https://greenwichvillage.nyc/blog/2019/06/13/remembering-craig-rodwell/

https://phaylen.medium.com/stonewall-vet-fred-sargeant-attempts-to-erase-black-trans-activists-from-history-2e82ac59e96f

https://addressesproject.com/memory/ellen-broidy

https://www.them.us/story/brenda-howard

https://talbertario.medium.com/pride-and-prejudice-the-craig-schoonmaker-story-122c8a4c1339

https://www.history.com/news/how-activists-plotted-the-first-gay-pride-parades

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Marsha_P._Johnson

 One last thought, after the sources, because I work in Analogy the best:

Imagine this amazing bakery. This bakery sells a lot of cakes: chocolate cakes, strawberry ones, blueberry ones. This bakery gets national press coverage. Now, from day one, this bakery has used gluten in every single cake. It’s a time honored tradition! And every single Cake Eater goes to this bakery. It becomes a rite of passage, to the point that some people even say “You aren’t really a cake eater if you haven’t gone to this bakery.”

But as the bakery gets more and more popular, people start saying “Hey. We need some gluten free cakes too. Can you please keep the gluten away from our cakes?”

“NO!!! If you want gluten free, go somewhere else!”

“But everyone else only has gluten cakes. Even when they say they’re gluten free, they still bake other gluten cakes. Please, we know how to make the gluten free cakes taste just the same as gluten cakes – we’re only getting rid of the one thing. It’ll be taste almost exactly the same, and you can make those other cakes, so long as they don’t touch our cake. You can still enjoy your cakes. We just ask that we can enjoy ours.”

“NO! Go make your own then!”

“But… This is the bakery with the most famous cakes. We could always make our own, but the world will never know about it, because YOU’RE the biggest bakery in the world. And of those few who have tried, they’ve been yelled at for not using gluten because they aren’t inclusive. We wanted to be able to enjoy cake with everyone else – we just need our cake to be a little different.”

“If I make YOU Gluten Free cakes, that means the Gluten won’t be included!”

“That’s the point – gluten is bad for us. If we have gluten near us, it will actively hurt us.”

“No. This is a gluten bakery only. We refuse to change.”

And so, those who were going to enjoy the cakes there – who wanted to enjoy the cakes there – couldn’t. And even those who would try to make their own gluten-free cakes were overshadowed by the behemoth that was the gluten bakery.

That is how this entire night has felt.

Night, y’all.

[jxpper]

I may be white, but I see you. I hear you. I am here for you. I stand with you.

To the racist pieces of trash out there, I have something to say to you.

People all around the nation are gearing up right now. Videos are being spread on how to properly use protective clothing for protests to avoid identification and prevent as much harm as possible. Masks dipped in coca-cola to avoid as much gas inhalation as possible. Skin sealing goggles. Dark or black clothing to cover tattoos, piercings, and other identifying marks. Ways to identify who in a crowd may be an undercover agent. In the last three days, I’ve seen about eight different ways to make tear gas neutralizer for those who will be and have been injured. I’ve seen photos of protesters being shot with rubber bullets and detained in such large quantities that they’re using buses. I’ve seen lawyers offer up pro-bono work to those who are arrested during protest. I’ve seen instructions being spread on how to throw deployed gas grenades back at officers. The President himself has officially ordered for the National Guard to shoot citizens. Cities are on fire right now. National Guard, FBI, and Secret Service has already become involved.

So I have to ask. 

Is this a joke to you?

This is what happens when a war begins. A war that will be won.

When peaceful protesting such as kneeling began, everyone threw a fit. You know why? Because the protests weren’t being taken seriously. Now, you’re questioning why federal and police buildings are being torched? It’s because you don’t listen. It’s because when civil liberties are demanded, you pretend it doesn’t matter because it doesn’t affect you, you privileged pieces of shit. Until you wake up and realize that black lives matter, this will not go away. Maybe it shouldn’t go away. If that’s what’s going to teach you not to take equality as a joke, then maybe it should continue. It doesn’t help that Agent Orange in the Oval Office is sending out threats on the internet to the citizens of the country that he is supposed to be running. This is very quickly turning into what could potentially become Martial law.  

And you wanna sit around asking why this is happening? It's your own fault.

Every time you shouted back “all lives matter” or “blue lives matter” you were pouring gasoline onto the fire. Every time you discredited peaceful protesting against racism and police brutality, you started to incite this. This is on you. Until you comprehend that black people are being murdered by police for simply existing, you are a part of the problem.

And you can stand here and yell ‘not all cops!’ but cops don’t say ‘not all black people!’

If four days of rioting and protesting is infuriating you, imagine how hard it has been for black people since like the dawn of fucking time.

Police in Brooklyn are chasing after people with batons and beating them even after they are no longer a threat. 

Minneapolis officers are vandalizing buildings to make the protesters look more dangerous, which is their way of trying to justify the use of rubber bullets and tear gas.

Seven people were shot at the protest of Breonna Taylor’s death. 

Seattle PD is currently body slamming protesters into concrete and continuing to beat them.

This is an honest to goodness war, and it's a hard pill to swallow but this was not a war that was started by the protesters in the streets. It was started by the privileged. But you know what? Because of protesting and riots, America exists. Did you skip over learning about the Boston Tea Party in school? Protests and riots are what helped create the right for black people to vote, for women to vote, for women’s rights, and LGBTQ+ rights. It’s a dirty way to fight, but the fight is won.

I hate the idea of looting as much as the next person but if looting angers you more than an innocent black man being choked out on the ground while screaming for help, then you are focusing on the wrong thing.

We like to believe that violence doesn’t solve anything. But it isn’t true. It’s an ugly truth, but a truth nonetheless.

This is a war that will be won, whether you like it or not. So you have two choices. 

1. You can continue to be ignorant and hateful, refuse to accept the fact that white people are not a superior race and then fall into the oncoming storm for people like that. 

 Or

2. You can get up off your high horse, sign petitions, donate to the funds, make the calls, write the letters, and be the change that the world needs right now.

If you want the violent protesting to end, then we all have to end the brutality first.  But this will not end if you are on the wrong side of history. 

To the people who are doing what they have to do right now, I STAND WITH YOU! I HEAR YOU, I BELIEVE IN YOU, I HAVE FAITH IN YOU, I SUPPORT YOU, I CARE ABOUT YOU AND YOUR SAFETY. YOU WILL WIN THIS WAR! 

✊🏻✊🏼✊🏽✊🏾✊🏿 HOW  YOU  CAN  HELP  ✊🏿✊🏾✊🏽✊🏼✊🏻

TEXT ‘JUSTICE’ TO 668366 AND ‘FLOYD’ TO 55156

Donate to the Minnesota Freedom Fund

Official George Floyd Memorial Fund 

Justice for George Floyd Petition

Justice For Floyd Petition 2

Justice for George Floyd Petition 3

Other places to donate

Contact Minneapolis District Attorney, Mike Freeman, to demand justice for George Floyd   1. [612] - 348 - 5550   2. citizeninfo@hennepin.us   3. hennepinattorney.org/about/contact

Call Jacob Frey, and tell his office “I want justice for the murder of George Floyd. I demand the prosecution of the four officers involved. This is a racist hate crime and an abuse of power”    [612] - 673 - 2100

IF YOU NEED AN AMERICAN ZIP CODE FOR THE PETITIONS: 90015 - Los Angeles 10001 - New York City 75001 - Dallas

[rye-views]

Gandhi (1982) dir. Richard Attenborough. 7.4/10

I think about how he was able to create change through peace, but that peace doesn’t last, especially considering the history within Pakistan and India.

There’s so much to think about because of this movie. Not of the movie itself or about Gandhi, but rather about the world and the way it runs and our position within it. This feels fitting for this time.

Memorable Quotes: “Poverty is the worst form of violence.”

Spoiler: [About Gandhi going to prayers through a crowd of his admirers in 1948. Nathuram Godse shoots him and he dies. Different types of people come from all over the world to attend his funeral. In 1893, he’s a lawyer riding first class on the train and because he is colored, he is kicked off the train for trying to be in first class. He talks with a group of elites and learns of the discrimination that exists in South Africa and decides to take it upon himself to start a nonviolent protest to fight for their rights. Through an article he wrote, a small group arrives to the protest. Their lower status is symbolized by their passes, so he asks them to burn it. He burns his and many others, causing the police to beat him up. News is spread in a small article and he later goes home to his family. A man named Charlie Andrews visits him to say he’s impressed with what he’s doing and wants to help. Gandhi gets discriminated against as they are talking. Mr. Walker is a reporter, who comes to learn about Gandhi’s ideology. Gandhi helps build a community that involves everyone working equally to clean and build it up. His wife, Kasturba, is offended at having to do low work saying that it is the work of the untouchables. He gets upset at her resistance, but they eventually make up. Gandhi addresses a crowd about the new laws passed by General Smuts. This causes outrage in the crowd, who want to fight to the death for their rights. Gandhi expresses empathy, but directs them to die peacefully rather than with violence. He wants them to fight against the anger rather than provoke it. He is applauded. During a peaceful march for mine striking, the guards come with their weapons and horses. The crowd decides to lie down and the guards retreat. Many men and Gandhi are imprisoned until Gandhi is released by General Smuts. He has the act repealed as long as Indian immigration is stopped. Gandhi heads back to India and is greeted as a hero by the public. He also changed his attire to match the attire of the people he is fighting for. Gandhi meets with elites and talks about opinions. He then decides to travel throughout India to see what it’s really about. He sees poverty and injustice. Jinnah, Patel, and Nehru aim to get independence from British rule and hold a convention for it. They invite Gandhi even though Jinnah doesn’t care for him. Gandhi does a speech even as people are leaving, but they ultimately listen and applaud. He talks of what he’s seen on his journey and of the people. Later on, he talks with many people about his thoughts and of their thoughts. He is put under arrest, but the people protest for him and he gets to leave without paying bail. The Lieutenant Governor discusses with his people and grants a rent rebate, permission for choosing their own crops, and a commission to hear grievances. Gandhi talks with men about how they need to resist actively and provocative. He suggests a day of prayer and fasting to stop all work in the public. It’s a success and he is arrested. Riots begin and the government is afraid while becoming violent. Gandhi will be let go of if he speaks for nonviolence. He does so, but General Dyer orders a public shooting, which leads to the Amritsar massacre. The general is brought into court, but doesn’t regret any of his actions. The Viceroy says that the government and the people repudiate the massacre, but Gandhi says things have gone past legislation and they must have home rule. He has Muslims and Hindus alike burn their British clothing during his speech. Miss Slade, daughter of an English admiral, wants to live with Gandhi after having written to him often. She is given the name Mirabehn by Gandhi and now lives as his daughter. They learn of violence within the Hindu and Muslim communities after being provoked and now there is marshal law in Bengal. Fighting breaks outs and the police are killed. Because of this, Gandhi starts a fast, which is only stopped when he learns that peace is brought back. Gandhi is put under arrest for sedition and he pleads guilty. He is punished with 6

years of imprisonment. Many years later, Gandhi returns to his birthplace, Porbandar. Mr. Walker is back to meet him and discovers his plan to march to the sea to create his own salt since it is illegal to do so. This will be done on the anniversary of the massacre. Many join and the story is covered by many. The British discuss it and ultimately arrest those selling their own salt. They are then alerted that Gandhi is leading a raid on the Dharasana Salt Works since the salt belongs to India. He is then arrested. Many men peacefully confront the guards during the raid and are beaten over and over. This is also reported. Gandhi goes to a Round Table Conference in London while meeting many other people. The Conference emphasizes there being many Indias of different identities. Gandhi and Kasturba are arrested for the contents of the speech they will be having. Margaret Bourke-White is a photographer visiting Gandhi. She learns of him and photographs him for some time. He speaks to her about Jinnah’s power rising and the fear coming from a predominantly Hindu India. She also talks with Kasturba about their fight for the rights of women and for the untouchables and Gandhi’s journey trying to get to God. Kasturba then dies from a heart attack with Gandhi beside her. A new British viceroy, Lord Mountbatten, speaks for the independent India. Gandhi recommends Jinnah to be the first prime minister, but because of concerns of a civil war, India is divided as India and Pakistan. Muslim’s majority becomes Pakistan with the rest being India even though it is argued that Muslims are in a majority in two different sides of the country. People come to tell him not to talk with Jinnah, but he refuses. In his meeting with Jinnah, two countries are born. On the border, fighting eventually breaks out with much violence. Gandhi goes to Calcutta and sleeps in the home of a Muslim family. Riots form outside asking why he would sleep in the home of a Muslim while they chant, “Death to Muslims.” He begins a fast until his death. He refuses to break it no matter what. Violence continues for awhile until it is confirmed that the fighting has stopped and Gandhi can stop his fast. He eats again and is assassinated later. His ashes are spread in the Ganges.]

[introvertguide]

Do The Right Thing (1989), AFI #96

Our next film on the list that we reviewed was a more recent drama/comedy called Do The Right Thing (1989), directed by Spike Lee. Well, on a list with movies over 100 years old, a little over 30 is pretty new. It is the story of a single day in 80s Brooklyn and the drama that comes from frayed nerves under the boiling summer heat. The movie received a couple of Oscar nominations and Spike Lee received recognition for his directing and screenwriting. Danny Aiello also was recognized on the awards circuit for best supporting actor. There are some extraordinary aspects to this film that makes it stand out, but I also feel that it is lacking in many ways. The good strongly outweighs the bad, but I will discuss that more after the movie summary:

SPOILER WARNING!!! IT IS LESS SPOILERY THAN NORMAL DUE TO ALL THE CHARACTERS, BUT THE MAJOR POINTS ARE STILL GIVEN AWAY!!! WATCH FIRST AND COME BACK FOR THE ARTICLE TO GET THE BEST EXPERIENCE!!!

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Mookie (Spike Lee) is a 25-year-old pizza delivery man living in Bedford–Stuyvesant, with his sister Jade. He and his girlfriend Tina (Rosie Perez) have a toddler son named Hector. Mookie works at a local pizzeria owned by Sal (Danny Aiello), an Italian-American who has been in the neighborhood for 25 years. Sal's eldest son Pino (Jon Turturro) is racist, and does not get along with Mookie. Because of this, Pino is at odds with both his father, who refuses to leave the majority African-American neighborhood, and his younger brother Vito (Richard Edson), who is friendly with Mookie.

Many distinctive residents are introduced, including Da Mayor (Ossie Davis), a friendly drunk; Mother Sister (Ruby Dee), who watches the neighborhood from her brownstone; Radio Raheem (Bill Nunn), who blasts Public Enemy on his boombox wherever he goes; and Smiley (Roger Smith), a mentally disabled man who meanders around the neighborhood trying to sell hand-colored pictures of Malcolm X and Martin Luther King Jr.

While at Sal's, Mookie's friend Buggin' Out (Giancarlo Esposito) questions Sal about his "Wall of Fame", a wall decorated with photos of famous Italian-Americans. Buggin' Out demands that Sal put up pictures of black celebrities since Sal's pizzeria is in a black neighborhood. Sal replies that it is his business, and that he can have whoever he wants on the wall. Buggin' Out attempts to start a boycott over the Wall of Fame.

During the day, local teenagers open a fire hydrant and douse the other neighbors to beat the heat wave before officers intervene. After a phone call, Mookie and Pino begin arguing over race. Mookie confronts Pino about his negative attitudes towards African Americans, although the latter's favorite celebrities are black. Various characters express racial insults: Mookie against Italians, Pino against African Americans, Latino Stevie against Koreans, white officer Gary Long against Puerto Ricans, and Korean owner Sonny against Jews. Pino expresses his contempt for African Americans to Sal, but Sal insists that he will not leave the neighborhood.

That night, Buggin' Out, Radio Raheem, and Smiley march into Sal's and demand that Sal change the Wall of Fame. Raheem's boombox is blaring and Sal demands that he turn it off, but he refuses. Buggin' Out calls Sal and sons "Guinea bastards" and threatens to close down the pizzeria until they change the Wall of Fame. Frustrated and angry, Sal calls Buggin' Out a "n****r" and destroys Raheem's boombox with a bat. Raheem attacks Sal, leading to a fight that spills out into the Street and attracts a crowd. While Raheem is choking Sal, the police arrive. They break up the fight, and apprehend Raheem and Buggin' Out. Despite the pleas of onlookers, one officer refuses to release his chokehold on Raheem, killing him. Realizing that Raheem has been killed in front of witnesses, the officers place his body in the back of a police car and drive off.

The onlookers, devastated and enraged about Radio Raheem's death, blame Sal and his sons. Da Mayor tries to convince the crowd that Sal was not responsible for his death but the crowd remain where they are. Mookie grabs a trash can and throws it through the window of Sal's pizzeria, sparking the crowd to rush into the pizzeria and destroy it. Smiley sets the building on fire, and Da Mayor pulls Sal, Pino, and Vito out of the mob's way. The police return to the sight, along with firemen and riot patrols arrive to put out the fire and disperse the crowd. After they issue a warning, the firefighters turn their hoses on the rioters, leading to more fighting and arrests. Mookie and Jade sit on the curb, watching in disbelief. Smiley wanders back into the smoldering building and hangs one of his pictures on what is left of Sal's Wall of Fame.

The next day, after an argument with Tina, Mookie returns to Sal. He feels that Mookie had betrayed him, but Mookie demands his weekly pay. The two men argue and cautiously reconcile, and Sal finally pays Mookie. 

The film ends with two quotations that express different views about violence, one by Martin Luther King and one by Malcolm X. It fades to a photograph of the two leaders shaking hands. Prior to the credits, Lee dedicates the film to the families of six victims of brutality or racial violence: Eleanor Bumpurs, Michael Griffith, Arthur Miller Jr., Edmund Perry, Yvonne Smallwood, and Michael Stewart.

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I want to break this into the good and the bad (at least in my humble opinion). I want to start with the great cinematography and the director of photography Ernest Dickerson. He really brought the city to life and made the overheated neighborhood into a character. He used reds and oranges and avoided greens and blues. All of the clothes were sweaty and stained. There were also some beautiful walking shots that followed Mookie as he moved through the neighborhood. Some of the best camera work was the close-ups of Radio Raheem because the shot would tilt to a Dutch angle every time he got mad. It gave the feeling like things were going askew. 

Because it was shot on location in Brooklyn, one could use Google maps and see the actual neighborhood. It was mapped out so well, however, that I didn’t need the map and could draw out the locations of the homes and businesses from a single watch. Dickerson did a phenomenal job of setting the stage for Spike Lee’s story and has done great work on many of Lee’s other films including She’s Gotta’ Have It (1986), School Daze (1988), Do The Right Thing (1989), Mo’ Better Blues (1990), Jungle Fever (1991), and Malcolm X (1992). Great team and a great bunch of movies. Dickerson has since moved to directing and well worth following. 

I thought the short comic stories that came together were pretty great. Somebody accidently stepped on Buggin’ Out’s shoes and scuffed them. He threatened the guy who did it and got a whole group of people to help and try to coerce money out of the offender. It eventually turned out that he was all talk. But the shoes kept popping up over and over. The three men sitting and complaining while not actually doing anything was pretty funny. The hatred that Sister/Mother had for Da Mayor was pretty good as well. There were a couple pretty good laughs.

I love the character of Radio Raheem played by Bill Nunn and how he represented the underlying anger of the neighborhood. He just walked around trying to do his thing and listened to his super loud music. The black residents recognized him and knew he had become part of the landscape while other residents tried to get him to be quiet and suppress him. When he was killed, the anger that he represented was released and the group went into a frenzy of destruction. Raheem’s interaction with each of the other characters truly defined how director Spiker Lee wanted the audience to see that person. The movie really shines with any scenes involving Radio Raheem.

As far as the acting is concerned, I really liked the work of Danny Aiello, John Turturro, and Richard Edson. I don’t want to be accused of anything because I liked the work of the three main white actors, however I feel that the three characters trying to fit into a place where many felt they did not belong was the most intriguing. Sal seemed like such a good guy, but he still had some underlying hatred and fear of black community and it became apparent when he was faced with Radio Raheem, the representation of the suppressed black anger of the neighborhood. 

The six people to whom the movie was dedicated were all black Americans in the New York area who had died in suspicious and racially charged violence. I normally don’t recommend this site, but Wikipedia provides links to learn more about all of the people mentioned. It seems that a lot of Spike Lee’s characters were based on the different people mentioned. I had never realized how closely tied this film was to the history of violence in 80s New York, and it does make me like the film a lot more. 

Now for a couple of things that I really did not enjoy. The main character Mookie was not that interesting beyond just being a vehicle that walks through the day. When it got to the point where he couldn’t take any more and he smashed the window (whether it was to protect Sal by directing the anger towards the store instead of Sal and his sons is up to interpretation) seemed so out of character. Like everyone stopped and stared as he did something that his character had no motivation to do. This could just be a personal critique because I found Spike Lee’s acting so unconvincing (the guy can’t emote, he is a director not an actor) and I think giving his boring character control of the turning point at the climax of the movie was a little bit of director ego.

I also didn’t like the random white guys that were with the cops that killed Radio Raheem. Where did they come from and where did they go? The cops show up to break up the fight between Sal and Raheem and suddenly there are some plain clothed white guys that I didn’t remember being in the rest of the movie. It seemed like they came from the surrounding streets and there was one guy in particular who was in a blank tank top that helped subdue Radio Raheem that just disappeared. Wouldn’t the police want to take him into custody as well or at least not leave him on the street with a large angry mob? The sudden appearance of all these extras for the one scene has always thrown me. It feels like they took stock footage from a different movie and plugged it in, or maybe it was shot long before or after the rest of the scenes in the film. 

I did not like Rosie Perez’s character of Tina. Perez had been a professional dancer and this was her big break. I really didn’t think the opening with her dancing was noteworthy in any way, her famous ice cube scene was completely unnecessary, and the ending with her complaining was horrific. Honestly, the ice cube scene shows Spike Lee rubbing a piece of ice on Rosie Perez’s naked body and it felt pervy and inappropriate. I do not correlate all nudity in a movie with automatically meaning it is not for kids (depends on the movie and depends on the kid), but this was just dumb. This was a point of contention with the group that watched with me, some saying she was the best part of the film. I could not disagree more and I rated it 3/5 on Netflix noting that it would be 4/5 if Perez had not been in it. She really rubbed me the wrong way in the film. I liked her in White Men Can’t Jump playing a similar character, but in this movie she was not needed.

In fact, there seemed like there were many extra things that didn’t need to be there. There is about 2 minutes in which five characters make racist rants about other ethnic groups with the camera right in their face. This seems like art for art’s sake and not really needed. The character of Smiley seemed very out of place and it turns out that he was not in the original screenplay but written in so that the actor could have a part. The DJ just said the same things over and over with no real insight. He was played by Samuel L. Jackson, which is cool, but he also didn’t need to be there. I guess my biggest gripe is that Spike Lee had a great film idea with strong characters and then decided he needed to keep layering in more characters and subplots until it was superfluous. But again, just an opinion. 

I saw that Siskel & Ebert both rated the movie as one of the top 10 of the 80s. Both of them had opinions about whether or not Mookie did the right thing, which is not a question that Spike Lee intended to ask (as he stated in many interviews). I think it was (and is) refreshing to have a strong black voice in the director’s chair and this might have affected their rating. Maybe, since I was 9 when this film came out, I am not affected enough by how new and innovative this film must have seemed when it came out. I started to become aware of the world shortly after this movie was released and I was inundated with Spike Lee in films and advertisements. His work didn’t seem so fresh when I also saw him in commercials for Nike and McDonald’s. I shouldn’t allow that to take away from the importance of his voice as part of the history of American cinema. He is the only black director of any movie on the AFI top 100 films and only one of two directors of color (M. Night being the other). 

So does this film belong on the AFI top 100? Yes. It is a good story of American life in an area that was often ignored. The streets of Brooklyn are just as American as the farms in Iowa, the plains of Cheyenne, or the suburbs of California. It is great to have those stories told by a man who grew up there and knew the different life styles and the different problems. It is an important movie and I am glad it was included. Would I recommend it? Yeah, it is pretty good. I would say focus on the interactions between Raheem and the other characters and it makes for a great story. Definitely worth checking out. 

[darknessisafriend]

Reader is student who on a good day receives lots of candy and shares one with Carnival. When Arthur as Joker has shot Murray and escapes, he spots the same student among the crowd, trying to escape the rioting going on around her. He goes after her and avoids being captured again. Instead, he follows student to her apartment. (I am all up for dubcon smut, but might as well end in sweet fluff)

Ok I didn’t planned it to be fluff but it turned so soft like I was cryin’ and melting at the same time!!!! I hope you’ll like it ^^

Sweets

You were used to see him you see him every day doing his gig when you come back from college, you never really stopped but you always slowed down, you liked his dynamism, he was always smiling. And you didn’t dare to admit it out loud, but you had a little crush on him, maybe you were just into clowns, who knows…more seriously he had some serious moves, always dancing on the rhythm of the man playing piano, and he had gorgeous eyes, you’d love to be closer to memorize their details, but you never dared. After all you were just a student, the guy had a job and was probably 10 years older than you or more, so either he would never be interested in you or he’s already taken.

One day you had received lots of sweets in class, you had this cool professor who always distributed sweets to the whole class before Christmas holidays. And yeah you were finally in holidays, you were super excited to sleep and do nothing, literally. As you took your usual path to home, you reached the place where the clown performed, you had learned that his name was Carnival when one day a little kid had interacted with him. And this time you stopped to watch him, you stayed a bit far so he would not see you. At some point he stopped he was probably finished, he went to the side in your direction actually ‘oh shit did he see me?’  but apparently, he didn’t, he leans against the wall not far from you, taking out of his pocket a pack of cigarette, he brought one to his lips, lighting it, he took a long drag, he looked exhausted.

He turned his head, his eyes landing on you, and oh gosh they were gorgeous, this light green was something you had rarely seen, so deep and attractive… that’s when you realized you had been staring at him the whole time, you opened and closed your mouth several times before muttering “sorry” he continued to look at you a small smile forming on his lips. You didn’t know what to say, if you had the money you would have given him a tip for his hard work; you suddenly remembered you had a whole bag of sweets, it was better than nothing you thought. So you quickly reached for it in your backpack, took a nice handful of them, and took a few steps towards him, a kind smile on your lips and offered him your hand full of sweets.

“Want some?” you asked him. You could tell he was honestly surprised by your gesture and looked at you for a bit, then he nodded taking only one candy.

“Thank you…” he smiled, he unwrapped it and put it in his mouth, briefly closing his eyes at the taste of the sweet. You blushed, happy to brighten his day. But now it was time for you to go, let’s not bother the man any longer.

“I should go…have a nice evening Carnival.” You said in a sympathetic tone, giving him a bright smile as you left to go home.

What you didn’t see is that the clown eyes were following you, he had pushed himself from the wall, he had wanted to ask for your name and maybe even get a coffee together, but he never dared to catch you…

As days and weeks passed you never saw Carnival again, even though you passed in the same street every day. Maybe he was working in another place, but you missed his presence, his dancing was the ray of sunshine in your day. At some point you just avoided to go out, because of the things happening, the murder of these Wall Street guys which you didn’t really care about because people were dying every day, especially the poor, disabled or even students like you and nobody ever mentions their names. What worried you the most were the riots, of course people needed to be heard, but the chaos and insecurity these riots were generating was scaring you.

And with time it only got worse, especially tonight, you went to the supermarket, and suddenly outside it was chaos, people started to come in the shop, breaking the windows and stealing. You quickly escaped the shop, and, in the streets, cars were on fire, people screaming and chanting slogans, the police was clearly outnumbered. You looked around trying to find the best way to get home safely. You decided the walk fast home, not look at anyone, just walk fast. As you past by a an electronic shop, from the corner of your eyes you saw a TV broadcasting Murray Franklin Show, you never watched this but some friends of yours had told you about it, apparently, they had showed the video of a guy doing stand up comedy but having some sort of nervous laughter attack; you didn’t get what was so funny about this, you briefly stopped at the title of the news ‘Murray shot dead on live show by a clown’ you frowned at this, ‘was this guy some sort of symbol of the riots out there?’

A loud noise made you jumped and yelp in surprise, it seems a car crash had happened, you hoped the people in there were okay…but now something more important was in your mind than check, get out of this mess alive. You started to walk again but you were a bit lost, the chaos and destruction had completely changed your surroundings, you looked around trying to distinguish something familiar. You were panting, ‘what if I couldn’t go home?’ you started to think panicked. You closed your eyes trying to focus on calming your breathing, it was the only way you were able to think. When you succeeded, you opened your eyes and finally recognized where you were, nothing will stop you, you will go home safely no matter what.

Joker’s side

Fog…fog everywhere…everything hurts…there’s noise all around him, what’ s going on? He wonders, the noise grows stronger making his whole-body tremble. Suddenly, a rough cough erupts from his chest, he can’t contain it, as he coughs, the back of his head hits something metallic, increasing his headache, he feels warm liquid on his lips, the taste like iron. When he finally open his eyes all he sees are people, people gathered around him, lights everywhere in the night, they are wearing clown masks, he hears them calling his name, his stage name ‘Joker’. He wonders what’s happening why people are calling his name? suddenly everything rushes back to his mind, his mother, Murray, how he got arrested until he lost consciousness. He painfully gets up to look around, he sees the police car he was in, collided by an ambulance, how ironic…

But people are cheering for him, he can’t believe it, they’re finally seeing him, they love him…he wants to see if it’s really happening, so he poses and then starts dancing on top of this police car, he spins and people cheer even more, yes, he’s loved, finally…he feels tears prickling in his eyes…

He feels more blood in his mouth, his blood, crimson red just like his paint, slowly he puts his fingers in his mouth, gathering blood on it, and traces up from the corner of his lips to his cheekbones, forming a smile because he is happy now, it only costed him everything and to kill his own mind, now he’s happy, he can’t help but laugh.

Suddenly he hears sirens coming closer, he has to get out here, he won’t be caught again, not now that he’s free. His eyes are searching the crown looking for a path where he could escape, unnoticed. He gets off the car, and pushes through the people, now some of them are running away, other running towards the police to fight them.

As his eyes look for a way to go, he spots a young woman, who’s apparently looking to go away too, her clothes, her hair somehow looks familiar to him, he squints his eyes to try to recognize her, when finally she look the crowd, he remembers, the sweets girl! He thinks quickly, you’re the only way for him to hide, when you will recognize him, you will help him! He’s sure of it!  

He starts to run after you, but then he realize that you might have heard of the murders and Murray…what if you’re scared of him or repulsed and doesn’t want to talk to him? To this thought he slows down. He’s going to follow you, to your place, and away from the cops, he will try to talk to you, explain everything and you’ll understand.

 Your POV

You were getting away from the riots easier than you thought, the streets were empty, most people in the main avenue. You were almost home, you sighed in relief, but you suddenly turned to look if someone had followed you; everything was empty apart from rats in the trash bags, everything was silent apart from the muffled roar of the riots. For some reason you thought that someone was following you, you shook your head a continued your way home. You were living on the first floor of a small building, mostly occupied by students which meant it could get pretty noisy at night especially week ends, but other than that it was safe, it’s all that mattered.  You finally entered the building and walked straight to your door, your searched for your keys and paused, you swear you’d heard something, so you just don’t move and do as less noise as possible, listening for anything, that’s when you heard it again, it was someone breathing behind you! You jumped and turned, you’re back hitting your door, you yelped in anticipation, squeezing your eyes shut briefly seeing the shape of someone.

But nothing came, your heart was beating so fast that it was the only thing you could hear.

“I’m…I’m sorry…I didn’t mean to scare you…” the voice said, it’s tone strangely apologetic and soft. Slowly you opened your eyes, trying to calm down your breathing. Your eyes landed on a man wearing colorful costume and a clown makeup, it reminded you of something, you opened wide your eyes as your remembered that you had seen him on TV, the killer.

“What do you want?” you shivered, looking at your feet ‘please don’t hurt me’. The man took a deep breath, and shuffle like he was unsure.

“It’s me…Carnival…” he lamented, his sad tone struck you, until you processed what he had just said, ‘Carnival as in the happy clown down the street?’ you finally looked up to meet his eyes, you instantly recognized them, those beautiful green eyes, they were wet and there’s was glow of hope in them. You realize he was probably looking for your help.

“But…you killed someone.” You replied disappointed by what he had done. He nodded not trying to hide it from you, you realized he had a big gash on his forehead still bleeding.

“I did but he deserved it, you’ve seen what he did to me right?” he asked, his voice surer, showing he didn’t regret it.

“No, I…” you admitted confused.

“Then please just let me explain…” he pleaded, almost reaching out to touch you, but he refrained when he saw you flinch. You passed a trembling hand on your forehead, you didn’t know what to do, even in this moment he looked pure and nice just like the Carnival you used to watch, but you couldn’t help but think he might hurt you too. He seemed to understand what was going through your mind.

“I won’t hurt you, I don’t want to hurt you…I need your help.” He added, lifting his hands in sign of peace. Suddenly on your left you heard the noise of someone opening its door, without thinking you quickly opened yours and shoved Carnival inside, as you were entering the voice of your neighbor called you.

“Y/N is everything alright? I heard screaming” he asked.

“Oh yeah, yeah…it’s just my boyfriend he surprised me and with what’s happening outside I’m a bit jumpy that’s all.” You jabbered, scratching the back of your head, giving him a small smile.

“Oh ok then…goodnight.” He wished you, you quickly closed your door, sighing in relief and looked for the clown. He was watching you curiously, with some sort of admiration, a small smile playing on his lips.

“Your boyfriend?” he hinted, teasing. You retained a laugh and rolled your eyes.

“Seriously?” you replied, slightly amused that it’s the only thing bothering him. You put your bags on the counter and took off your coat always facing him just in case he tried something. He looked around you small studio, slightly fidgeting his hands. You watched him, apart from the blood he looked perfectly normal, what exactly happened?

“Oh my name’s Arthur.” He told you, walking towards you, extending his hand to you. You looked at it for a moment then took it.

“Y/N” you replied. He nodded, and repeated your name, softly chuckling.

“So care to tell me what happened?” you asked him, you were curious but also afraid to discover that you let some sort of psychopath in your studio. He sat on your chair, he seemed to feel a bit weak, probably due to his wounds. Then he started from the beginning, his life, his condition, how people treated him like a freak, then the murder of the 3 guys in the subway. However this time you weren’t scared because you understood that he simply defended himself and knew he would be sent to prison because he wouldn’t be able to get a good attorney. Then he told you about this Murray mocking him.

“So it was you on the video?” you asked pained to imagine what he went through, he nodded “Have you seen it?” he asked you.

“No, I don’t watch this show…but I heard about the video…” you explained feeling empathy for Arthur.

“They just wanted to make fun of me” he snarled, his eyes feeling with hatred “I won’t ever again be mocked or beaten, they will die” he declared deadly serious. You swallowed feeling the strength and level of dangerous nature he could reach. But as you’ve heard once ‘all it takes is one bad day’ for someone to let go and give in to insanity.  Honestly you didn’t know what to say about all this, you simply understood how he ended up this way and there was nothing really to do about this, deep down you wished you had been there for him, if only one single person had cared for him, things would be different and you couldn’t help but think you could be there for him now? Could it help? What about the consequences?

“I’m gonna get some compresses, we need to clean this…” you declared motioning to his forehead, giving him a compassionate smile.

You came back with everything you needed, you approached him, not so afraid anymore and he was actually calm, he didn’t look like he was having a psychosis episode or something like that. Delicately you brushed his hair out of his forehead, and carefully applied the compress, cleaning the cut, you also took care of smaller cuts, Arthur was watching you work on him.

“Why did you come to me?” you asked him after several minutes, this question was burning your lips since the beginning; he had seen you only once and he had followers in all Gotham now, surely somebody would have hidden him…he let out a small laugh.

“I saw you, among all the people there, you caught my eye, I remembered that offered me sweets…” the tone of his voice changes, strangled with emotion “you had looked at me so nicely and gave me something without expecting something in return”. His eyes were nostalgic, remembering this moment, you smiled at this memory.

“You know, I actually watched you every day…I just…for some reason was hiding, I didn’t want you to see me, that’s how we met actually I was watching and I didn’t expect you to come next to me and see me” you confessed blushing and chuckling at how ridiculous you had been. You positioned yourself between his legs to clean the blood around his lips, your fingers delicately cupping his jaw. Your thumb soothingly caressing his cheek; while you cleaned his lips, he stayed silent, still watching your every movement as if you were fascinating, in fact he was actually entranced by your beauty and your care for him. When you finished, you didn’t move, your thumb softly caressed his lower lip, your eyes looking at them, then you looked back at his eyes, they were looking at you with adoration.

“I have to confess something too.” He started with a low voice, intimate “when you left, I wanted to run to you, ask for your name and offer you a coffee, a date actually.”

“Really?” you reply surprised that he was actually interested in you.

“Yes” he cooed, a beautiful smile forming on his lips “I loved you the second I laid my eyes on you.” He added slowly lifting his hands and resting them on your hips. You released a breath you didn’t realize you had been holding, you genuinely smiled at his confession and softly bit your lips.

He studently brought you closer to him, pressing your body against his and crashing his lips against yours, you tasted his blood, metallic, his tongue was soft against yours, you buried your fingers in his green locks, the both of you releasing the restrained desire you had for each other.    

“We must make up for lost time kitten…” he purred against your lips, smirking. Oh yes you will and even more…

[jedi-mabari]

Powers. Ch. 3

Word Count: 2776 warnings:None A/n: This is the third chapter of a Far Cry 5 Superpowers AU, inspired by @goodboiboomer-fc5 even though this chapter is shorter than the others, it is so far the most heart wrenching I’ve written so far.

Previous Chapter //// Next Chapter

Summary: Jacob tries to get Percy to talk about what’s bothering her, and he learns the truth about what happened while she was with the Project.

______________________________________________________________

Percy woke up to the sound of the news filtered through radio static. Her head felt more clear, her limbs less heavy. She could actually breath, and the blankets didn't feel to heavy. She couldn't remember the last time she actually felt rested. After five years of having to keep up a lie, of having to pretend to be someone she wasn't, it felt amazing to just relax and breath. It wasn't even something she could do in her own apartment because she was certain the Project had bugged it. She tired to roll over and go back to sleep, but the radio was just this side of too loud to allow it.

"Riots are getting worse, but we are seeing more Project of Ethereal Guardians stepping in to help local law enforcement to assist in the dispersion of the crowds. The recent riots are in response to the string of arrests of potential 'powers'. People are up in arms declaring these arrests unconsitu-" the radio clicked off.

Percy could smell the sweet scent she had noticed in the motel room when Faith had appeared. She rolled over to face the door, blinking back the pain from the glaring light coming through the door. "Thank you," she rasped out, blinking until Faith's black silhouette had become Faith.

"No problem. I don't know why that was on, I told Jacob you needed rest." Faith was holding a glass of water and a small white bottle. Percy sat up, testing her shoulder to make sure it didn't hurt anymore. "I brought you some water," she said, pushing the glass into Percy's hand. She popped open the white bottle and dumped two red pills into Percy's hand. "It's Ibuprofen," Faith explained when Percy gave her a concerned look.

"Thank you," Percy said, swallowing the, before taking drink of water. As soon as her mouth was full, she really realized how thirsty she was. She drank until the glass was empty, and gave Faith a shy smile. She set the glass down on the short dresser next to the bed, stretching her arms and twisting to stretch out her back. "How long has it been?"

"You've only been out for like, three days." Percy put her feet on the ground, rubbing sleep from her eyes.

How had it been three days? Her knee started bouncing and brushed some hair out of her face. When she looked up, she noticed that Faith was just staring at her.

"Yes?" Faith folded her hands together and sat down on the bed next to her, her face lit up with a smile.

"I just can't believe I actually get to talk to you," she said, not bothering to hide the excitement in her eyes. "It's just, Jacob has talked about you for years, and I do have you to thank for sending Joseph to find me. I don't know where I'd be if it wasn't for you!"

"I thought you said she needed rest," Jacob said from the door, and Percy let out a breath of relief. "Rojas needs you." Faith frowned at her brother before standing. She pulled Percy to her feet and gave her a hug.

"We'll get to know each other later, and thank you again," she said, skipping out of the room. Jacob watched her go, waiting until she was out of earshot before he turned back to Percy.

"Sorry, I hadn't realized she'd wandered off." Percy chuckled and shook her head.

"She's not so bad," Percy said, her fingers pressing into her previously injured shoulder, glad that it wasn't injured anymore. "Has it really been three days?" Jacob nodded, looking back to the door.

"Yeah. Whatever they made those bullets with really messed you up. The plans John looked at aren't as advanced as the rounds we got off that cop, but he thinks he can reverse engineer both the guns and bullets." Percy shook her head, a disgusted frown on her face.

"I need to talk to Joseph." Jacob looked at her, confused.

"What about," he asked, and Percy shrugged.

"I just need to talk to him." Jacob took a deep breath, ignoring that she wasn't going to talk to him.

"I'll meet you outside," he said, "there are some clothes in there. They should fit you." Jacob stepped outside while Percy changed. When she joined him in the hall, she was wearing a black t-shirt and jeans. Always practical. Percy followed Jacob to Joseph's office, taking a deep breath before walking in.

"It's great to see you awake and in one piece," Joseph said, standing from his spot by the desk and crossing the room. He embraced Percy, and she hugged him back. She missed his calming aura, even knowing that it was one of his abilities.

"It's good to be back," she said, smiling up at him. "But I think we need to talk about the Project." Joseph nodded, gesturing to Jacob. He closed the door, leaving Percy and Joseph.

"Let's start with your handler," Joseph started as Jacob left.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Jacob walked down to the kitchen, feeling uneasy about leaving Percy alone with Joseph. Why wouldn't she talk to him? Why was she more comfortable talking to his brother than to him? After everything they had been through, and not just in the last couple of days, but since they'd met. No matter how hard her tried, he couldn't figure out why she wouldn't just talk to him.

When Jacob reached the kitchen, John was already sitting at the kitchen table, reading his newspaper, stirring his coffee absent mindedly. Jacob poured himself a cup of coffee, taking a drink before sitting down across from his brother, sitting across from him.

"Is Percy awake," John asked, not looking up from his paper and taking a drink from his coffee.

"Yeah," Jacob said, drumming his fingers against the side of his own cup. "She's talking to Joseph. I guess she needed a debrief." John looked up from his paper, cocking an eyebrow at his oldest brother.

"You didn't debrief her?" Jacob narrowed his eyes, taking a slow sip from his coffee before answering.

"When was I supposed to do that, exactly," Jacob asked. "When I was saving her life while Howl was shooting her? Or maybe when I was digging a bullet out of her shoulder? How about, when we were getting shot at by a police officer? Oh, no I now when. When she was unconscious for three days, because the project has some super bullet to disable all of us!" John frowned at his oldest brother and shook his head, raising his hands up in defense.

"Okay, I get it, you had a rough time getting up here." Jacob rolled his eyes and took another drink of his coffee. He read the front page of John's newspaper, shaking his head. There was a picture of the Project handler he had left dead in the parking garage. The headline was something about the danger's of unregistered powers. At least the paper had gotten the background of the killer right. Jacob frowned as he thought about Percy again, wondering what she wasn't telling him.

His train of trought was interrupted when Faith skipped into the kitchen, Catalina in tow. John sat up a little straighter when he noticed Catalina, and Jacob noticed her heart rate speed up a little when she spotted John. He was sick and tired of them pretending like they weren't interested in each other, and opened his mouth to say something but was Faith spoke first.

"Where's Percilla," she asked, looking around the kitchen.

"With Joseph," John answered, pretending not to look over his paper at Catalina. Faith nodded quietly, taking a sip of water.

"Is she okay," Cat asked, avoiding making eye contact with John. Jacob nodded, finishing his coffee quickly before Faith could steal it. He stood up and dropped the mug in the sink, turning back to his sister.

"Yeah, she woke up good as new," Faith said, taking Jacob's spot before he could get back to it.

"Why aren't you doing that," Cat asked, Jacob, leaning against the counter.

"Because I wasn't with them for five years," he grumbled, stalking out of the kitchen to get away from the tension flirty looks John and Cat were throwing at each other. The entire drive to the den had been filled with that same tension, and he couldn't stand it. He could still feel the tension between him and Percy, like they were strangers, and that thought bothered him. He walked back to his room, sitting down on his bed. He grabbed the loose papers from the file, and began reading over them. They were just miscellaneous reports, but anything to get the upper hand on the Project, and take his mind off of Percy.

He hadn't realized he'd nodded off in the middle of a report on power activity in Montana until there was a knock on the door. He jumped up, dropping the papers on his bed. He rubbed his face and stretched, walking over to the door. He pulled it open and came face to face with Joseph. His younger brother looked tired, his eyes were heavy and his shoulders slumped forward.

"I want you to take Percy outside, do a sweep of the perimeter. Some of the camera's are down, and I need them up and running. You two are the most qualified." Jacob nodded and grabbed his rifle.

"Okay, I'll get her." Joseph smiled and laid a hand on his shoulder.

"Be careful. She's been the Project's lapdog since she went undercover. She's," he paused for a moment, searching for the right word, "fragile, right now."

"Fragile," Jacob asked, but Joseph just turned back into the hallway, heading towards his own room. Jacob looked after Joseph, still expecting his brother to answer. When Joseph turned a corner Jacob let out a long sigh. He stepped back into his room an picked up his rifle before heading towards Percy's room. Percy met him at her door, a pack slung over her back, and a rifle cradled in her arms. She looked up at him, and she had the same look that Joseph did.

"Are you okay to go," Jacob asked, and Percy rolled her eyes.

"I'm fine," she grumbled, pushing passed him into the hallway, heading for the entrance to the Den.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The night air was cool, but not cold. Percy walked with ease, following behind Jacob. She was slightly noticed the way he kept glancing at her, like he was expecting her to open up about everything she had done in the last five years. She ignored his looks, and glances, instead, focusing on not tripping over branches in the dark, taking lead so she couldn't see Jacob's prying gaze.

They made their way around the perimeter once, making sure the camera's Joseph used for security were still in on and properly positioned. They barely talked, only making conversation when they needed to. After hitting the checkpoints, they headed back to the watchtower. They climbed up the stairs, making their way into the small room at the top to keep watch. It wasn't any warmer than outside due to several missing windows, but at least there was a place to rest and set down their guns.

Jacob and Percy stood in silence, positioned at opposite ends of the room, watching for movement in the trees. Percy found herself watching Jacob as he moved along his side of the room, careful and measured, like he had always been. He did three passes over his side of the hill before he stopped. He leaned against an old table whose legs squealed with protest as he put his weight against it. She glanced at him and he shrugged, giving her a sheepish smile. Percy was leaning on her shoulder against the wall, and Jacob nodded towards it.

"How's you shoulder doing," Jacob asked, folding his arms over his chest, getting another groan from the table legs.

"It's good. Whatever Faith did fixed me right up." She watched him carefully, feeling like he was working up to a bigger question she knew she didn't want to answer. "When did Joseph say he wanted us back," she asked, wanting to direct the conversation away from where she knew Jacob wanted to take it. Jacob shrugged, looking her up and down, his eyes lingering on her shoulder before lifting back to her face.

"He didn't," he sighed, the tension between them making the room feel like it was going to explode. "Is there anything you wanted to tell me?" Percy knew the question was coming, she thought she had bought herself a little time, but there it was, now hanging in the air between them. She thought she was prepared for when he asked, but she still flinched back all the same.

"I can't think of anything," she lied, hardly even trying to sound convincing. She was just so tired of lying, and didn't want to even try to, but if she wanted him to drop, she'd have to come up with something cleaver. Jacob stared at her, waiting for her to tell him what was on her mind. She crossed her arms and looked back out of her window, hoping it was enough to make him drop it.

"There is something going on with you," he said, pushing off the table. It groaned in relief as it settled back to it's natural state. He crossed the room to her, pulling her around so she was looking at him. "There has been a wall between us since you joined the Project, and I always thought it was just because you had to keep up the act as their little pet, but it's still here!" He waved his hand between them, gesturing to the invisible wall. Percy frowned and shook her head, pulling her arm free of Jacob's grip.

"It's nothing, Jake, leave it." She stepped around him, crossing to stand next to the table. She stared intently out of the window, glaring down the hillside. Jacob let out a groan and followed her across the room, moving between her and the window.

"Just tell me! It's not like anything you say is going to change which side you're on. It's not gonna change what we've been through!"

"You really want to know so bad," she snapped, balling her hands into fists at her side. He flinched away from her. "I killed people Jacob! And I'm not talking about people who deserved it like we did with the Fang's. I murdered innocent people just to keep my cover. People like Cat, and Faith. Jacob, I don't want to talk about what I did with the Project because no amount of talking about it is going to change that! I can't just come back from that."

"Percy," he started, but she took a step back from him, shaking her head.

"I can't come back from that," she said again. She wrapped her arms around herself, turning away from him again. Jacob shook his head, reaching out to stop her from moving. He grabbed her arm, pulling her back to him. He held her at arm's length, but she didn't look up at him, refusing to let him see her cry. He pulled her into his chest, not letting her pull away.

Percy cried into his shoulder, clinging to him. She knew that a hug and a good cry wasn't going to change anything she did, or the guilt that had buried itself in her chest, but his arms wrapped around her made her feel better than she had in a long time. She leaned into him, allowing him to pull her closer. They stood in the watchtower for a long time with him just holding her. When their legs got tired, they moved over to the futon, where they huddled together against the cold. When Percy had finally stopped crying, she was curled into Jacob's side, wiping at her eyes and sniffling.

"Percy, I had no idea about any of that," Jacob said softly, keeping his arms around her. She let out a long sigh, sliding her arms around his middle under his jacket to warm her hands.

"I know. There were somethings I couldn't put in the reports. I barely told Joseph." Jacob nodded, feeling a pang of jealousy at her trusting his brother with it more than him, but he would be lying if he said he didn't understand.

"I understand," he sighed. Percy took a deep breath, letting it out slowly through her nose. The tension was gone, but in it's place was an empty feeling that they both knew they weren't going to be able to fill with emotional talks about what she'd been through, but now that it was out in the open, they could start working on moving through it. They fell asleep together on the futon, Percy wrapped in Jacob's arms.

[ijustwant2write]

Protesting for Love-Ada Shelby x Fem!Reader

(GIF credit to @deartomhardy)

Masterlist

Requested by anonymous

Summary: ‘Hi I was wondering if you would write a Ada Shelby x fem reader. One where the reader (who wears suites BC she works in the Shelby business) and Ada are at a march or communist meeting and the police raid the joint and reader tries to stand up to them and is badly hurt or something and Ada has to drag her to Polly's so she doesn't die (from her wounds). And like Ada wouldn't leave her side at all. If you feel uncomfortable or just don't want to I completely understand. Thanks love’

Characters: Ada Shelby x Fem!Reader

Meanings: (Y/N)=Your name

Warnings: Violence against women, injuries, blood, homophobia, swearing

(A/N: I ABSOLUTELY LOVE ADA SHELBY, JUST SAYING)

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“Here you go Ada.” (Y/N) smiled as she handed the finished papers over, their hands softly brushing over each others.

“Thanks (Y/N). Are we still on for tomorrow?” she asked, smiling as she glanced around, wondering if anyone had noticed.

“Of course we are.” (Y/N) perched on the edge of the desk.“I’ve been looking forward to this all week!”

“Do you think we should have made a banner? I don’t know whether there will be any, do you think anyone will have them?”

“Ada, we don’t have time! Besides, us just being there is enough; a woman working for the Shelby’s, marching in a protest with a Shelby!”

“Oh, so that’s why you asked me to the march.”

“That’s not the only reason. You’re pretty cute too.”

Ada reached over to whack (Y/N) with her papers, missing as she jumped out of the way, both of them laughing. Some heads turned, dismissing the behaviour, whereas others thought back to the rumours that had been circling. (Y/N) hardly hid her differences, walking around in suits made by the same people as Thomas Shelby, never once being seen in a skirt or dress. She was always immaculately dressed, her hair scraped back in a ponytail or bun (apart from when she had had a few too many whiskies in the Garrison). As a woman who stood out, some men were put off by her confidence, knowing that they could never control her; however, there were others that wanted the challenge, though they were met with the surprise of her sharp wit and insults if they offended her. No one had ever seen (Y/N) with a man on her arm, or even flirting with one, most people put two and two together and well...that’s where the rumours came in.

“And where are you two off to tomorrow?” Polly asked, knowing that they had taken the day off for a bad reason.

“Would you believe us if we said we were going shopping?” (Y/N) smirked.

“And why the fuck would you be going shopping?”

Ada giggled.“We’re going to a protest for women’s rights.”

“Of course you are.”

“Polly, how are we supposed to progress towards any sort of equality with that sort of attitude? I mean, you’ve been to one-”

“I’m going to stop you right there Ada. You know I can’t come, if I could, I would, but also remember the last time I went?”

(Y/N) tried to keep her laugh to herself.“You were so drunk, it was the best day of my life.”

“Glad someone enjoyed themselves. Don’t cause trouble or draw attention to yourselves, you are representing the Shelby’s remember. Tommy isn’t in a good mood, business gone wrong, I don’t want him anymore pissed off.” Polly warned before leaving us.

(Y/N) scoffed.“When is he ever in a good mood?”

The next day came, and both women were up bright and early, excited to join their sisters in the march. (Y/N) stood on the corner of the street, leaning against the side of a house, waiting for Ada as instructed. She knew her brothers would try to stop her, it was bad for the Shelby image. But did she care? Of course not. (Y/N) heard footsteps coming towards her, grinning when Ada practically skipped towards her, looping their arms together as they got close.

“You ready?” (Y/N) asked, already walking.

“Yep! Luckily it was just Pol in the house, so I got out easily.”

“Let’s go, I wanna get a good spot in the crowd.”

There was a sense of power in the air as the pair joined the women forming a crowd outside a factory, especially as they stood together. They had left their work or homes to band together, it was empowering. The woman taking lead of the march stood on a crate and spoke up, announcing that they would wait ten more minutes before starting, receiving a cheer as a reply. Ada and (Y/N) found themselves speaking to those close to them, all of the ladies introducing themselves and joking about what they were missing out on that day. More women showed up, a regularly large crowd forming.

“Ladies, you have all left your homes this morning for a reason, for the same reason.” the leader projected her voice, capturing everyone’s attention.“You want to make the world a more equal place for the women in it now, and for future generations. This is just the first step among many, some days we will run, maybe even soar, but other days will be hard. There will be days where we are beaten back, where we will have to retract those steps in order to progress. Though I believe that if we stick together, we can make a difference!”

Everyone cheered, getting excited for their march. The leader started to go through where they would be walking, and what to look out for (such as pubs which held drunk men throughout the day, the factories where they would surely be called out at). 

“I truly think this is going to be historical.” (Y/N) whispered to Ada.

“And we’re a part of it! I can’t wait to see the look on Tommy’s face when he realises we’re marching past the shop.” Ada smirked, holding her head up high.

“Oh, that will be classic! I’m so sick of some of his workers you know. Actually, I’ve been meaning to speak to him about that....wait, are those policemen?”

They turned their heads, confirming what (Y/N) had just asked. Everyone had noticed but stood their ground.

“Gentlemen, can we help you?” the leader sassed, crossing her arms over her chest. They didn’t reply, but started grabbing women and pulling them away from the group.“Let go of them! We haven’t done anything against the law!”

The once peaceful protest had turned into a riot, the policemen harshly pulling apart the crowd; women were thrown to the floor, others against walls, some were even being handcuffed! Screams, cries of pain and protest rang out in the street, confusion and anger on everyone’s faces. (Y/N) had immediately grabbed Ada’s hand, dragging her away from the scene when a policeman stopped her. She thrashed her fists against him as they were torn apart, screaming out for Ada. (Y/N) lost sight of her, having to concentrate on not getting her face pulverised.

(Y/N) wasn’t a great fighter, though she knew some things about self defence; however, he was able to overpower her, tripping her up so that she fell to the ground. Her eyes widened when the police officer raised his truncheon, not holding back when he swung it down at her, using all his strength. The blows were sharp and strong, (Y/N) crying out as she became winded, her body aching in many different places. She tried to reach out and grab it, but it slipped past her fingers, hitting her square in the face. Her nose stung, the metallic taste of blood filling her mouth. She started choking, rolling onto her side, though this exposed her even more to the beatings. Her scream rang out as she felt something crack, the feeling inside of her making her want to be sick.

Suddenly the beatings stopped, and she finally had a chance to breathe, recollect herself. (Y/N) looked around her, vision blurry as she tried to make out what was happening. There were still people being attacked, though (Y/N) didn’t stick around long enough to help. She was clumsily pulled to her feet, at first fighting them off because she thought it was a policeman again, only stopping when she heard Ada’s voice.

“It’s alright! It’s alright! It’s Ada, we need to go, now!” she rushed, helping the woman to her feet.

Although (Y/N) still wasn’t all there, she was only just able to stagger, her steps slow and unsteady. Ada didn’t want to rush her, knowing that she was injured, however, there were still policemen everywhere, she couldn’t defend both of them. They were extremely lucky to escape despite their slow steps, finally making it back to Polly’s house. As Ada took all of (Y/N)’s body weight, her eyes glanced towards the clock; all of that had happened in just under an hour, how was that possible?! 

“Pol? Polly?!” Ada yelled out, placing (Y/N) onto a seat at the kitchen table, holding onto her as she slumped.“(Y/N), you have to stay awake! Pol’s going to help you.”

Polly rushed downstairs at the sound of her distressed niece, eyes widening at the sight. Her niece had blood splattered on her face, clothes in disarray, but it was the sight of (Y/N) that shocked her; her entire face was red, the whites of the her eyes standing out, she wasn’t fully conscious, her head lulling side to side as she tried to stay awake.

“What the fuck happened?” Polly exclaimed, rushing over to them.

“The-the police...they just showed up and attacked us! We didn’t even say anything, they just grabbed the women and started beating them up. (Y/N) tried to protect me but one of them got her and-”

“Alright, alright! Get me warm water and towels, quickly!”

Ada ran upstairs as Polly gently removed (Y/N)’s coat and suit jacket, her white shirt was doused in her blood. As Polly felt around her torso, (Y/N) yelped at the pain that shot through her ribs. 

“Sorry, I think it’s fractured, how’s your breathing?” Polly assessed.

“It just hurts when I take deep breaths.” (Y/N) winced, wiping her bloody mouth with the back of her hand.

Ada’s heavy footsteps bellowed around the house as she came back, filling up a bowl with the warm water before giving that and the towels to Polly.

“Starting cleaning her face, I need to cut her shirt off.” Polly instructed.

“(Y/N)? I need to clean your face, OK? Just concentrate on me, alright?” Ada shakily said.

(Y/N) hummed in response, welcoming the relaxing feeling of the warm water on her face. Polly kept glancing upwards the the young women, watching her niece’s adoring eyes bore into (Y/N)’s. Polly continued to check for any other injuries, finding more and more black bruising, beatings that had broken the skin; it would take weeks before she was fully healed.

“You should have run. I would have got away.” Ada mumbled, stroking back (Y/N)’s hair.“Oh, there’s blood in your hair too.”

“I would never eave you like that, they were going to hurt you.” (Y/N) coughed.

“But look what happened to you! Why did those bastards even attack us in the first place?!”

“Ada,” Polly warned,“the stress isn’t helping. Go clean yourself up and make some tea.”

“No! I’m not leaving her. She’s in too much pain.”

“Ada-”

“Polly, I said no!”

The aunt was surprised by Ada’s snap, even though she knew how much trauma had just been caused. But as she looked at them, Ada cradling (Y/N)’s upper body in her arms, her head on top of the injured woman, laying a sweet kiss on it, things started to piece together. Those looks weren’t those of best friends, they were something more. Ada’s defensive state, her refusal of leaving, it made sense now. (Y/N) was leaning into Ada’s embrace, gripping onto her arm as Polly examined her. Polly had always dismissed the rumours, shot down any questions thrown her way, and now she was seeing the real truth.

With a sigh, Polly carried on looking at (Y/N)’s wounds before moving onto Ada. Happy that her niece wasn’t harmed (apart from some bruising), she loosely tied a bandage around (Y/N)’s ribs, instructing that she do nothing extremely physical for the next six weeks in order to heal. Polly and Ada assisted (Y/N) upstairs, changing her into a nightgown and gently laying her down in Ada’s old bed. Before Ada could even sit next to her, Polly grabbed her arm.

“Ada, a word.” 

Ada rolled her eyes, hesitantly following Polly out of the room. They stood in the hallway, voices hushed as they spoke.

“What?” Ada crossed her arms over her chest.

“Whatever is going on between you two, you need to be careful.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean, I’m not an idiot Ada! People have already been speaking of this, if this got out-”

“What would happen? Would it be so bad?”

“Ada, people aren’t accepting of this! It isn’t normal.”

“Normal? The fact that we...that we-”

“That you love each other? See, you can’t even say it.”

“We haven’t spoke of this! It just sort of happened. We’ll talk about it when we’re comfortable.”

“Will that be before or after you fuck?”

Ada gasped.“It’s not about sex. (Y/N) has always understood me, she’s always been by my side. I can’t see my life without her in it.”

“These things you’re saying are huge, you know that don’t you?”

“Yes, and I wouldn’t say them if I didn’t mean it.”

“Ada, I’m just worried. People will target you even more for loving a woman, it won’t be safe.”

“It’s not safe for me being a Shelby! Or even standing up for women’s rights as we’ve just seen.”

“I’m not going to convince you otherwise, am I?”

“No. And I don’t care if people don’t accept it, it’s my life. I’ll do what I want.”

With that, Ada went back into her old bedroom, desperately wanting to slam the door, but not wanting to wake up (Y/N). She couldn’t help but melt at the peaceful sight. Her steps were light as to not make the floorboards creak, silently laying beside (Y/N) in the bed. Gently holding her hand, Ada kissed it, tears forming in her eyes.

“I’m sorry that you got hurt protecting me.” she whispered.“I wish I could have done more. I wish people wouldn’t look at us differently if we told them about us. But...but maybe, if there are any differences made to women’s rights, we might have a chance. It doesn’t matter what the world thinks, because I love you. And I know you love me. That’s all I need in this world, you’re all I need in this world.”

She knew (Y/N) couldn’t hear her. It didn’t matter. Her words were true and it felt good to speak them. One day, when she was confident enough, Ada would tell her in person, and hopefully receive the same words back. Their love was strong, stronger than any other love Ada had seen. And that’s what was going to get them through this, through this terrible, evil world.

[hutchhitched]

The Vintage Joshifer Series: End of Love—Chapter 18

End of Love by hutchhitched

A kazillion years ago, I started posting this story. I never intended for it to drag on this long in between updates, but life happens and so does writer’s block. I know there’s little readership in the Joshifer fandom anymore, but I needed to finish it. If you’re still around to read it, thank you. If you want to dive in, I’d appreciate it. You definitely don’t have to be a Joshifer fan to read it since Josh and Jen’s characters are historical actors and not versions of their modern selves. There are three more chapters after this one, all of which will be posted this month (fifty years after the events that take place in the final chapter).

 Historical events in this chapter include the following:

The Democratic National Convention took place in Chicago in August 1968. Bobby Kennedy’s assassination (see Chapter 16) threw the convention into chaos since there was no longer a clear front runner. LBJ’s vice president eventually won the nomination, but the real story was outside the convention in the streets where members of the New Left protested—including the Yippies, who nominated a pig for president (3:38). Riots broke out in the streets, and protestors, police, and journalists were all injured.

Not long after the DNC, there was a protest at the Miss America pageant in Atlantic City, NJ, led by those who were supporters of women’s liberation. The New York Radical Women (NYRW) and National Organization of Women (NOW), and members of consciousness raising groups all participated. Gloria Steinem, who helped found Ms. magazine and just recently toured the country promoting her new book, was one of the founders of NOW.

 Shout out to @xerxia31​ for drawing my attention to the quote, “The version of me you created in your mind is not my responsibility.”

Chicago, Illinois, August 1968

 “Jen, are you working again today?” Amy shouted through the closed bedroom door. When there was no answer, she rapped loudly on the wood.

 Half asleep, Jennifer stretched and rubbed sleep from her eyes.  She rolled over and slipped her arm over Josh’s naked torso and yelled in a sleep-choked voice, “Yeah, I have to be there at noon.  Sleeping in.”

 “I’ll be home late tonight. Be careful.”

 “Thanks, Amy,” she replied and nestled her head into Josh’s shoulder.

 “Yeah, be careful,” he grunted and shifted onto his side.  “Someone might try to take advantage of you or something.”

 “Mmm…  Good morning,” she breathed as he traced her collar bone with the tip of his tongue.

 “Good morning to you. Signs point to it being very, very good.”

 Jen spread her legs and sighed as he settled between them.  His mouth greeted her as if they’d been separated for months, even though they’d spent the majority of the night before high and trying new positions from the Kama Sutra he’d scored from one of his friends at work.

 “I’m not going to be able to walk today if you don’t stop that,” she teased in between sharp intakes of breath.  She twisted her fingers in his hair as she approached her climax and tugged hard.

 “Don’t gripe, doll,” he said as he tore his mouth from her.  “You know you love this.”

 Wrapping her arms around him, she tugged him against her and welcomed him inside.  His long strokes drove her over the edge quickly, and he plunged into her as she gripped and rippled around him.

 When they were finished, he tugged on a pair of bellbottoms with frayed denim hems and walked to the bathroom.  He returned a few minutes later, dropped a kiss on her forehead, and left with only a brief farewell tossed over his shoulder as he walked down the hall. Stunned, she sat up and stared after him, but he didn’t return.

 “Something’s still off,” she muttered before shrugging and dressing for work.

 She’d only been at her new job for a few weeks.  Once she’d decided to take Jack’s advice, things had moved quickly.  She interviewed and got the job within a few days, allowing her to leave her job at the Tribune and take a reporter position at the local NBC affiliate.  It had taken a bit to readjust to reporting news on camera instead of typing it, but she had no regrets.  Her boss at the TV station was a saint compared to Mr. Murrow, and she enjoyed the new relationships she’d developed with her co-workers, most of whom were incredibly good-looking and closer to her age.  The field was an entirely different world than the newsroom, and Josh seemed amused by her stories.

 “Not sure what’s wrong with him today,” she mused as she made her way to work to receive her assignment and camera operator for the day.

 “Jennifer,” her boss called from his office and motioned her inside.  “I want you on the DNC this week.  I know you usually work weekends, but Chicago doesn’t get the convention every year.  You’ve got today and tomorrow to prep, and then you’re on until Thursday.  I need you at the top of your game.  These things are notoriously dull, so you’ll need to create some interest through interviews.  Get people’s ideas.”

 “On the convention floor?”

 “No, you’re outside. I’ve got another team inside the convention itself,” he explained.  “I need you to report on the mood outside the event.”

 “Is anybody going to be hanging around outside?  If people can’t get in, why would they be there?”

 “I put in a call Daley’s office.  The good mayor seems to think there might be trouble.  Police are expecting some more radical groups to be in the streets.”

 “Radical groups,” she murmured.  She’d ask Josh what he’d heard when she got home.  He knew more than she did about who would be there.

 ****

 But Josh wasn’t at home when she got there. She stayed up late, studying and prepping for her assignment, but he didn’t come back.  His clothes still hung in her closet, so she knew he hadn’t bailed on her and would return eventually. Still, his absence grated on her, especially when he didn’t return the next day either.

 She woke early on Wednesday to featherlight kisses on her forehead. Josh settled onto her, pressing her into the mattress and winding his fingers in her hair.

 “I missed you,” he whispered and wiggled his crotch between her legs.

 Grouchy from lack of sleep and even more frustrated he’d been missing for the past two days without any sort of explanation, she snapped, “Where have you been, asshole?”

 She almost smacked him when he chuckled, but she forgave him quickly enough when he explained he’d been planning a demonstration for the day at the DNC. He kissed her softly, lovingly, and she relented. She closed her eyes, let him inside, and moaned when he moved inside her. His political pillow talk excited him more than anything else lately, and he eventually came with a long, guttural growl in her ear. He pulled out quickly and dropped his head between her legs. His mouth worked magic on her. When he kissed her afterwards, she tasted both of them in his mouth. She wasn’t sure why that turned her on so much, but it drove her to beg for another round before she left for her shift.

 ****

 Jen was met by a throng of protestors and twice as many police as she stationed herself outside the convention and attempted to interview as many people in the crowd as would talk to her. She wrangled a conversation with a woman named Katie, who proudly proclaimed herself a member of the Youth International Party.

 “Katie, can you tell us a little bit about why you’re protesting today?” Jen yelled into the microphone and turned it toward the other woman. She bumped into the other woman when someone jostled her, and she strained to hear the answer.

 Katie screamed at the top of her lungs, “Fuck the pigs! The Yippies are here to show how corrupt the police and government are. They support the military industrial complex, sending our boys to die in ’Nam while they wallow in filth in D.C. We’re here to nominate our own candidate, Pigasus the Immortal, because even a pig could run this country better than that asshole in the White House.”

 Jen’s eyes widened imperceptibly, but she schooled her features as best she could. No matter what her interviewees said, she needed to remain neutral and report the news. No matter how radical or extreme, no matter if she agreed with the sentiment or not, her job was to present the facts and share what was unfolding in Grant Park to the rest of the nation.

 As the crowd around her shouted, “Pigs are whores,” she marveled at the irony of nominating a pig for president while simultaneously slandering the police as whores. Tension crackled in the air, and she wondered briefly if Josh was actually somewhere in the crowd like he was supposed to be. Admittedly, while her political bent was less radical than his, she still agreed with a lot of his ideas. This, though, seemed more like it could burst into a riot immediately and not stay just a protest.

 Hours passed, and she kept interviewing, kept side-stepping potential problems, and kept doing her job. As darkness fell, the crowd’s energy ticked higher. Something was going to happen. She could feel it. Thousands of police and national guard and military surrounded the protestors, and all it would take was one spark for the area to erupt.

 Three minutes later it did. Someone threw a rock, the police retaliated, and a full-scale riot broke out in front of her. A Molotov cocktail whizzed over her head, and she motioned to her cameraman to start rolling. She had no idea if the station would pick up her report, but she wasn’t letting this opportunity go. This was a career-maker.

 “As you can see, violence has broken out at the protests outside the Democratic National Convention here in Chicago. It’s 11:00 pm, and city ordinance says that all public parks must be closed at this hour. That hasn’t fazed the protestors, mainly members of the Youth International Party and others of the New Left, who demand an end to American involvement in Vietnam and a rehauling of the federal government.

 “Chicago mayor, Richard Daley, has consistently declared that he will see law and order maintained, and he’s backed up that assertion with over 12,000 police, 5,000 national guard members, and 12,000 regular army troops, according to reports from the mayor’s office itself.

 “Earlier today, Yippies, members of the Youth International Party, nominated a pig for president as a statement about the state of the government. Tonight, the establishment is fighting back. Expect more—”

 Something struck her in the side of the head, and she saw stars. She focused enough to see her cameraman swivel the camera to capture the events, so she could gather herself.

 “Fuck,” she muttered under her breath, careful to keep her voice low in case her microphone was broadcasting. She pressed her fingers to her forehead and grunted at the pain. When she pulled her hand back, she was stunned to find it covered in blood.

 The crowd jostled her, and she realized she needed to get out of harm’s way. Her head hurt, and she swayed when she tried to take a step. Dizzy and confused, she staggered to her left. A few seconds later, she collapsed.

 ****

 “Wake up, Jennifer.”

 The voice was insistent and familiar, and she tried to listen. It hurt too much. Too tired to care, she slid back into darkness.

 “Jennifer Shrader Lawrence. Wake up!”

 “No. Ow. Sleep. Sleep now.”

 “Come on, doll. Wake up. Right now.”

 With a growl, she nudged into the hand cupping her jaw and opened her eyes. The light from a single lamp made her head explode, and she whimpered in pain. It took several seconds for her to focus. When she did, she sighed, “Josh.”

 “You know, you shouldn’t get a bottle thrown at your head. You’re too pretty to carry off a scar on your forehead.” His eyes were filled with concern and a hint of anger, but his lips curved into a gentle smile that made her want to kiss him.

 “Good thing I have bangs,” she joked quietly in an attempt to keep her head from swirling. “How’d we get back here? What time is it?”

 “A buddy of mine gave us a ride. I saw you get hit, and I managed to pick you up before you got trampled. Also, don’t black out in the middle of a riot. That’s just common knowledge.”

 She frowned. “I was working.”

 “You were,” he agreed before adding forcefully. “Now, you’re not. You take a bottle to the head and bleed all over yourself, you’re in no shape to be on TV. And it’s almost 4:00 am. You’ve been out for a while.”

 “I took you away from the protest.”

 Josh didn’t answer. Instead, he put a bag of ice on her forehead where the bottle had hit her right over her right temple. Indicating she should take it from him, he grabbed a bottle of aspirin off the bedside table, popped three into his hand, and put them on her tongue when she opened her mouth.

 “You’re going to be laid up for a few days. You should call your boss when it’s a reasonable hour. He can call in a replacement.”

 “Josh, I need to work.”

 “What you need to do,” he snapped, “is get well. I’m going to sleep. I have to be back out there tomorrow.”

 “You’re going back?” she yelped. “Why? So you can get hurt? There are thousands of police out there and the army and Daley doesn’t give a shit about any of you.”

 “Which is exactly why we’re protesting, Jennifer.”

 “Doesn’t make it smart.”

 “I never said I was smart.”

 Before she could say another word, he flipped off the light and headed to the living room.

 “Where are you going?” she demanded, her anger barely contained.

 “I’ll be on the couch tonight. Go to sleep.”

 “Jackass,” she muttered, but she wasn’t in any shape to drag him back to bed. Instead, she closed her eyes and drifted to sleep. When she woke up the next morning, he was gone.

 ****

“There you are. I thought you weren’t going to make it home before I left.”

 Josh stood in the hallway, his expression unreadable, and Jen zipped her suitcase closed. She rose and crossed to him, but he didn’t reach out for her or return her tentative smile. She really shouldn’t be leaving town when their relationship was on the rocks, but her boss insisted they needed her presence in Atlantic City, that her coverage of the riots not quite two weeks prior had shot her to superstardom—at least as much as a local news correspondent could be. She was the trusted face of news in Chicago and covering the Miss USA pageant would give her a softer side that would solidify her image of being able to report everything in the news cycle. She thought it was bullshit, but she wasn’t really in the position to argue.

 “This isn’t exactly the farewell I was hoping for when I asked you to make sure to say goodbye to me.”

 “You shouldn’t be going,” Josh grumbled, and anger flooded through her.

 “I don’t exactly have a choice, do I?” she snapped. “Not if I want to keep my job. Besides, it’s a beauty pageant. It’s not like I’m going to get hurt again. I’m not covering a riot.”

 “Jennifer, there are consciousness raising groups all over the country headed to Atlantic City. They’re planning all sorts of protests against this—this—this travesty that likens females to cattle. I can’t believe you’re willing to cover something that makes other women look like pieces of meat.”

 He threw up his hands, and she pursed her lips. “It’s my job.”

 “Get a new one, then. You’re supporting the establishment. I thought you were against all the shit—”

 “I’m a journalist, Josh. A journalist, not an activist. That’s your job.”

 He glared at her before whispering, “Maybe you’re not who I thought you were.”

 “The version of me you created in your mind is not my responsibility,” she said, her voice frigid. “I’m leaving. I have a flight to catch.”

 He didn’t stop her when she grabbed her suitcase and stalked past him. She was down the stairs and into the cab before tears spilled over and wet her cheeks.

 ****

 Atlantic City proved to be a lot more than Jennifer expected, and it made her furious that Josh was right. Of course, she was always mad when Josh was right and she’d argued against him. He liked to gloat, and she had no desire to go back to Chicago and hear him snicker.

 Worse than that, she had an aching fear in her gut that she’d fly home, and he’d be gone. She didn’t know why, but she hadn’t been able to shake that he was planning to leave for months. It seemed only a matter of time. How could she tame Josh Hutcherson, activist and rebel and total playboy?

 Why hadn’t they managed to have a discussion about their relationship in the year they’d been living together? They’d never promised to be exclusive, never had the conversation, and Jen had a sinking feeling that he was just biding time until he went back to his former life—floating from place to place and woman to woman, following the fight for the causes he supported and relationships be damned. Andre and Jackson were his only close friends, and he hadn’t seen either of them in months either.

 Something wasn’t right, and she was terrified of eventually discovering what it was.

 She shook herself as her mind drifted to Josh for the hundredth time in fifteen minutes. The action behind her on the pier ramped up as the pre-pageant sessions dragged on. She’d interviewed dozens of protestors, asking them their views on the women’s movement and women’s liberation. Several members of the New York Radical Women were there leading the protests, and Jen thought she’d go insane if she heard the words “consciousness raising” again.

 Jen directed her attention to what she thought would provide the clearest portrayal of what the protestors were attempting to accomplish. She interviewed women carrying signs of females marked up as cuts of meat; she directed her crew to record the Freedom Trash Can as women threw in high heels and tweezers and bras and pantyhose; she heard the term bra burner and twirled to spot a fire until the woman she was interviewing explained that they’d decided not to set the trash can on fire because they feared the wooden boardwalk would go up in flames. Finally, she took copious notes during the pageant itself until protestors in the balcony unfurled a large banner and simultaneously set off a smoke bomb that drove everyone from the auditorium.

 In short, she realized later when she was back in her hotel room and reviewing her notes, she’d done everything she could possibly do to both keep her job and work against the establishment Josh seemed to want to insist she supported. If she was honest, her work that day was a giant middle finger to both her boss and her whatever-the-hell he was to her because Josh sure hadn’t promised her anything.

 She was fuming by the time she landed in Chicago the following evening, ready to return to her apartment and find him and his belongings missing. If she could stay mad until she found out for sure that he was gone, maybe she’d be able to survive the loss.

 When she walked in the door, she had a string of curse words waiting on the tip of her tongue to fall, to distract her from the pain she knew was coming.

 “Hey, doll.  I missed you.”

 Tears pricked her eyes, and she dropped her suitcase. She took three giant steps and threw herself into his arms. He tried to ask her what was wrong a million times, but she shut him up with her mouth every time.

 “Take me to bed,” she begged, and he obliged. She was well into her third orgasm before she believed he was really there. 

[thecomicsnexus]

Absent Friends

WATCHMEN #2 OCTOBER 1986 BY ALAN MOORE, DAVE GIBBONS AND JOHN HIGGINS

SYNOPSIS (FROM DC DATABASE)

Laurie Juspeczyk visit, or had to the Nepenthe Gardens retirement home to see her mother, Sally, the original Silk Spectre. She only came because she been forced to visit, transported by Jon since she hadn't wanted to attend the funeral of Eddie Blake. Sally shows a large sense of sympathy for Blake.

During her conversation with Laurie, Sally remembers the night that the Minutemen were taking their group photo in 1940. The group discussed about the war in Europe, until the original Nite Owl stopped the discussion and they all headed down to the Owl's Nest, except for Sally who stays behind to change her clothes. The Comedian stepped into the room and interrupts her, attempting to sexually assault her to which Sally clawed his face. Blake brutally attacked her, intending to rape her, before Hooded Justice walked in. He viciously attacked Eddie, but lets him go when Eddie says to him "This is what you like, huh? This is what gets you hot...".

At Eddie's funeral, Adrian Veidt recalls the first meeting of the Crimebusters, held by Nelson Gardner, Captain Metropolis, in April, 1966. Nelson attempt to recreate another team of masked adventurers since the Minutemen's breakup in 1949. However, The Comedian deride Nelson's plan as "bullshit" and accuses Nelson of trying to seek personal glory as akin to "playin' cowboys and Indians." Nite Owl II (Dan Dreiberg) defends Nelson's Crimebusters idea by saying that he and Rorschach had made some success together fighting criminal gangs. Though Rorschach agrees with his partner, but he sees the group as more of a "publicity exercise" and too unyielding. Ozymandias speaks in that the group only need the right person coordinating them. The Comedian continues to mock the group's intentions, especially Veidt's, and arguing the Crimebusters would not make a difference in a world heading towards nuclear apocalypse. He then burns Metropolis' presentation board and leaves the room with nearly everyone following. Nelson, in vain, begs them not to leave, telling them that someone had to "save the world."

Doctor Manhattan recalls "V.V.N. Night" - the celebration of America's victory in the Vietnam War due to Manhattan's intervention - in Saigon with Blake and discussing his strange attitude toward life and war, how he sees it all as a joke, although admittedly not a "good joke." He mentions how anxious he is to leave the country. A Vietnamese woman approaches Blake and telling him that she is pregnant with his child. She also asserts that Blake has a responsibility to the child. Blake doesn't seem to care, saying how he will forget them and their entire country. The woman angrily breaks a glass bottle and slashes Blake's face. Blake impulsively shoots her, while Manhattan stands watching. Blake then lash out Manhattan for not intervening to save the woman and accuses him that he doesn't care about human life. He then walks away to look for someone to heal his face as he laments over Manhattan's loss of touch with humanity.

Dan Dreiberg recalls how he and The Comedian worked riot control during the 1970's Police Strike in New York. The streets are crowded with angry rioters, but The Comedian and Dreiberg (as the Nite Owl) clear the streets after The Comedian throws a gas bomb into the angry mob. Looking at the devastation, Dreiberg asks Blake, "What's happened to the American dream?" Blake replies while starting into the foggy streets filled with riot gas, "It came true. You're lookin' at it."

As the funeral ends, Dan drops The Comedian's smiley face badge into the grave. A man in a trench-coat leaves flowers on Blake's grave and walks to his apartment. The man is suddenly ambush by Rorschach, who leaps out of the man's refrigerator. Rorschach identifies him as Edgar Jacobi, a former villain known as Moloch the Mystic. He questions him about Eddie Blake, and Jacobi explains that he attended Blake's funeral out of compulsion because Blake broke into his home one night while he was in bed, babbling about how it's all a joke that he doesn't get it. Blake mentioned an island with writers, scientists and artists, and he says that he did bad things before leaving. Rorschach doesn't consider the retired villain as Blake's murderer. He then informs Jacobi that he found him using Laetril, a faked cancer cure medicine that is widely illegal. Jacobi defend himself that he is diagnosed with cancer and was desperate. Rorschach leaves Jacobi alone but will be seeing him again.

Rorschach goes to the cemetery at night to pay his respects to Eddie Blake. Finishing with his journal entry, he leaves the cemetery with a red rose.

UNDER THE HOOD

Chapter III Hollis Mason becomes deeply interested in the Hooded Justice's actions and decided upon himself to become a super-hero, known as the 'Nite-Owl'. The name was based on his habit to work out as much as possible. Although his first exploits were largely unspectacular, it has aroused a lot of media interests simply because at the time dressing up in a costume and protecting a neighborhood had becoming something of a fad.

Within several months since the appearance of the Hooded Justice, several other costumed vigilantes began to appear: Silhouette, Mothman, the Comedian, Captain Metropolis, Silk Spectre (Sally Jupiter), and Dollar Bill. Hollis reflect on each of their background and how people thought of them. Regardless of the heroes' reasons and their faults, Hollis believed them to be "doing something because [they] believed in it."

Chapter IV On the suggestion of Captain Metropolis, Sally Jupiter and her agent Laurence Schexnayder, the heroes band together to form the Minutemen in 1939. However, the Minutemen did not last long. The Comedian's attempted rape of Sally Jupiter resulted in his departure from the Minutemen and Sally's decision not to press charges against him, as persuaded by Schexnayder for the group's image. The Comedian soon changed his flimsy costume for leather armor following an unconnected stabbing incident, and became a war hero in the Pacific Theatre during World War Two. Hollis personally hoped that America have a better class of hero than the Comedian.

Problems for the Minutemen further deteriorated. In 1946, a newspaper exposed Silhouette's lesbian relationship with a woman and the group was forced to expel her on Schexnayder's persuasion. Six weeks later, Silhouette was murdered along with her lover by one of her former enemies. In the same year Dollar Bill was shot dead by bank robbers. In 1947, Sally quit crime-fighting and married Schexnayder, and gave birth to her daughter Laurie in 1949. By then the villains that the group fought were less interesting to fight. Their enemies were either imprisoned or moved to less glamorous activities. Among those is Moloch, who began as a stage magician at the age of seventeen and became an flamboyant criminal mastermind before moving into impersonal crimes such as drugs, financial fraud and vice clubs. Hollis concluded that the Minutemen was finished, but it didn't matter. The damage had already been done.

REVIEW

Just so you get a sample of the level of detail in this novel, Rorschach’s speech balloons are normal in the flashbacks and are weird in present day, as he wasn’t unhinged at that time.

This issue is very strong. When these things happened in the film adaptation, I actually saw couples leaving the theater (I think the movie may have had the wrong ad campaign and people thought this was a super-hero story).

There is a vast use of mirrors and reflective surfaces in this issue, following the theme of “reflections” and “flashbacks”.

The use of flashbacks is also justified to understand the ongoing mystery as to who may have killed the Comedian. Usually Flashbacks are hated because they stop the story, but in Watchmen... some characters live everything at the same time, making the term “Flashback” inaccurate. In any case, the Flashbacks are part of the murder mystery, and so is the supplementary material.

To be continued...

[bountyofbeads]

The Hong Kong Democratic Protesters are literally fighting for their freedom against China Authoritarian Communist rule. If the protestors lose this fight, they lose their freedoms forever. WE MUST SUPPORT HONG KONG IN THEIR FIGHT FOR FREEDOM.

Hong Kong's 'front line' protesters explain their stance (VIDEO)

By YANAN WANG | Published August 20, 2019 8:00 AM ET | AP | Posted August 20, 2019 8:20 AM ET |

HONG KONG (AP) — On a recent sweltering Saturday, a day now reserved for protest in Hong Kong, a demonstrator named Wayne stepped past a row of plastic barricades, lifted a pair of binoculars and squinted.

Four hundred meters away, a line of riot police stood with full-length shields, batons and tear-gas launchers.

It was a familiar sight for Wayne after more than two months on the front lines of Hong Kong's turbulent pro-democracy demonstrations. Along with hard hats and homemade shields, face-offs with police have become part of the 33-year-old philosophy professor's new normal.

The stories of Wayne and three other self-described "front line" protesters interviewed by The Associated Press provide insights into how what started as a largely peaceful movement against proposed changes to the city's extradition law has morphed into a summer of tear gas and rubber bullets. They spoke on condition they be identified only by partial names because they feared arrest.

The movement has reached a moment of reckoning after protesters occupying Hong Kong's airport last week held two mainland Chinese men captive, beating them because they believed the men were infiltrating their movement.

In the aftermath, pro-democracy lawmakers and fellow demonstrators — who have stood by the hard-liners even as they took more extreme steps — questioned whether the operation had gone too far.

It was the first crack in what has been astonishing unity across a wide range of protesters that has kept the movement going. It gave pause to the front-liners, who eased off the violence this past weekend, though they still believe their more disruptive tactics are necessary to get the government to answer the broader movement's demands.

The demands grew from opposing legislation that would have allowed Hong Kong residents to be extradited for trials in mainland China's murky judicial system to pressing for democratic elections, Hong Kong leader Carrie Lam's resignation and an investigation into allegations of police brutality at the demonstrations.

The protesters on the front lines are the ones who throw bricks at police and put traffic cones over active tear gas canisters to contain the fumes. They have broken into and trashed the legislature's chambers, blocked a major tunnel under Hong Kong's harbor, besieged and pelted police headquarters with eggs and halted rush-hour subways by blocking the train doors from closing.

To Lam, these are "violent rioters" bent on destroying the city's economy. To China's ruling Communist Party, their actions are "the first signs of terrorism."

To these most die-hard protesters, there's no turning back.

"The situation has evolved into a war in Hong Kong society," said Tin, a 23-year-old front-line demonstrator. "It's the protesters versus the police."

___

When Hong Kong's youth banded together for this summer's protests, they established a few rules: They would not have clear leaders, protecting individuals from becoming symbols or scapegoats. And they would stick together, no matter their methods.

The peaceful protesters would not disavow the more extreme, sometimes violent tactics of the front-liners, who would distract the police long enough for others to escape arrest.

These were lessons learned from 2014, when the Occupy Central pro-democracy movement fizzled after more than two months without winning any concessions. Many involved feel internal divisions partly led to defeat.

Chong, a 24-year-old front-liner, said everyone's opinion is heard and considered, and they decide on the right path together. But no decision is absolute: The demonstrators have pledged to not impede actions they may disagree with.

Two massive marches roused Chong and others who had given up on political change after the failure of Occupy Central, also dubbed the Umbrella Revolution.

On consecutive weekends in June, hundreds of thousands of people took to the streets to oppose the extradition bill. It struck at fears that China is eroding civil rights that Hong Kong residents enjoy under the "one country, two systems" framework.

"I didn't think I would ever do this again," said Chong, who quit his job as an environmental consultant to devote himself to the protests. "But this time, society is waking up."

On June 12, three days after the first march, protesters blocked the legislature and took over nearby streets, preventing the resumption of debate on the extradition bill. Police responded with tear gas and rubber bullets.

Lam suspended the bill indefinitely the day before the second march, but it didn't mollify the protesters, who turned out in even greater numbers.

As their demands expanded, Lam offered dialogue but showed no signs of giving ground.

That's when hard-liners like Chong and Wayne became convinced that peaceful protest might not be enough.

They blocked roads with makeshift barricades and besieged the Chinese government's Liaison Office in Hong Kong, defacing the national seal over its entrance. Week after week, they clashed with police, who became an object of their anger. Every round of tear gas only seemed to deepen their conviction that the government did not care.

"We've had numerous peaceful protests that garnered no response whatsoever from the government," said J.C., a 27-year-old hairstylist who quit his job in July. "Escalating our actions is both natural and necessary."

Then came the "white shirt" attack. On July 21, dozens of men beat people indiscriminately with wooden poles and steel rods in a commuter rail station as protesters returned home, injuring 44. They wore white clothing in contrast to the protesters' trademark black.

A slow police response led to accusations they colluded with the thugs. Police Commissioner Stephen Lo said resources were stretched because of the protests.

Many saw the attack as proof police prioritized catching demonstrators — around 700 have been arrested so far — over more violent criminals. That view has been reinforced by other images, including police firing tear gas at close range and a woman who reportedly lost vision in one eye after being hit by a beanbag round shot by police.

Each accusation of police brutality emboldens the hard-core protesters to use greater violence. Gasoline bombs and other flaming objects have become their projectiles of choice, and police stations are now their main target.

___

In this cauldron of growing rage, the protesters set their sights on Hong Kong's airport.

Hundreds of flights were canceled over two consecutive nights last week as protesters packed the main terminal, blocking access to check-in counters and immigration.

While the major disruption of one of the world's busiest airports got global attention, it was the vigilante attacks on two Chinese men that troubled the movement.

In a written apology the following day, a group of unidentified protesters said recent events had fueled a "paranoia and rage" that put them on a "hair trigger." During the prior weekend's demonstrations, people dressed like protesters had been caught on video making arrests, and police acknowledged use of decoy officers.

At the airport, the protesters were looking for undercover agents in their ranks. Twice they thought they found them.

The first man ran away from protesters who asked why he was taking photos of them. Protesters descended on him, bound his wrists with plastic ties and interrogated him for at least two hours. His ordeal ended only when medics wrested him away on a stretcher.

The second man was wearing a yellow "press" vest used by Hong Kong journalists but refused to show his credentials. In his backpack, protesters found a blue "Safeguard HK" T-shirt worn at rallies to support police.

A small group of protesters repeatedly beat him, poured water on his head and called him "mainland trash." He turned out to be a reporter for China's state-owned Global Times newspaper.

Footage of the mob violence inflamed anti-protester sentiment in China, where the reporter became a martyr. In Hong Kong, pro-democracy lawmakers said it was something that "will not and should not happen again."

Within the movement, some apologized for becoming easily agitated and overreacting. Others questioned whether provocateurs had incited the violence.

Through it all, the front liners called for unity. They pointed to the injuries sustained on their side and the rioting charges that could lock them up for 10 years.

On the night of the airport beating, Wayne couldn't get through the crowd to see what was happening, but he understood how the attackers felt.

"I would have done the same thing," he said. "It's not rational, but I would have kicked him or punched him at least once or twice."

[greenninjagal-blog]

Nine Nails in a Coffin

Summary: Logan is an assassin hired to kill, of all people, a preschool teacher and he has one week do to so. But with a reporter with an infectious smile getting involved, a man Logan’s sure he already killed still walking in the city, and the target himself being the epitome of kindness, it’s going to take him more than one try to get the job done. 

(aka record of the nine times Logan tried to kill Patton and the reasons why he failed)

Words: 2771

Pairings: Eventual Logicality and Prinxiety

Multichapter fic say whatttt

Read on AO3

Logan had to admit this was different than his usual job.

Usually he was adamant about never going back to places he had done previous jobs in, no matter how small the chance was that he’d be recognized. There was something—it didn’t make him quite uncomfortable—but there was something about being back after the unsavory business was over that made Logan’s skin feel tight. Rationally he knew this was impossible, but that didn’t stop him from scratching at his wrists as if he could loosen the skin like he loosened his tie.

Beyond that, this job had a payout thrice as much as his usual. Logan initially had been suspicious of that: more money meant one of two things—someone was very desperate and inexperienced, or there was an outstanding circumstance that was interfering with the accomplishment of the task. Perhaps there was a police guard waiting for him—Logan was not naïve enough to think that they had no clue of his existence, and only a fool would dare the universe to pit his ego against the brute force of the FBI profilers.

Logan was not a fool, so before he had even set foot in the town, he had demanded to know what was so special about Patton Hart.

He hadn’t expected the answer.

The wind tousled his hair, bringing a chill to his cheeks. He checked his watch for the time yet again. A strange sort of impatience settled over him, and it wasn’t like Logan to be impatient. He was calm and critical and passive and above all else planning. He was meticulous with this work, putting together all the information he needed to know about the cases before he carried out his job.

He didn’t miss the city. There were always too many people, too many prying eyes, and eavesdropping ears for his liking. He didn’t like carrying his equipment on the buses or the trains or even taxis, didn’t like the idea of people being in his personal space when he trudged down the sidewalks, didn’t like the feel of the cameras on every corner.

Unfortunately, there weren’t many jobs out in the cabins in the far-off woods where the stars shown through the foliage and the nearest neighbor was still three miles away.

And Logan was aware that his weakness was one of his greatest strengths. His hatred of the city was always overruled by his incessant need to be the best. If he had grown up in a normal life, maybe he might have grown out of it by now, maybe he would be known as that one kid whose hand was the first raised, or who corrected the teacher, who made everyone groan whenever he opened his mouth.

Logan didn’t waste time regretfully mourning the child he might have been.

As it stood, his life had left him with a need to be better than anyone else, and to prove it. A reasonable side effect was that he was completely unable to back down from a challenge.

So, he was in the city once again, a mere year after his last job here, standing albeit impatiently in the skeletal structure of an apartment building that hadn’t been finished yet. Wind danced between the gaps where the windows would one day be, the gray tarps between the sections of the rooms fluttered. White chalk and limestone dust covered the floor which bothered Logan to no end. He had no doubt he’d be long gone before someone (if they ever did) noticed he was there, but it was distasteful.

Down below the plaza was frothing with people enjoying the chilly, yet bright afternoon. It was a hub of movement, drawing people to the fast food stands around the brick area, a fountain that danced with colored lights on Friday nights, and retail shops across the streets. From where he stood Logan could see all the way to the subway exit, where the next train would start spilling out the daily commuters any second.

(Logan had tried to narrow the timing to the very second, but the trains for some reason were never consistent daily)

He leaned forward ever so slightly, focusing his sight through his scope. His lips pressed together in anticipation. His watch chimed once, alerting him to the time. A beat later passengers started escaping from the clearly marked exit.

Logan didn’t have to wait long until he saw what he was looking for: the gray cat cardigan clad clout. His distasteful clothing aside, Logan had found Patton to be rather despicable. He was an unending well of optimism and cheerfulness with absolutely no regard for his own safety. He helped old women cross the street, offered coins to the kids in the plaza so they could make a wish in the fountain, offered whatever small dollars he had to the homeless on the street (whom he knew by name and stopped to talk to most days). His day job was that of a preschool teacher during the school year and a baker during the summer, with the weekends free to help in the soup kitchen and food banks respectively.

Logan had spent weeks watching him move about, gathering intel, trying to see what the others before him hadn’t. But the more he watched the more frustrated he became. Patton Hart was…good. Despicably good and pure and kind and all the things that Logan had long since deemed he himself was not.

It made absolutely no sense for him to be on this job either. Patton was careless and reckless and passionate about the strangest of things: given free reign and no supervision, he was likely to get himself killed from running in front of a car to save a baby bird in the street. Logan was not needed here.

And yet…

Logan tracked the path that Patton was walking breathing through his mouth. He allowed his lips to pull into a tight, firm smile. Of course, Patton would be skipping over the cracks in the stone. Logan waited his finger hovering over the trigger, counting the nanoseconds as he did. He watched the crowd too, looking for movement that would suggest a some unfortunate happenstance of someone walking in the way of his shot.

Another breath.

He angled his shot by instinct (having calculated the math far too many times at this point to need to do it again; he could see when he was off now, and he was never off). He wondered ideally if Patton was aware he was about to die: aware that someone wanted him dead, and badly.

Logan wondered if anyone would ever miss him as much as the people in this world were going to miss Patton.

Then his fingered tightened and the trigger squeezed and the bullet went flying, with barely a sound to be heard.

Logan pulled back from his station watching the chaos that was bound to happen: Patton hit the ground and several people ran towards him.

But they weren’t screaming. Why weren’t they screaming? Even from up here Logan should have heard them panicking, someone should have called the police by now, and the sirens should have screamed through the city. Logan should have been halfway down the stairs and well on his way out of town.

The crowd around Patton shifted just enough that Logan had to curse.

Because there the fool was, perfectly fine with a smile so big and bright Logan could see it from up here. He held up something in his hand—for an irrational second Logan was convinced it was the bullet and that Patton had mystically caught it before it had blown out the man’s medulla. But that wasn’t the case, couldn’t be the case. Patton was normal person, an average person.

Logan watched as he handed off whatever was in his hand to a kid, who raced with a couple others over the fountain and tossed the invisible object in the water spouts.

A coin, most likely a penny.

He quickly lined up another shot, but the crowd was too thick. Logan was more likely to hit a passerby than hit Patton, and he was not a fan of a riot that would be started if he open fired on the square.

Logan rolled his tongue over his teeth, with frustrated amusement. Patton seemed completely unaware that he had just nearly been killed and all that had saved him was a bit of luck. Logan didn’t miss. He never missed.

Logan guessed he would have to do this another way then.

He always did like a bit of a challenge.

It took him thirty seconds to pack his gear into his prepared bag and another one hundred forty to get down the building. He exited the construction site on the far exit, sticking to the shadows and walking with a purpose that discouraged people from stopping him or something worse like remembering him. He twisted his watch around his wrist stopping at the far end of the plaza where Patton would inevitably walk by once, he was done talking to the homeless veteran who had the dog about joining him at the soup kitchen on Sunday. Logan leaned back against the brick building, casually reaching in his jacket pocket for the 45 Glock.

Logan was by no means someone who liked to get up close and personal with his targets. He preferred the distance shot, with ample time to remove all traces of his existence in the area like a ghost. Cornered people who knew they were on death’s doorstep tended to be so much more….emotional. As such they did unpredictable things in desperation, things Logan couldn’t account for or counter. He had learned his lesson after the first two times: keep the distance, keep them naïve.

He waited patiently for Patton to come, so he could end this and leave and never come back.

He did not expect someone else to come hurling around the corner seconds before Patton was to come—much less crash head first into him. Logan spit out a curse toppling to the ground and rolling over his bag full of weapons. His Glock spun out of his hand and his glasses disappeared into the blurry other world.

“Oh fuck,” A voice said originating from a black and indigo mass. “I’m so sorry—"

It cut off as suddenly as it had come. Logan frantically grabbed around for where his glasses could possibly have ended up. This was the worst possible moment for this to happen. He had things to do! And here he was completely defenseless on the ground like some joke of a cartoon character--

“Oh dear!” Another voice popped up, “Here you are, Kiddo!”

Logan blinked twice as his glasses were returned to his hands and his vision was restored from the blurry chaos to the stiff order of the natural world. The momentary panic had barely faded from his mind before he realized exactly who was offering him a hand to get up.

Logan felt as if someone had dumped him into an ice bath without warning. His chest frozen, his mind refused to string together his list of priorities, his own body betrayed him allowing him to remain paralyzed at the site of Patton Hart smiling down at him in that ridiculous cat hoodie.

“You had quite the spill there, kiddo!” The other man said joyously. “Are you alright?”

Logan’s jaw creaked as he worked to move it, “Fine.”

This was his chance: to kill the fool and get away and leave. It would be so easy a simple quick squeeze of the trigger. Patton would be dead before he hit the ground. Logan would be gone before anyone could react.

Where was his Glock?

That was the moment when Logan saw exactly who it was that had run into.

Logan doesn’t miss. He doesn’t. He’s notorious for his impeccable aim, his ability to mathematically calculate the wind direction, the altitude, the speed of movement of the target all in the matter of seconds. He’s got a perfect record and its longer than number of zeroes on the end of this job. What happened with Patton was a complete fluke.

So why is he staring at the face of the man he murdered one year ago.

And there was no denying it: Logan had a near perfect memory of every person he had ever taken out. He clearly remembered the chill that had gone through him when Virgil Storm looked up in the middle of that same plaza one year ago as if he could see—really see—Logan from all the way down there. Virgil had stopped the second Logan had pulled the trigger, and Logan remembered perfectly clear the vision of the purple clad young adult falling to the ground in a splattering of red matter.

He had shot Virgil Storm and had killed him.

He had gotten paid for it and never heard about it again.

From the look on Virgil’s face he knew it too.

“Everything okay there?” Patton asked again, “Do you need me to get you something? Ice? I know the owner of that café around the corner—”

“Pat!” Virgil cut him off, “It’s time to go!”

“Wha—”

“Things to do! People to greet!” Virgil shoved Patton from behind, pushing him well out of Logan’s reach. He didn’t dare take his eyes off Logan. He knew. Logan wasn’t sure why that seemed to terrify him.

It didn’t make sense. Logan’s brain tried to come to a conclusion: why Virgil was here, alive, why he had never heard that he had failed, why no one had ever demanded that be fixed, why Virgil even recognized him. He came up blank.

“It was good to meet you!” Patton yelled over his shoulder.

Logan did not go after either of them for a full minute. He sat on the ground desperately grabbing for a bit of sanity to anchor him here. Oblivious citizens walked around him talking on the phones, chatting with each other, checking their watches. Logan didn’t see his gun anywhere.

He slowly crawled to his feet, using the brick wall to steady himself when he swayed dangerously.

He was the best. He didn’t ever miss.

If anyone found out about this his perfect record would be forever stained. He refused to let that happen, refused to let his reputation be tarnished by a boy in a purple sweatshirt and another who taught preschoolers for a living. Logan had grown up learning all the basics to killing people, his family had been assassins and hitmen since they had first been established. Logan was the product of the two most legendary killers in the world.

So, there was only one thing he could do: kill both Patton Hart and Virgil Storm before anyone found out about this unfortunate set back.

Yes, that sounded adequate. Logan reached up, adjusted his tie, and started planning the next of his multiple attempts---

****

“Wait, wait, wait!” The man reached across the table and paused the audio recording, “Are you seriously telling me that Logan Codex attempted to kill Patton Hart eight different times?”

Roman blinked up at the man surprised, “Nine, actually. Which you would know if you let me finish—”

“Nine fucking times?”

“Hey, watch the language there, buddy.” Roman waved a hand good naturedly for a man who was at the other end of an interrogation table. He appeared to be more at ease than anyone else in the entire building: slumped shoulders, feet on the table, and hands that danced while he talked. He was smirking in a smug sort of way that only reporters ever seemed to have.

“Tell me again how you came to be aware of this, Mr. Prince.”

Roman leaned back on the two feet of his chair, “I thought I already told you this, Detective. That weekend was the opening for Storytime.”

The Detective stared blankly at him for a moment before Roman huffed.

“Storytime. You know, the famous play starring Thomas Sanders? I was sent by my company to cover the premier.”

“Yeah but how did you get involved with the Codex and Hart Business?”

Roman wrinkled his nose, “I was telling a story, you know.”

“I don’t have time for a story, Prince.” The Detective snarled, “I need the answers now.”

“You can’t possibly hope to understand the answers without listening to the story.” Roman snorted, almost offended at the mere suggestion. “Nothing is ever as it seems!”

“Cut the bullshit and tell me what happened.”

Roman laughed, and it filled the room with an unpleasant feeling. “Oh, but Detective!” He said carting a hand through his bangs, “Where’s the fun in that?”

Ch2

[loudlytransparenttrash]

I'm so sick of seeing things based on the travon Martin and/or Mike Brown stories that make it seem like there is some sort of hunt for innocent black people and the evil whites tm don't care. There's a show called "rest in power" and then some dumb movie coming out based on those cases. Why are bad people being treated like insperational martyrs when one beat a man half to death and the other robbed a store and charged a cop?

Yep, I’ve been over this many times throughout my blog so I’ll just compile it in this reply so you can get all the information and sources without having to scroll endlessly through my blog :) xx 

Narrative: A young innocent African-American gentle giant who couldn’t harm a fly was for no reason shot by a murderous racist cop while he had his hands up begging not to be shot. Some even say that he was kneeling while the cop assassinated him, some say the cop stood over him and shot him in the head. These narratives quickly sparked BLM and their campaign of Hands Up, Don’t Shoot and was used as the justification of extensive violent rioting and looting.

Reality: Michael Brown robbed a store, grabbed and shoved the store attendant before walking out with his stolen items. In the official DOJ report, it shows the officer came across Brown after the robbery went over the police radio, this wasn’t a random targeting of a black male. As the cop went to get out of his car, Brown slammed the officer’s door shut, reached in and began attacking the cop. When the cop pulled his gun, Brown went for it and tried to take it from him. A shot was let off and the bullet hit Brown’s hand. Brown ran so the officer followed, ordering Brown to stop. Brown turned and charged towards the officer and after several more demands for Brown to stop, the cop fired. 

Several witnesses provided testimony that supports these accounts. Blood spatter analysis, shell casings and ballistics tests also confirm it. The autopsy report showed that Brown had a graze wound on his thumb which contained matter “consistent with products that are discharged from the barrel of a firearm that can only happen in close range,” so close that there was no stippling, a patterning of gunpowder that won’t appear within an inch of the gun’s barrel. As Medical Examiner Judy Melinek said “this guy’s reaching for the gun.” 

The official report further backs up the altercation at the car with Brown’s skin was found on the exterior door of the vehicle. Blood from Brown was found on the officer’s uniform, police car and gun. The autopsy even shows Brown wasn’t shot with his hands up. According to the autopsy report, the gunshot wound to Brown’s upper dorsal right arm demonstrated that the direction could not have happened if Brown’s palms had been up, facing the cop and surrendering. It also proves that he was not running away but rather lunging towards the officer. The entire “Hands Up, Don’t Shoot” is a catchy slogan for the BLM movement but it’s one that is entirely unsubstantiated and completely fabricated. 

But of course, aggrieved blacks, social justice activists, the media, celebrities and Brown’s family lawyers had already developed their story long before any facts were released. Brown’s mother made it clear she will not accept any autopsy or DOJ report that proves the officer was telling the truth. Something you won’t ever see in these documentaries - The DOJ report reveals that this race-baiting narrative was being whipped up instantly after the shooting: 

According to Witness 102, crowds of people had begun to gather, wrongly claiming the police shot Brown for noreason and that he had his hands up in surrender. Two black women approached Witness 102,mobile phones set to record, asking him to recount what he had witnessed. Witness 102responded that they would not like what he had to say. The women responded with racial slurs,calling him names like “white motherf-ker.” This bi-racial witness stated that he thought he had witnessed a cop killing as Brown took off running from the police vehicle after a shot was let off while Brown was “wrestling” through the window. Brown stopped then charged at the officer. Witness 102 was in disbelief that the cop “kept missing” because Brown keptadvancing forward. 

Black witnesses also came forward to provide statements, shown in the report. Witness 103 was a 58-year-old black male. He said he saw Brown punching the officer at least three times in the facial area, through the opendriver’s window of the vehicle, while the officer was leaning back towardthe passenger seat with his forearm up in an effort to block the blows. The witness heard a gunshot and explained that Brown took off running before coming to a stop. Brown turned around to face the officer, his hands were then down at his sides. Brown started “moving fast” toward the cop. Witness 103 said Brown never had his hands up. 

Witness 105 was a 50-year-old black female. She noticed Brown’s hands on the officer’s car after the first gunshot grabbed her attention. Brown then ran and the officer chased after him. Witness 105 explained thatBrown put his hands up “for a brief moment,” and then turned around and puthis hands down “in a running position.” She said the officer told Brown to “get down,” but Brown did not comply. Witness 105 stated the officer only shot at Brown when Brown wasmoving toward him. Like Witness 103, she was afraid to come forward due to pressure by the community. She explained that she was coming forwardbecause in speaking with her neighbors, she realized that what they believed had happened wasinconsistent with what actually happened. 

Witness 104 was a bi-racial female. She said Brown was leaning inside the police vehicle. She heard a gunshot then saw Brown run from the car, followed by the officer who hopped out of the SUV and ranafter him while yelling “stop, stop, stop.” She said the officer did not fire his gun as Brown ran from him.Brown then turned around and quickly “balled up in fists” in a running position and “charged”at the officer. The witnessed described it as a “tackle run,” explaining that Brown “wasn’t going tostop.” The officer fired his gun only as Brown charged at him, backing up each time Brownran toward the officer. At no time did Brown get shot with his hands up, according to the witness. 

Witness 108 was a 74-year-old black male. He stated to detectives that the shooting was justified, but repeatedly refused to give formal statements to law enforcementfor fear of reprisal should the neighborhood find out that his account corroboratedthe police officer’s. Witness 108 refused to identify himself but told detectives that the police officer was “in the right” and “did what he had todo,” and that the statements made by people in the apartment complex were inaccurate. He reluctantly explained to detectives thatthe officer told Brown to “stop” or “get down” at least ten times, but instead Brown “charged” at him. Witness 108 repeatedly expressed fear in coming forward, citing community sentiment to support a “hands up” surrender narrative as his reason to remain silent. He explained that he would rather go to jail than testify publicly before the county grand jury. 

All throughout the witness reports, majority of them being black, there is a clear trend of fear of community backlash against anyone going against the “hands up, don’t shoot” story. This pack mentality within black communities is nothing new, but it does show how easy it is for a false racial narrative to spread across the media and country and become a mantra of the professional race agitators as the truth is stifled and forced into silence. Michael Brown’s movie is told through the lens of his family, which et’s remember his parents have already said that they will never accept any alternative findings other than their son was targeted for being black and gunned down by a racist cop for no other reason.

As for the Rest in Power series, it’s the same deal. It’s framed as a truth telling documentary, but all the inconvenient facts are left out because a story about a violent thug being killed in self-defense isn’t as profitable or politicizing as an innocent black youth being slain by an evil racist. From the very beginning, it was obvious they were setting up the Trayvon Martin killing badly by turning it into a giant racial atrocity. George Zimmerman had been tried and convicted in the media and public opinion before any facts were released, with the case almost uniformly being portrayed as racially motivated, and the wearing of a hoodie by a young black male as the symbol. Even Obama framed the case in racial terms. 

In trying to turn the case into a racial narrative, the initial burst of publicity and activism turned on Trayvon wearing a hoodie. The Hoodie has become the symbol of protests and the entire make-believe narrative of the shooting, based on the assertion that Zimmerman found Trayvon suspicious simply because he was wearing a hoodie. But in audio tape in which Zimmerman mentions a hoodie, it’s clear that a hoodie was only ever mentioned in response to a later question by the 911 operator who asked Zimmerman what the person was wearing. The dispatcher asks, “Did you see what he was wearing?” which Zimmerman replies, “Yeah a grey hoodie, either jeans or sweatpants and white tennis shoes.” This is the only mention of Trayvon’s hoodie, and it was among a description which included several other pieces of clothing. 

Still, from images of former Michigan Gov. Jennifer Granholm wearing a hoodie, to the “million hoodie march,” to Havard law students wearing hoodies with a sign “Do we look suspicious?,” to Congressman Bobby Rush appearing on the House floor in a hoodie, the hoodie has come to symbolize the alleged “racial profiling” by Zimmerman which led to him shooting Trayvon. While Trayvon was wearing a hoodie that night, there is nothing to suggest that Trayvon was considered suspicious by Zimmerman for that reason. Despite this lack of evidence of the wearing of a hoodie as an actual factor in the case, the hoodie today remains the symbol of the case.

The racial narrative is based on multiple other falsehoods, the first major one being the NBC News doctoring of police audio in which it falsely made it seem as though Zimmerman said he was following Trayvon because Trayvon was black. But that’s not what happened. Zimmerman once again only mentioned race when the police operator asked about race. The dispatcher asks, “Is he white, black or Hispanic?” and Zimmerman replies, “He looks black.” Seconds later as Trayvon walks closer to him with his hand inside his waistband, Zimmerman confirms to the dispatcher that he is a black male. This is the only mention of race, only after the 911 dispatcher asked the question. 

There also was the claim that Zimmerman used the term “f-king coons” on the police tape. But that was debunked early on. One of hottest topics of argument had been whether George Zimmerman said “f-king coons” under his breath on the 911 tape. The left-blogosphere has used the alleged racial epithet endlessly to paint this as a racially motivated hate crime. In the Affidavit of Probable Cause, State of Florida investigators swore under oath that Zimmerman used the term “f-king punks.” Feeding the media racial narrative, there was also widespread but false claims that neo-Nazis were patrolling the neighborhood where the shooting took place, even though Sanford Police denied this. 

An extensive FBI investigation found no history of racism in Zimmerman’s past. To push the race-baiting narrative, Zimmerman continues to be described as “white” when he’s very clearly Hispanic. Have you guys ever seen photos of him? The dude ain’t white. Also, a year before the incident, Zimmerman had angrily spoken out against the son of a white police lieutenant who had beaten a black man. Zimmerman had also tutored black children for free in his spare time, he was a Democrat, he voted for Obama, yet he is painted as a white supremacist and racist who assassinated an innocent black male for no other reason than Trayvon was black. 

One of the most believed false narrative of the case is that George Zimmerman supposedly was told by the police dispatcher not to leave his car, but did so against police instructions. This allegation is used to claim that the entire confrontation was Zimmerman’s fault, and had he merely followed police instructions, nothing would have happened. But Zimmerman was not in his car at the time of the comment “we don’t need you to do that.” The audio tape proves at no time was Zimmerman ever told to stay in his car. Trayvon had become aware that he was under observation and started circling Zimmerman’s car while Zimmerman was requesting the police. At about the two minute mark Trayvon runs, and Zimmerman loses sight of him. When Zimmerman did exit the vehicle it was in direct response to the dispatcher asking him to report the direction of Trayvon’s travel.

The dispatcher testified at the trial that dispatchers are prohibited from giving orders over the phone because they are not physically on the scene and may inadvertently direct the caller into greater danger. When the dispatcher asked if Zimmerman was still following the direction that Trayvon ran, Zimmerman said yes, that is when the dispatcher said they don’t need him to do that and Zimmerman replied “OK.” There is not a single piece of evidence - none - that suggests Zimmerman continued to follow Trayvon after this point. Of course, Trayvon would ultimately launch his attack on Zimmerman right at the corner of the building where Zimmerman complied with the dispatcher’s suggestion to stay where he is. If Trayvon had truly been fleeing from a frightening Zimmerman, he had more than enough time to reach the safety of his father’s girlfriend’s condo.

The other most believed narrative is that Florida’s Stand Your Ground law was invoked in Zimmerman’s defense. That’s not true, it was never invoked. It made sense for Zimmerman not to rely on SYG, because Stand Your Ground would only be relevant if Zimmerman had a route of exit, but the shooting took place while Zimmerman was on his back on the grass, his head having been pounded on the pavement and being beaten relentlessly by Trayvon. All witnesses say exactly the same thing. Trayvon was on top of Zimmerman, beating his head into the ground as Zimmerman was screaming for help. Blacktivists claim that it was Trayvon calling for help, but it’s been long confirmed that it was indeed Zimmerman crying for help. Zimmerman had a broken nose, two black eyes and cuts to the back of his head where Trayvon slammed Zimmerman’s head repeatedly into the ground. Forensic analysis also demonstrated that the trajectory of the single shot and burns on Trayvon’s sweatshirt were consistent with Zimmerman being on his back with Trayvon hovering over him at the time of the shot. Since Zimmerman was pinned to the ground, he didn’t need to invoke SYG because there was no reasonable means of avoidance. The race-agitators then argue “but Trayvon was just a kid and Zimmerman was a man,” yet forget to mention that Trayvon was far bigger, taller and in far better physical shape than Zimmerman. 

Of course this case is one of the many that are exploited and twisted by race hustlers like Al Sharpton and BLM to prove the existence of oppression and victimization of blacks. There have been plenty of cases, such as with Roderick Scott, a black man in New York who shot and killed an unarmed white teenager. A jury found Scott to be not guilty of murder because Scott had killed the teen in self-defense. Scott was found not guilty for the same reason that Zimmerman was found not guilty. Both killings were done in self-defense, but you will never hear about this case because only black people are murdered and only white people are found not guilty, remember? Pretty much every legal scholar who has closely followed the Martin-Zimmerman case said that the verdict was correct, Zimmerman had indeed acted in self-defense. 

Again, there is no question that the documentary makers and journalists will leave these facts out. I bet they also won’t tell you how a search of Trayvon’s backpack showed it to contain a dozen pieces of women’s jewelry, including silver wedding rings and earrings with diamonds, as well as a screwdriver which is often used as a burglary tool. They won’t ever tell you this because it gives credibility to Zimmerman’s claim on the 911 call that Trayvon was acting suspiciously around the houses and the reason Zimmerman was on alert was because he was in charge of the neighborhood watch and there had been many burglaries recently committed by youth. Trayvon’s autopsy showed marijuana in his system, which also verifies Zimmerman’s claim on the 911 call that Trayvon was acting like he was on drugs.

The verdict came as no surprise to those of actually following the evidence. It came as a shock to those who bought into the false narratives, evident by the eruption on social media, the mass rioting and outbreak of violence and the eventual beginnings of Black Lives Matter, who carried these false narratives and deceit into the Michael Brown case and have since continued to glorify and martyr criminals in their efforts to demonize police officers, blame whites and demand reparations for this this make-believe targeting and oppression. 

When it first happened, I was all about social justice and I was as outraged as anyone as I heard about these black youths being executed by crooked racist cops and white supremacists simply for being black. I get questions all the time about what made me abandon the left and these activist groups such as BLM and feminism and this is it. It’s the lies, deceit and the searing, irrational hatred for anyone who dares questions it. It’s also the constant state of victimization that one must be confined to in order to maintain the worldview of racial oppression in the United States. I keep hearing aggrieved blacks say “Zimmerman will come for me next, he will come for my child next.” Why on earth would anyone worry that Zimmerman might “come for them next”? Is it because they are planning to break Zimmerman’s nose, give him two black eyes and smash his head against the ground while thundering down punches to his face? Or, is it because they’ve foolishly believed Zimmerman “murdered” and “executed” Trayvon Martin for being black? 

Black youth are in danger but it’s not white men or white cops killing them. 93 percent of black murder victims are murdered by other blacks. Over 1400 more black Americans were killed by other blacks between 2010 and 2011 than the total number of blacks lynched between 1882 to 1968. Despite making up just 13 percent of the population, blacks committed half of homicides in the U.S. for nearly 30 years. In 2012, blacks at just a fifth of the size committed almost 1000 more murders than their white counterparts. The murder rate for 20 to 24-year-old blacks is 17 times higher than the rate for whites the same age. Black-on-white murder is more than double the rate of white-on-black murder. Black males are 7 percent of the population but are responsible for over 40 percent of cop killings. Blacks are 18.5 times more likely to kill a cop than be killed by cops. It would take cops 40 years to kill as many black men that have died at the hands of others black men in 2012 alone. Black and Hispanic police officers are more likely to fire a gun at black suspects than white officers. 

Black youth are being taught to see oppression and white supremacy where it does not exist while embracing and glorifying the “culture” that sees murder and crime rates only comparable to the Third World. They’re taught to celebrate and martyr criminals and that consequences and the law is a conspiracy carried out only against victimized black people. There’s not a single piece of evidence that supports the narrative of innocent blacks being gunned down by police for sport. There’s absolutely zero evidence of systemic discrimination. It’s a fable that can only be believed if you confine your worldview to Malcom X and Al Sharpton’s radicalized race conflict theories. There’s no big evil white police force dedicated to eradicating the black population. There may be some racist cops, but to imply that all law enforcement exists only to kill and lock up innocent blacks is one of the most dangerous myths of our time. If cops really wanted blacks dead, they’d stop patrolling and serving black neighborhoods as black delinquents are already doing a pretty good job at wiping each other out.

BLM chant a slogan that implies they care about the wellbeing of black people, but they always go silent the second the slogan could actually be useful for advancing the wellbeing of black Americans. The only time they’re provoked into action is when the situation doesn’t warrant it, such as the times a black person is shot during the commission of a crime. They’re nowhere to be found when they’re most needed, such as when discussing how to lower black crime rates, homicide, drop out rates, gangs, single mothers, broken families, health and abortion. These are the real problems destroying black lives, yet Black Lives Matter will only ever show up when a police shooting can be twisted and spun into a cool new hashtag, sparking another violent riot and more looting where more black business owners and black citizens will have their property damaged and stolen by their supposed saviors.