#buddy roosevelt

[nientedal]

wish the megawhiners would stop tagging their fucking hate. go make a "megacritical" tag or some shit and stop being so boring and annoying in the megamind one, ugh.

time to go on a blocking spree lmao.

[doortotomorrow]

Cooper Howard - "Roosevelt, I'm sorry you can't come, buddy...I'm heading into enemy territory."

[youcalledmebabe]

my favorite bits of web lore from parachute infantry:

he was a new deal democrat and voted for the first time during the war. “I had to walk almost 2 miles to cast my ballot, but I would have walked 10, if necessary, because this was my first vote—I was 22 in June—and I had always wanted to cast it for Roosevelt, the greatest president we had ever had, and the only one who ever gave the working man a break.”

he describes Doc Roe as having “a warm, brave heart.” has anybody ever considered webroe…? there’s about as much basis for it as webgott, historically speaking 💀

he seemed to have lone wolf tendencies. “Actually, I was quite happy to be on my own. Looking out for myself was something I always liked to do. It was the one thing I could do better than anybody else.” 

he was sooo dramatic. “I should have known better than to dream, for whatever dreams I might have had all ended when I was sixteen, and had run away to Gloucester to ship out on a fishing schooner. The schooners were diesel hulks, so I went back to school. That was the way my dreams always ended. The army was no different.”

noted fan of springtime. “It’s going to be an early spring, I thought, feeling a great relief. Maybe things will be better now; they are always better in the spring.”

believed in/was spooked by the stories of a ghost horse cart following them around the front. “It must be the ghost that’s followed us through Europe, I thought with a shiver, for the sound did not seem wholly real—who would have the nerve to walk a horse drawn wagon along the front in a city under such heavy artillery fire? …Some of the men used to speculate about it. They thought that it was the ghost of a supply cart that had gotten a direct hit, and that the driver was homesick for his old outfit. So every night he’d come back and visit his buddies on the line.” apparently Nixon also believed this… where my ghost story fics at?

allergic to change: “The essence of life is change, not stability, but I can’t get used to it; I want everything to stay the way it is.”

thinks the reason lieb is the way he is is because “he was from the far west.” he and joe actually have very little interaction at all and he doesn’t have much to say about him. Tom Hanks rpf is fine strikes again

was drunk on iced tea and gin all the time at the end of the war

gets so mad about doing a final parade when his points came through that he “was in a mood to bayonet babies and roast both colonels over small fires.” immediately after that says what he “planned for peacock was unprintable.” this is the final time peacock is mentioned… guess they never made up

he really hated the army and the Nazis in a way that I feel like the show dropped by the final episode. like I think the real web would’ve shot the guy on the mountain. but that’s a discussion I’d like to have later

anyway he was smart and funny and a good writer and so full of life and i’m very sad about what happened to him

[alovelywaytospendanevening]

Pickfair was a sprawling estate in Beverly Hills, California purchased and further renovated in 1919 by silent film actress Mary Pickford and her husband Douglas Fairbanks, the "Queen and King of Hollywood." The 25-room mansion was named by combining parts of their last names ("Pick" + "fair").

Pickfair was considered one of the most celebrated private homes of America, and became a famous symbol of Hollywood glamour and excess in the 1920s/30s. It hosted iconic parties with famous guests like Charlie Chaplin, Albert Einstein, Amelia Earhart, Helen Keller, F. Scott Fitzgerald and presidents Coolidge and Roosevelt. Life magazine described it as “a gathering place only slightly less important than the White House… and much more fun.”

After divorcing Douglas Fairbanks in 1936, Mary Pickford married actor Charles "Buddy" Rogers and continued living in Pickfair until her death, in 1979. A new owner, actress Pia Zadora, eventually demolished the mansion in 1990, despite some outcry. Zadora later claimed the place was haunted: “You can deal with termites, and you can deal with plumbing issues, but you can’t deal with the supernatural.”

A new mansion stands on the site bearing no resemblance to the original Pickfair.

[alliluyevas]

Overall, the bluest names with at least 5,000 major-party voters are Imani, Latoya and Tamika for women and Jermaine, Darnell and Malik for men. On the other side of the political divide, we find Brayden, Colton and Tanner for Republican men and Darla, Misty and — ironically for the party of Lincoln —Dixie for women. Incredibly, some names switch parties depending on whether you give them to a boy or a girl. Most women named Laverne are Democrats, while most male Lavernes register Republican. Tyler, Dylan and Toby see similar splits. Jean and Shelly swing in the opposite direction: A female Jean is more than twice as likely to register Republican as a male Jean would be. The politics of a name also depend on the era in which it was chosen. For older Democrats of both genders, Willie is one of the bluest names, as are Roosevelt (for men) and Hyacinth and Queen for women. For younger women, the equivalent names would be Imani and Ayanna. For younger men, they’re Malik and Jermaine.

For young Republican men, the most partisan names are Brock or Colton, while their retirement-age friends see a strong rightward lean when they meet a Galen or a Brent. For Republican women, young Gracie and Bailee give way to older Leann and Jolene. A select few names have also changed their political polarity over time. The most obvious? If you meet a woman named Reagan age 45 or older, when the name was rather rare, she’s probably a Democrat. If you meet a Reagan age 44 or younger — and therefore born after GOP phenomenon Ronald Reagan won the 1980 presidential election — she’s much more likely to register Republican. More often, though, the trend runs in the opposite direction: Older folks register Republican more often than their younger buddies with the very same name, presumably because younger voters lean left. We see old Republicans and young Democrats all named Terrell, Dwayne and Darrell — names that further analysis shows either belong to younger Black men or older White ones. We also see that pattern with women’s names that lost popularity among White people: Janet, Darlene and Karla have grown more Democratic as they’ve grown more Hispanic. Similarly, Joy has moved left as it has been adopted by more Black women, and Kathy followed suit as its popularity grew among their Asian and Hispanic friends. Among women, only Mattie and Gracie shift left among older voters. Further analysis shows both tend to belong either to older Black women or younger White ones. For men, we see the same trend in Old Testament favorites such as Levi and Seth. In perhaps related news, the most common surname for a Seth in his 5os or 60s, when they lean left, is “Cohen.” The top surname for a Seth in his 20s or 30s, when they lean right, is “Johnson.”

this is very interesting. I'm assuming that most female Jeans are old white women and male Jeans are likely Haitian or from French-speaking African countries. Hyacinth is also interesting as it's an extremely uncommon name in general and I don't think associated with any particular ethnic group.

[klausinamarink]

Easy Promises

rating: T | cw: cancer, mentioned child abuse | tags: pre-relationship, Steve has good parents, childhood friends, reunion, Theodore is Eddie’s full name agenda | wc: 956

written for @steddieholidaydrabbles | Dec 14: Angst with happy ending

When Steve was eleven, he was told that he was going to die. Naturally, he burst into tears. His mother immediately pulled him to her chest, shushing him gently while his father yelled at their doctor.

“He’s just a child!”

“It’s important for your son to know that leukemia isn’t possible to survive-”

“Bullshit!”

Steve cried harder in his mother’s arms, even after they left the office.

Back home, his mother knelt down, looked Steve in the eye, and said, “You are going to live, baby. You are still going to grow up to be a smart, healthy man. You will fight that cancer and live.”

It was easy to make a promise. It was harder to follow through it.

After the urgent move to Indianapolis, Steve’s days fell into a blur of check-ups, medicine, throwing up, and exhaustion. He spent more days at the hospital than at his new school. He wasn’t sure which place was worse. The clinical words and smells with thin blankets and more sick children like him or the classrooms where apologetic teachers gave him too many lavish gifts while the other kids avoided him.

But there was one boy who declared himself as Steve’s buddy. Steve thought he would hate Theodore Munson, but he didn’t. Theodore (“Just Teddy! My full name makes me feel like I’m Roosevelt.”) never stared at Steve or asked about his leukemia or poked at his thin arms. Instead, Teddy always asked how his day went and listened to every word, even if it was a foggy repetition of hospital visits. If Steve said he was tired, Teddy never announced it to their teachers and just silently offered some cookies or juice under their desks. During recess and lunch, Teddy sat next to him and spoke excitedly about the new comics or movies Steve never had the chance to check himself.

It was always nice listening to Teddy talk. Way better than a doctor reading his statistics aloud like it was an eulogy.

When the chemotherapy inevitably snuck into his schedule, Steve cried and begged everyone to keep his hair. He was already The Kid With Cancer. He didn’t want his hair shaved off.

Nobody listened to him.

A couple days later, Steve wore a Reds cap. He refused to wear the knitted wool hat his Nana had made for him like he was five again. That would just push his classmates into bullying him for real.

He came to school late, not wanting to join the student crowd. He stopped when he saw Teddy sitting on the steps, his shaven head in his arms.

For a second, Steve thought that Teddy somehow knew and wanted to shave his hair in solidarity. And then Teddy looked up and he saw a nasty black eye. They stared at each other for a long time until both of their eyes welled up in tears.

“Your hair’s gone.” Teddy said wetly after they ran into each other for a hug.

“So ‘s yours.” Steve sniffs, daring himself to pat the buzzed scalp.

“My dad got mad last night.”

Teddy told him about his dad enough that his muffled words made Steve tighten his grip. “At least you’re not dying.”

Teddy barked out a wet laugh, “Just don’t leave me first.”

It was an easy promise to accept. Except it was already broken when Teddy never showed at school the next day. And then Steve was alone again.

—

I’m in remission. I still have a future. I’m going to live. Steve repeated that mantra to himself in his car, staring from afar at the ominous entrance of Hawkins High.

It had been a good year and a half since the doctors finally gave the good news. Steve was always a crier, but he’d only stared up at the ceiling in silent disbelief while his parents wept joyfully. The news never really hit him until two months later, when he touched an inch of new hair in the bathroom, and then sobbed and thanked God for letting him live.

Even if that little what if it comes back lingered in the back of his mind.

Now, he was thrown back to Hawkins, which included starting his sophomore year in person.

But old habits still stayed. Steve kept seated in his car and watched the other students walk inside while they laughed with healthy smiles. Even after the bell rang, he stayed. After a good five minutes, Steve’s courage returned and he stepped out.

He only took three steps when a van suddenly appeared, scaring the shit out of him with a blaring honk. Steve jumped back and flipped the driver off. “Watch it, asshole!” He stomped away, his mood broken further by the van’s door opening. Great, now he’s gonna be in a shouting match in front of the school-

“Steve?”

He froze. Turned around slowly.

Teddy, all dressed in some dark clothes with long hair. Teddy, who stared back at him with wide eyes. Teddy, Teddy, Teddy-

Steve wasn’t sure who ran towards the other first, but it was Steve who hugged the tightest and cried first.

“Holy shit,” Teddy laughed wetly in his ear, “Your hair-” He leaned away so his hands were placed on both sides of Steve’s head. They felt warm and oddly right. “You look so much healthier…”

Steve just smiled, a little blush in his cheeks as he said, “I got better.” He watched as the realization dropped on Teddy in real time. Then he was pulled into a more tighter and fiercer hug, already feeling a wet patch on his shoulder.

There were definitely lots of things they needed to catch up on. But Steve’s more contempt in sharing his warmth with his friend.

[octuscle]

I’ve always been a good person or at least I like to think of myself as one. Always worried and being considerate of others. Some times I wonder what life would be like if I wasn’t and didn’t care like some fuck boy. Is there anything the chronivac can do to help me experience this for a day?

Little Italy of all places! Couldn't his secretary have found anything worse? If your name is Gianni Lombardi and you stay in a hotel room in Little Italy, everyone must assume that you are Italian. Gianni's great-great-grandfather was his last ancestor who was born in Italy. His great-great-grandmother came from Germany. There was hardly a drop of Italian blood in his veins. And Gianni had often wondered why his parents, who were called Stephen and Kathrin, had given him an Italian first name.

And now he was standing in the lobby of this shabby hotel, which was called the Bowery Grand Hotel but was nothing like a grand hotel, and the Italian mamma at reception was talking to him in Italian. Fortunately, at some point a somewhat greasy older man arrived, who said something to the lady in Italian and then took Gianni to his room.

It was clean. Pretty clean, at least. But the tube TV was ancient and there was still a clock radio on the bedside table. The carpet didn't look like something you'd want to walk on barefoot. And the bathroom was in the hallway and was an orgy of rust and limescale. One night, Gianni thought to himself… It's only for one night. And he was tired. It had been a long journey.

The brand new radio alarm clock rang at 05:30. Gianni lay in bed and stared at the ceiling. It still smelled of the fresh paint, the room had only been finished last week. He lit a cigarette and was about to go to the bathroom when he heard his mum calling. Could he hurry up a bit, he had to go to the wholesale market. As if he had forgotten. Breakfast was at 06:30 and he had to be back by then. So he quickly washed up, got dressed and got into the van to get everything his guests would need today. He could also meet his fence there, to whom he could sell some of the things he had "found" with guests in the room. It was an advantage to look good. And some guests paid well for the fact that no one found out that the hotel's junior had shagged them.

It was 11:00 a.m. when Gianni was finally able to take a break. He walked two blocks to Sara D. Roosevelt Park and sat down in the sun. He had no more cigs. But in his experience, it wouldn't be long before his boys would hit this place up. And they owed him a lot more than just a cigarette.

Luigi, Luca and Andrea were good buddies. Stinking lazy ones, to be sure. And Gianni envied them for not having a mother with a whip behind them. But the three of them were always good for a laugh. And today there was a cigarette for Gianni, too. In return, however, he had to promise them that they could come to his mum's hotel for lunch. If he was lucky, the three of them would also help in the kitchen afterwards. And Gianni could let the sun shine on his Italian skin for the rest of the day.

[itstheheebiejeebies]

A really great article about what the crew of the Just-a-Snappin' went through on the Bremen raid on October 8, 1943.

Transcript below Read More

Article found through this page on the 100th Bomb Group site

Article named: Uncommon valor

Subheading: Everett Blakely personified grace under pressure

By Dan Krieger Telegram-Tribune

Photos of the Just-a-Snappin' crashed into a tree, and one of Blakely smiling in uniform. The latter with the message "Everett 'Gopher' Blakely, right, lost his plne, 'Just-a-Snappin.' but saved his crew when he crash landed the B-17 bomber.

Pull quote in the article: 'For 3,000 feet Captain Blakely and Major Kidd fought to get that plane under control. It was only because of the superior construction of our bomber... plus the combination of two skilled pilots, that we ever even recovered from that dive. -Lt. Harry Crosby

Main article: Lt. Harry Crosby wrote to his wife, "Jean there are just two reasons why I am here today. One of them is because of Blake's superb piloting and the other is because of the skill of our gunners."

We often think of heroes as flamboyant people. More often than not, real heroes are quiet people who are doing what they believe is required of them.

Today Everett Blakely, a pilot trained in Santa Maria, says that he was "just doing what had to be done" in the war against Hitler. He was a quiet hero.

Allan G. Hancock College in Santa Maria has a long and colorful history. Long before it became a community college, the campus was known as the Hancock College of Aeronautics.

It was a private school, named after its energetic, versatile and creative founder and benefactor, Capt. Allan Hancock.

Well prior to American entry into the Second World War, Captain Hancock offered his school to the United States Army Air Corps as a flight instruction school. Between May 1939 and V-J Day, some 8,500 pilots and 1,500 aircraft mechanics were trained at Hancock College.

The commercial warehouse district just west of today's Hancock College campus includes the one-time hangers for the flight instruction aircraft. The Stearman PT-13 biplanes are gone, but the College of Aeronautics administration buildings still survive on campus.

Everett "Gopher" Blakely came to Santa Maria just out of the University of Washington at Seattle. He was convinced that America was going to get involved in the European war.

The Blitzkrieg over Poland in 1939, over Belgium and France in 1940, and the Battle of Britain had convinced Blakely that this was going to be a war where air power was essential. The United States was going to need pilots. "Gopher" Blakely had discovered his mission.

Blakely soon started flying the essentially First World War era Stearmans over the tranquil valleys of the Central Coast. He and his buddies from rainy Puget Sound loved the warm sunny climate. They thought Santa Maria was a friendly town and enjoyed a precious few weekend hours socializing at the Santa Maria Inn.

Within months, Blakely and his friends were on the damp fen lands of Norfolkshire in England's East Anglia. They had graduated from the tiny Stearmans to the "Queen of the Bombers," the four-engine, hundred-foot-winged Boeing B-17 "Flying Fortress."

On July 4, 1943, the first American pilots participated with Britain's Royal Air Force in bombing raids over Germany. But as late as January 1943, Winston Churchill, en route to meet with President Roosevelt at Casablanca, wrote a secret memo to his Secretary of State for Air.

In that memo, Churchill complained that "the Americans have not yet succeeded in dropping a single bomb on Germany." What Churchill meant was that no American bombers were able to penetrate German anti-aircraft fire a sufficient distance. This was because the Americans were trained for daylight missions only. The British had bomber Berlin early in the war by flying mainly night missions,

Churchill wanted the Americans to start flying night missions also. But Gen. Henry H. "Hap" Arnold was convinced that it would take too long to retrain air crews for night flying. That loss of time would allow the Germans to rebuild their military strength.

At Casablanca, the Americans won Churchill over to a doctrine of round-the-clock bombing which would "give Hitler no rest." The Americans would send increasingly larger waves of B-17s by day. The RAF would continue doing what it did best through nighttime assaults.

The decision at Casablanca was costly in terms of the lives of American aircrews. Daytime raids were decidedly more risky. Few of us realize that the losses to the Eight Air Force alone approach American losses in the Vietnam War.

Capt. "Gopher" Blakely became the pilot of "Just-a-Snappin," a B-17 in the 100th Bomb Group flying out of Thorpe Abbots in Norfolkshire. Blakelly and his crew were piloting their B-17s over the upper reaches of the Danube in the famous raids on Schweinfurt and Rogensburg.

On Oct. 8, 1943, the 10th Bomb Group participated in a raid on the shipbuilding and industrial center of Bremen and the nearby U-Boat building yards and pens at Vegesack.

Both of "Just-a-Snappin's" right wing engines were shot out in a running battle with German fighters over the Zuider Zee. Five of the crew were injured - Waist Giner Sgt. Lester Saunders fatally.

Lt. Harry Crosby, "Just-a-Snappin's" navigator, filed an astonishing report on the B-17's struggle to return to England:

"For 3,000 feet Captain Blakely and Major Kidd fought to get that plane under control. It was only because of the superior construction of our bomber, and its perfect maintenance, plus the combination of two skilled pilots, that we even recovered from that dive.

"If I were an expert on stress and strain analysis, or a mechanic, or even a pilot, I would dwell at length on the manner in which the plane was restored to normal flying attitude. As it is, the procedure defies my description. But I am certain it was a very great accomplishment."

Everett Blakely's description recalls, "You can lose altitude awfully fast when one engine goes sour and your controls are chewed to ribbons. We dropped for 3,000 feet before Major Kidd and I could regain control... Most of the crew were not strapped to their seats were thrown to the floor, shaken severely - but at last the ground was once more back where it ought to be, instead of standing up on one ear. Once more we were in level flight and, at least temporarily, safe."

Crosby's report states that:

"At 10,000 feet we were able to look out the windows (and) were temporarily assured to not that the ground was now in the right place. A hurried consultation was held over inter-phone to determine a plan for fighting our way back to England.

"The following facts had to be considered: We had lost all communication back of the top turret, so it was impossible to determine the extent of injury and damage. Our control wires were fraying as far back as the top turret operator could see. At least two of the crew had reported being hit immediately after we left the target.

"One engine was in such bad condition that bits and finally all of the cowling were blasted off. We were losing altitude so rapidly probably because of the condition of the elevator that any but the shortest way back was beyond contemplation. So we headed across the face of Germany for home."

Later, Harry Crosby wrote of Blakely and his co-pilot:

"The normal reaction on the part of our pilots should have been to think of their own personal safety, or in cases of extreme nobility of character perhaps they would have been thinking about the other members of the crew. But they did not, even in this crisis, forget for one minute they were the leaders of a great formation. Their first thought was of the crews behind them. In unison, as we fell into our dive, the words came over the interphone to our tail gunner, 'Signal the deputy leader to take over.'

"I can't help but to think as they fought for their lives they might have been excused for being too busy to think of their command, but such was not the case.

"By this signaling, the remainder of the formation was notified immediately that we had been hit and were aborting. This act would have prevented any planes being pulled even a few feet out of position into danger from the enemy aircraft buzzing about."

Despite the loss of the airplane's compass, Blakely and his amazing navigator, Lt. Harry Crosby, made it to landfall. They crash-landed at Ludham, Norfolk. The completely unmaneuverable aircraft, without any brakes, skidded into an ancient British oak tree.

Blakely remembers: "The tree crashed between Np. 2 engine and the pilot's compartment. That was lucky because another three inches to the right and it would have crushed the pilot and co-pilot. We had slowed to maybe 50 mph by then..."

Blakely's co-pilot for that mission, Major John B. Kidd, recalled that "someone counted over 800 separate holes in that aircraft."

"Just-a-Snappin" would never fly again.

The Bremen mission was typical of dozens of missions which penetrated deeper and deeper into German territory. Even before the Bremen raid, Blakely and his crew were piloting their B-17's over teh upper reaches of the Danube in the famous raids on Schweinfurt and Regensburg.

Today, Blakely is retired and lives with his wife, Marge, in San Luis Obispo. They are the parents of Supervisor David Blakely, who speaks with great pride of his father's contribution to the fight against Hitler.

-three stars end the article and separate a note about the author

Dan Krieger is a Cal Poly history professor and member of the County Historical Society.

-Along the bottom of the page the article is attributed to the San Luis Obispo (Calif.) Telegram-Tribune in the Saturday, February 16, 1991 edition on page 23.

[dylanblakesgal]

Dogmeat is Cooper Howard's dog and you can't change my mind at first he was like you anit him Dogmeat to ok you may not be my dog Roosevelt but I keep you man's best friend all Dogmeat wants is love not to mention she's loyal which she and Cooper Howard are best buddies.

[bradshawsbaby]

Letters to My Love // Part IV

Moonlight Becomes You

Series Masterlist

Pairing: Bob Floyd x Female Reader

Summary: When you signed up to volunteer with the USO, you never anticipated that you would meet a man like Ensign Robert Floyd. Fate brings you together one balmy spring evening in Charleston—the night before Bob is set to ship off across the Atlantic. Pen and paper become your only means of sharing your heart with the naval aviator who’s captivated it, igniting a correspondence that spans the distance between you. Can love blossom even as war rages and thousands of miles keep you apart?

Word Count: 3.6k

Author’s Note: A quick historical note - President Roosevelt’s fireside chats are mentioned in this chapter. For those who may be unfamiliar with American history, the fireside chats were a series of radio addresses given by FDR between 1933 and 1944. They were designed to keep the American public updated about The Great Depression and the United States’ progress in World War II. If you’re interested, you can actually hear the audio of the fireside chat that Peach references in her letter.

Set the Mood: If you’re looking for some 1940s vibes, check out the playlist I made to pair with the story!

The title for this chapter comes from the Bing Crosby song of the same name.

Dedication: This story continues to be dedicated to my sweet friend, @luminousnotmatter​. Her support has meant so much to me in writing this series!

Warnings: Alternating POV, references to war and its impact, allusions to childhood death caused by the 1918 Influenza pandemic, references to illness, a lot of fluff.

August 7, 1942

Dear Peach,

It makes me real happy to hear that you like the nickname. I was surprised to learn that you’ve never had a nickname all your own, but I’m doubly happy to be able to give you your first. It’s a real honor, let me tell you. Not to mention the fact that you ARE special, so you certainly deserve to feel that way.

I think when we all get back, we’ll have to be very careful to keep Dottie, Tommy Boy, and Benny from conspiring, you and I. They do sound like they’re very much of one mind, your sister and my friends—though I’m sure Dottie is much lovelier than my lughead buddies. As I write this, in fact, Benny is snoring loud enough to wake the entire carrier. I’m not sure how any of the other fellas are managing to get any sleep. But at least as long as he’s snoring, I know he won’t be reading over my shoulder. We have to take our victories where we can, as we’re all quickly learning.

Now that I think about it, I do believe I made you a promise in my last letter, Peach. I promised I would try to be more organized, and I’m going to stick to that. I’m going to make a list, so that I’m sure to answer each and every part of your letter. I have to admit that I’ve read it five or six times already. The thought that you’d take such precious time out of your day to sit and write to me of all people still seems simply too good to be true, but so long as this dream is my reality, I’m going to make the most of it. I want you to know how much every word you write means to me.

First of all, trust me when I say that your words truly are sweeter than any dessert they could dream up for us here. Sweeter than honey, sweeter than ice cream, sweeter than pie—heck, even sweeter than a Georgia peach. Mail Call IS a wonderful day, and getting a letter from you makes it all the more wonderful.

I appreciate your belief in me, Peach, more than words could say. In all honesty, I’m probably not even a quarter as brave as you think I am. Maybe I shouldn’t admit that in writing. I’m sure the rest of the guys would tell me to play the part of the hero, but the truth is that I don’t feel like one most days. I only want to serve my country and do my part, but I’d be lying if I said there weren’t days when I felt downright terrified to be here. “War is hell” is right, no doubt about it. I hope you don’t think less of me for saying so. But somehow, I know you won’t. I know we haven’t known each other long, but I just know I can trust you with these sorts of things. The thought of getting to lay down my burdens with you, even if only for a moment, is such a gift. Thank you.

Paris, huh? That must have been some honeymoon. Since we’ve arrived, I’ve been able to see [REDACTED], but I’m sure it can’t compare to what your parents saw back then. One day, I hope you do get to make it here, Peach. I hope you get to see all the most beautiful parts of the world. I wouldn’t want you to be here now, not when everything feels the opposite of beautiful, but one day. We’ll make it safe here again so that it’s beautiful for you. I promise.

Listen, if you can convince your mama to hand over the peach tart recipe, I just might be able to convince my mama to share her apple cobbler recipe…

Speaking of which, it made me smile to hear about your Fourth of July. For the record, Paddy was right—getting to hear about the parades and the fireworks and the strawberry pound cake (I’m sorry about the sugar, by the way) made me feel like everything we’re doing over here is worth it. Some days are real hard. Some days, it feels like we’re not making any progress. But when I hear that you and your family are safe and happy back home, it makes me realize that what we’re doing over here every day does matter. So long as you’re all still able to celebrate Independence Day in peace, then we’re doing our job. Some of the other fellas got letters from their families, telling them about their Fourth of July parties and picnics, too. We all sat together and read them out loud, and it made us feel for a moment like we were there. We could taste the hot dogs and the watermelon and the Root Beer Floats. And it made us smile and laugh, Peach. I promise, nothing you could tell me about life back home would feel like salt in a wound. On the contrary, it’s like a balm for our spirits.

I’m sorry to hear about Frankie’s teeth. I hope the little guy is doing alright. I remember watching my brothers go through it growing up, and seeing Clara go through it just a couple years ago. Being her godfather, it felt extra hard to watch her suffer, so I know just how you feel watching your nephew. In her most recent letter, Natasha told Paul that Paul, Jr.’s been cutting some teeth as well, but he’s “soldiering on, just like his daddy.” It seems like such a small thing, but I could hear Paul crying in his bunk that night. I don’t think he’d mind me telling you that, Peach, considering how trustworthy you are. He misses Natasha and Clara and Paul, Jr. something fierce, and I know he can’t wait for the day when he gets to hold them in his arms again. Since your thoughts for us seem to be so powerful, maybe you could spare some for Paul? I know it’d mean a lot to him.

Paddy is a good man, Peach. A great man. I know you know that and you don’t need to be hearing it from me, but it’s true. If ever he’s feeling down about staying stateside, you let him know that none of us could be doing what we’re doing over here if it wasn’t for what he’s doing over there. He’s a smart guy, Paddy is, and we appreciate how hard he’s working. If anyone feels differently, well—quite frankly, their opinion just doesn’t matter.

It is a little tricky to have a conversation on paper, indeed. Oh, I wish more than anything that we could be talking face to face. I think of that night on King Street all the time. Can I be honest with you, Peach? I hope you won’t think this is too forward, but when the days here are long and hard, sometimes I just picture your pretty face and it makes things feel better. And I hope you know that your loveliness is so much more than just skin deep—your heart and your kindness are what make you so beautiful. I’m sorry for being so forthright—I hope I haven’t made you uncomfortable—but I just wanted you to know that. Your friendship and your kindness to me that last night stateside mean so much to me, and they always will.

Speaking of friendship, I’m rather starting to think that my friends like you more than they like me. You should have seen Tommy Boy’s and Benny’s faces when I told them you said hello—they lit up like fireworks on the Fourth of July and demanded to see your words for themselves. Evidently, my word wasn’t good enough. They say hello in return and want to thank you for all your well wishes. Paul says hello, too. He says of course he remembers you, and that he hopes you’re doing real well. He still hasn’t forgotten about getting Natasha a string of pearls just as pretty as yours.

I’m sorry the heat’s been so oppressive back in Charleston. We’ve had nothing but rain here for weeks, so we’ve been rather wet and miserable. But your letter was a bright spot amidst the clouds, and I’d be happy to take some of that southern sun off your hands  if you’d be willing to take some of our clouds and rain.

Now you’ve really given me something to look forward to, Peach, if you’re really serious about singing something at our next dance. I assure you that it’s easy to promise that I won’t laugh because I KNOW you won’t be terrible at it. Your voice, I know, is just as lovely as you and I can’t wait to hear it.

It’s funny you mention “Chattanooga Choo Choo” because that one just so happens to be one of my mother’s favorites. I think the two of you would get along just swell. I just had a letter from her the other day, and she assured me that all is well at home. It does my heart good to hear that from both her and you.

I do know “Blue Moon,” Peach. And I don’t think I’ll ever be able to hear it the same way again without thinking of your beautiful words. As I write this letter right now, the moon is shining down, and I’m picturing it shining down on you, too. The last time I got to see you—well, I suppose the only time I got to see you—was in the moonlight, so I think it will always be special to me. And you’re right—when I think of the same moon shining down on you and me, and all my friends and family back home, it makes me think that maybe the world isn’t so big a place after all. Maybe we’re not all as far apart as it seems. Thank you for reminding me of that. I did tell Paul, and he wrote your words down to send to Natasha. So we all owe you a debt of gratitude.

Alright, have I rambled on enough? Goodness, I don’t think I’ve ever written letters so long as the ones I write to you, Peach. But I suppose it’s because I want you to know me. It’s funny, I’ve always been happy to blend into the background. I’m not the sort of guy that most people take notice of—not like Paul and Tommy Boy—and that’s okay. I’ve always been fine with that. But with you—well, I want you to know me. I don’t want to blend into the background where you’re concerned. And I think that maybe you understand that? I felt it that night we met—that you understand. You understand so much, Peach, and I’m so grateful for that.

I won’t bore you with it now, but maybe sometime in the future, I could tell you stories about myself? Stories from when I was growing up, stories from Annapolis—stories that will help you get to know me? I would never want to pry, and you don’t have to tell me anything about yourself that you don’t want to, but I thought that maybe—well, I don’t know what I thought except for the fact that I’d really like to know you, the same as I’d like you to know me.

Okay, I think exhaustion is starting to addle my brain, and I should probably stop writing before I say something that makes me look even more foolish than I probably already have.

You’re in my thoughts, Peach, and I wish you nothing but the best. I hope this letter finds you happy and well.

Sincerely Yours,

Bobby

September 19, 1942

Dear Bobby,

I’m so, so sorry that it’s taken me so long to write you back. I felt that your beautifully heartfelt letter deserved all my attention, and I didn’t want to sit down to write a response until I was able to give it that.

We had a bit of a crisis here in the Sheridan household back in August, around the same time your letter arrived in the mail. We’re not sure how he possibly could have picked it up, but poor, sweet Frankie came down with influenza. He couldn’t keep anything down, and then he started burning up with a terrible fever. Dottie was absolutely frantic, and we rushed him to the hospital. When the doctors confirmed it was the flu, Dottie was beside herself. I know you’ve never met Frankie, but he’s normally such a happy baby, so full of life and joy—to see him so still and lethargic and quiet was quite terrifying. I was scared, too, but I tried to remind Dottie that her son was just as strong as his mother. Dottie was born in 1918, you see, during the Spanish Flu epidemic. She was one of the only babies who survived in the hospital where our mother delivered her. I think that’s all Dottie could picture—all those mothers and fathers who never got to bring their children home. She insisted on bringing Frankie home to care for him—she said she wasn’t going to run the risk of keeping him in the hospital.

Poor baby was terribly sick for over a week. I don’t think Dottie or Paddy slept a wink that whole time. I tried to convince them to take turns staying up with him, so that they could get some rest, but they just stayed by his side all night, every night. It really is quite something, isn’t it? The power of a mother and father’s love? I won’t lie, Bobby, there were some really scary moments when we weren’t sure he was going to pull through. I’ve never been so afraid or cried so many tears in all my life, I think. But then one day, his fever finally broke and we could see the light at the end of the tunnel. I’ve never seen my sister or brother-in-law look more happy or relieved. It felt like we had all been holding our breath without even realizing it, and we were finally able to breathe deeply again.

We’ve all been in recovery mode since then, and have been monitoring Frankie very carefully. Just as he started to get better, Dottie fell a little under the weather, so Paddy and I were taking care of them both. I’m very happy to report that both my sister and my nephew are back to their smiley, happy selves, which has been such a joy. I’ll be very glad to put this whole episode behind us.

I want to thank you for your last letter, Bobby, because it truly helped keep me sane when it felt like the whole world was spinning out of control. Though I didn’t feel able to write back until everyone was feeling better, I did read your letter every night before I went to sleep. You wrote that my stories from home were like a balm to your spirit, and I just want you to know that your words were a balm to mine. You are one of the kindest men I’ve ever known, Bobby. Thank you. Thank you so much.

You would think with so much time to plan this letter in my mind, I would have something brilliant to share, but I’m afraid that I’m still feeling a bit scatter-brained after everything. So here are the words that have been bouncing around in my head and my heart for the past few weeks, in response to yours:

You’ll always be a hero in my eyes, Bobby. The fact that you’re brave enough to admit that you’re terrified just further proves it to me. True heroes don’t think of themselves as heroes. They just do the job that needs being done—like you’re doing. And your country is so proud of you for it. I’m so proud of you for it.

I believe you when you promise that you’re going to make it safe there, wherever you are right now. I’m confident that the world will be a beautiful place again. Maybe one day you can show it to me.

I might just be able to convince my mama to share her peach tart recipe. We’ll see. You sweet talk your mama, and I’ll sweet talk mine.

Thank you for putting my mind at rest about telling you stories from home. If they really do lift your spirits, then I promise to tell you as many stories as you want to hear.

Poor Frankie really can’t catch a break, can he? Between his teeth and the flu, he’s had a rough go of it lately. But I’d say he’s “soldiering on,” same as Paul, Jr. I’m sorry to hear how hard the separation is for Paul. As his best friend, I’m sure it’s hard to watch him struggle with that. Of course I’ll be thinking of Paul and Natasha and the children. I include them in my prayers every night, and I’ll continue to do so until they’re all together again. I keep all of you in my prayers.

Thank you for your kind words about Paddy, Bobby. I didn’t share them with him, because I didn’t want him to be upset that I knew how he’d been feeling, but I have your words tucked away in my heart, and I’ll be sure to pass them onto him when the time is right. He is a good man, and I’m glad to know that other people see it in him, too.

You really are too kind to me, Bobby. I have a feeling you may be remembering me through rose-colored glasses, but I thank you for your sweetness all the same. Your friendship means a lot to me, too, and I’ll always be so thankful for that night we met. I’ll never forget it.

I find it impossible to believe that your friends could ever like me more than you. How could they, when you’re such a wonderful friend? Tell Tommy Boy and Benny that I say they have to take your word as golden because you’re extremely trustworthy. I don’t want to hear about any more of this doubting nonsense. And tell Paul that my family knows a couple jewelers who would be glad to help an American hero. Whenever he’s ready to find those pearls, he can just give a holler.

I’ll gladly give you some sunshine in exchange for some rain! With fall coming, it’s not quite as hot as it’s been, but we’d still gladly take fresh, clean rain to wash away the last of the sticky heat.

What song would you like to hear? I’ll start practicing now, so that by the time you come home, maybe it’ll be halfway as good as you seem to think it’s going to be.

From what you told me, your mother sounds just lovely. I’d love to listen to some Glenn Miller over a nice apple cobbler with her.

Oh, none of you owe me anything. I’m sure I’m not the first person to make such an observation about the moon, and I won’t be the last. But I am glad that it could bring you all a little bit of comfort. And when the moon comes up tonight, I’ll be thinking of you.

Bobby, you could never fade into the background, not to me. But I do understand what you mean. I’ve always felt the same. I’ve never been one that people take notice of. Dottie’s always been good with crowds. My friends Emily and Marilyn—they were volunteering with me that night at the dance—they’re always good at making conversation. I’ve never been that way. And I’ve always accepted that about myself, same as you. But it is nice to feel like someone really sees you, like they really know you. I have that with my family, but it’s good to know there’s someone else out there who understands me. Someone like you, Bobby. I want you to know me, too.

I’d like it if we could share stories with one another. I’d like that very much. I want to hear more about your farm in Iowa, and your family, and all the mischief that you and Paul and Natasha got into when you were growing up. I’m all ears, whatever you’d like to share.

Before I close my letter, I thought you might like to know that President Roosevelt gave one of his fireside chats a couple weeks ago. He hasn’t given one since April, so we were all very eager to hear what he had to say. He spoke a bit about inflation and the cost of things. He promised that he’s working with Congress to try to keep things as reasonable as possible, but we all understand that’s rather difficult with a war on. And we’re happy to make the sacrifices necessary to do our part for the war effort.

He also spoke a bit about the progress of the war. I admit that talk of battles and military strategy goes a bit over my head, but he did say something that stuck out to me and has been in my head ever since. He said—and forgive me if I paraphrase a bit—that battles and wars aren’t won by men who are concerned about themselves, about their own safety and comfort. And it made me think of you, Bobby, and all your friends. It made me think of what you’re sacrificing, especially your safety and comfort. We’re going to win this war. I know it. And it’s because of men like you. Don’t ever doubt that.

I hope that when this letter finds you, you’ve managed to carve out a little bit of safety and comfort for yourself. I hope that you’re doing well, and that you’ll be able to come home soon.

Please stay safe, Bobby.

All my best,

Peach

[artist-issues]

As much as I adore Lilo & Stitch: The Series and Kim Possible, I don't think my brain returns to any Saturday Cartoon Adventures more than:

Aladdin: The Series - Remember the one where the cat goddess is kidnapping children and turning them into monsters? Or the one where there's a prophecy that Aladdin will die? Or the one where Genie is being hunted by the last of a race of magic-vampires? Or the one where Aladdin is being possessed by the vanquished sorcerer Mozenrath's (what a name) spirit through his magic glove? Or the one where Aladdin literally crosses over with Hercules?

The Little Mermaid: The Series - I think about that episode where she gets sucked down into the trippy, surreal Wonderland trench and can't escape probably every week. Go to Disney Plus and find that episode, it's called "Charmed," it's worth it.

The Legend of Tarzan - Like every episode is burned in my brain forever. The Opar episodes where he'd rather die than choose anybody but Jane, even after he thinks she's dead. The one with the Mad Elephant where Tantor thinks he's contracted the same illness. The one with DINOSAURS. The one where the new radio tower makes every animal go insane and try to kill Tarzan and Jane. The one where a different ape challenges Tarzan for leadership and WINS. The one where Jane's friends come to the jungle to rescue her. The one where Tarzan gets locked in like a prison camp with Teddy Roosevelt?! The one with a magical healing albino gorilla?! The one with Kerchak's old rival Tublat coming to try and take over the gorilla family in a series of traps? ! The one with the giant snake?! The one where Tarzan gets bit by a spider and almost DIES?! The one where Clayton's sister comes and forces Tarzan to choose between saving himself from poison or saving all of his loved ones from several death traps in time?! The one where the African tribes from the Tarzan books help Tarzan find a cure for a deadly disease in special two-part episodes?! The one with a WWII spy coming and trying to steal Jane's affections while simultaneously looking for war information he left in a music box he sent to her?! WHY IS THIS NOT ON DISNEY+?!

Buzz Lightyear of Star Command - Skilled. Courageous. And ever-vigilant. Leaping into action, it's BUZZ LIGHTYEAR, of STAR! COMMAND! I'm tired of having to dig around the Internet to watch episodes like The Wirewolf where an old Space Ranger buddy gets turned into a machine-mauling cybernetic wolf monster by the light of a radioactive moon, or the one where an "energy vampire" named N0S4-A2 tries to eat Buzz's robot friend.

Come on. We got The Little Mermaid: The Series. That Tarzan & Jane movie isn't enough! WHERE ARE THE REST OF THEM, DISNEY

[blindmagdalena]

Ok that last anon brings up a good point, what are homelanders historical blorbos? Have you ever seen cardi b's episode of hot ones, she is a history girlie and she is a big fan of Eleanor Roosevelt & FDR, what if that's one of homies blorbos AND cardi is in the Boys universe and they become little history nerd buddies?

i wish i knew more about american history because "homelander's historical blorbos" is hands down one of my favorite terms to come out of history nerd homelander. i need you americans to tell me who in american history homelander would kin.

also i did not know this about cardi b, and you're absolutely KILLING me with the image of them being history buff besties. like they interviewed together and stumbled across this common interest 😭 it's giving the same energy as nicki minaj's interview with stephen colbert 😂

[beardedmrbean]

Sorry, for these constant ranting about African and black American culture

It just sucks look at history as a black American at times. There no ancient kingdom or empire, like Han, Gupta, and Roman to call back to. No Mythos with great epics like Hellenism or Hinduism where I can see myself in.

No great warriors that might have shared your face and people use as inspiration in media. No great battle like the battle of Thermopylae for people recreate again and again

No great leaders like Alexander the Great, Ashoka the Great, Julius and Augustus Caesar that change the course of history

As soon as January and February ends, seemly everyone forgot your people history.

Will we be remember when mankind enter interstellar?

Sorry maybe my borderline suicidal depression kicking in. Despite all the diversity push, has black Americans done anything beyond fighting slavery and racism? So we still have to hijack other people history and pop culture? Are any of our stories worth being told by media?

Or are we nothing but a sad pitiful group? Ugh sorry for making you my therapist

It just sucks look at history as a black American at times. There no ancient kingdom or empire, like Han, Gupta, and Roman to call back to. No Mythos with great epics like Hellenism or Hinduism where I can see myself in.

Check the Nubians and southern kingdom of Egypt there were black Pharaohs and dynasties those are recorded and attested by non Egyptian sources.

As for the Mythos Rome took a bunch of them from conquered lands, much like Greece did, like Babylon and Assyria did, Egypt too, oh and Hindus did the same thing. Easier to keep a population happy if you point out how our gods and your gods are the same guys just with different names.

No great leaders like Alexander the Great, Ashoka the Great, Julius and Augustus Caesar that change the course of history.

They existed, we just don't have any records of who they were, nothing concrete at least, gotta decide for yourself how faithful the oral tradition is.

Or you can treat it like folklore, doesn't mean there's not some truth to it, exaggerated is all.

As soon as January and February ends, seemly everyone forgot your people history. Will we be remember when mankind enter interstellar?

No need to keep them separate, just because a skin colour isn't the focus doesn't mean people forget, stuff like the 'black national anthem' is divisive, it's bringing back segregation saying we have a different national anthem than you. No if you're Americans you've got the one, go start your own country if you want a different one.

Haiti looks like it's about to reset try there.

If you want some heroes that look like you, meet the Harlem Hellfighters

To our eternal shame the US wasn't in the business of giving medals to black soldiers in WW1 not so much in 2 either, France however was.

Sergent Johnson here managed a Coup De Gras for valor in the battle that got him named "The Black Death" it's always the black something isn't it, we back home finally rectified the travesty that had him overlooked for the Medal of Honor in 2015, he more than earned it, wish he could know how many people look up to him now.

I do hope he saw this after he got home at least, I'd have that on my wall lmao.

Legacy section of his Wikipedia page has lots of things on it, but this I think would be the thing I would be proudest of,

In 1919, co-founder of the American Legion Theodore Roosevelt Jr., son of former United States President Theodore Roosevelt, referred to Johnson as one of the "five bravest Americans" to have served in World War I.

One of the good Roosevelt's, and I'm gonna guess this got to him too, since he was still around.

You need a warrior here's one, he led and sacrificed, he's a good one to look up to, refused to let his buddy be taken captive at great personal risk after they'd fought of 12 Germans.

Need another group of warriors, we've got the Tuskegee Airmen.

Made a lot of white (fighter) pilots mad because they were that good at their job, white bomber crews loved them they saw the red taifin on the P-51 their hope for surviving the mission went way up, because they were that good at their job.

Look them up too if you haven't before, check out the movie "Red Tails" Black writers adapted a story by one of them about a damn fine group of pilots, I enjoyed the movie watched it a bunch of time when I was living in Florida because it was on one of the movie channels the hotel I was living in carried.

You've got warriors who fought great battles that you can look up to though, even more so because they knew what life was like back home and how they were treated and would be on their return, and they fought anyhow.

Admirable men worthy of being looked up to by anyone really. At least for this service which is what counts for me right now.

Will we be remember when mankind enter interstellar?

How could humanity forget these men, and so many other incredible human beings that worked for the betterment of humankind in their own ways? __________

As a aside, Max Brooks got together with a artist named Caanan White who I don't know anything about but they did a fictional graphic novel about the Harlem Hellfighters and it looks pretty dang cool, so you may want to look into that at some point too.

[toffyrats]

natm kiss or kick

-larry daley. kick him right in the balls, he deserves it

-nick daley. kisses on the forehead. go dj in spain or whatever follow your dreams buddy

-teddy roosevelt. i could never kick him. i mean who would. so kiss on the cheek.

-sacagawea. big kiss on her hand because women.

-jed and octavius. they are already kissing eachother.

-ahkmenrah.

-amelia earhart. kick. get out of larry’s business. still a girlboss though so i might have to run for my life afterwards

-george custer. kiss. on the lips. he deserves nothing but love and affection

-kahmunrah. kick. self explanatory.

-ivan the terrible awesome. kick, then change my mind and kiss his hand like a gentleman (i’m a female)

-napoleon. kick. i do not like this man.

-al capone. kiss mmmsjdjsjxkjsoxmakmsk

-i foRGOT LANCELOT

-lancelot. kick. you are a literal child. i still love you though. just don’t critically endanger people’s lives for a girl that doesn’t exist.

bonus:

-joey motorola. i guess i have a thing for monochromatic men with new york accents or something but kiss 100 percent. he gets nothing but the best

[bjfinn]

HARRY'S QUEST

Disclaimer: I don't have a Shuar dictionary or grammar, so I had to make up the language spoken by the tribespeople, but I have tried to make it similar to the small sample that I've seen on YouTube. Also, fair warning: since the story is set in Ecuador, there's quite a bit of Spanish dialogue, untranslated -- Harold doesn't know what's being said, so why should you? Lol

Tw: death, murder by execution

Beej did a double take when he got to the office and saw the new arrival. The guy was a good eight or ten inches taller than the demon, and he was wearing a safari jacket and pants with the cuffs tucked into a pair of black hiking boots -- and he was carrying a hunting rifle.

But it wasn't the guy's height, or clothing, or even the firearm that took Beej by surprise -- it was the guy's head. It was tiny -- about a quarter the size it should've been. The black hair had been pulled up into a severe topknot and tied with a red cord, and the guy's lips had been sewn shut.

"Holy crap! " Beej exclaimed. "What the fuck happened to you, pal?"

The guy looked at Beej with bulging eyes -- they were normal sized and therefore too large for their sockets -- and tried to speak, but all that came out was, "Mmm! M-mmm-mmmmmm-mm-mmmmmmmmm! "

"Sorry, buddy," Beej said, clapping him on the back. "I didn't quite get that. Anyway, whatever happened it looks like a pretty shitty way to die. Tough luck, pal. Well, I can't stick around -- I gotta get up to Florida for my next job. They just executed the guy who tried to assassinate Roosevelt -- name of Zangara. I'll see you around!"

*****

Harold J. Wilson III had been in Guayaquil a week before he managed to find someone who was willing to take him into the jungle.

He'd come to South America in search of a creature that would guarantee his name would live forever -- the mapinguari. Supposedly extinct for thousands of years, but there were rumours -- based on accounts by the local Indians -- that it was still alive in the deepest part of the Amazon. And he was determined to bag one and bring it back to the Smithsonian.

"Sí, señor," the guide, a short, stocky man in his fifties named Pedro Morales, said. "I know the jungle -- but it is not a safe place for un americano, especially a rich americano like yourself."

"I've been in plenty of dangerous places," Harold told him. "Congo, in search of the mokele-mbembe, for instance."

"Did you find it, this ... mokele-mbembe?"

Harold shook his head. "Unfortunately, no," he said. "But I'm sure I'll find the mapinguari. Now, will you guide me or not?"

Pedro looked at the American. He took a deep drag on his cigar, blew out the smoke and nodded. "One hundred American dollars."

Harold pretended to consider the amount for a moment, and then he smiled and held out his hand. "You have a deal."

Pedro grinned. "Muy bien," he said. "We should leave tomorrow, at dawn. Before the heat becomes unbearable, sí?"

*****

"Lawrence!"

Beej, startled, whirled around at the sound of Juno's voice. "Hi, Mom!" he said, panicked. He hurriedly tried to hide the files he was holding behind his back. "You, uh ... you got another pickup for me?"

"What are you doing with those files?" she asked, cigarette smoke billowing from the hole in her neck. She took another drag.

"Huh? Oh, you mean these files? I, uh ... I was just curious about the new guy ... how he died, that's all."

"Oh, but sweetie," Juno said, smiling, her voice gentle, "you don't know how to read very well." Then she looked at him contemptuously. "Hand them over!"

"Sorry, Mom," he replied, chastened, and gave her the files.

"Now get back to work, and no more screwing around! "

"Yes, Mom," Beej said in a voice that was barely above a whisper.

"I can't hear you! "

"Yes, Mom," he said again, louder this time.

Juno nodded. "That's better." She stuffed the files back in the drawer and limped away, the thump-slide, thump-slide of her footsteps loud in the sudden silence of the office.

Beej looked around. The others, who had no doubt been watching the exchange, quickly put their heads down to focus on their work.

Beej blinked back the tears and shuffled out of the Processing Department to his next assignment.

*****

The sun was just beginning to stretch its first rays over the rooftops when Harold was awakened by a knock on the door of his hotel room.

"Buenos dias, Señor Harold," Pedro said when the American opened the door. "Are you ready to leave?"

"Let's go," Harold replied with a nod. He grabbed his gear and followed the guide out to the waiting Jeep. He tossed his bags in the back and climbed into the passenger's seat as Pedro turned the ignition, and then they started off, down the dirt road towards the jungle.

"We will have to stop at San Ignacio and continue on foot from there," Pedro said. "No hay caminos en la selva."

Harold nodded -- he knew enough Spanish to understand what the other man had said. No roads in the jungle.

"This village -- San Ignacio -- how far is it?"

"Two hours, más o menos," came the reply. "We will stop for lunch, and then hike in."

"How will we know where to go?"

"A village elder, Tío Chako, says that he has seen the mapinguari when he was a young man," Pedro told him. "We will follow his directions." He looked at his passenger. "But that was many years ago, señor -- who can say if it will still be there?"

"I understand," Harold replied.

*****

In fact, the drive to the Otavalo village of San Ignacio took nearly three and a half hours, and by the time they reached the village the sun was already fiercely hot.

The guide stopped the Jeep in front of a small, single-storey house with whitewashed mud walls and a thatched roof. They got out of the vehicle, and Pedro knocked on the wooden door.

A moment later, it opened, and a wizened old man in a dingy tank top and baggy trousers looked out. "Hola," he said -- Harold saw that he was missing his lower front teeth. "¿Quién están ustedes?"

"Soy yo, Pedro. Y eso es Señor Harold, de los Estados Unidos."

"¿Un americano?" Tío Chako was incredulous. "¿Aquí?"

"Él quiere trover el mapinguari," Pedro explained.

Tío Chako shook his head. "¿El mapinguari? No, es demasiado peligroso -- los Jívaros ..."

"Lo sé, pero es un americano rico ... y tonto."

"Pedro, no es bueno -- irás al infierno por esto."

"¿Y él? Él quiere matar el espíritu de la selva por un trofeo." Pedro smiled. "El Santo Padre me perdonará, creo."

"What's going on?" Harold asked -- his Spanish wasn't good enough to follow the exchange between Pedro and Chako.

"We are just discussing the preliminaries, señor."

"Por favor, entran ustedes," the old man said.

"Gracias, tío," Pedro replied. To Harold he said, "Unfortunately, Tío Chako does not speak English -- I will interpret for you."

Harold looked around the abode. It appeared to have only two rooms -- the kitchen in which they were standing and another that was probably the bedroom. At the table, a woman who was almost as old as Chako sat peelig potatoes.

"Mi esposa, María," Chako said.

"¿Visitantes? ¿Por qué no me dijiste que teníamos compañía?" María asked.

"María, ¿te acuerdas de Pedro?" Chako said. "Y este es el señor Harold, un americano que está buscando al mapinguari."

María's eyebrows shot up in surprise, but she caught herself and said, "Bienvenido, Pedro. Y bienvenido, Señor Harold. ¿Se quedarán a almorzar?"

"Gracias, tía," Pedro replied. "Tenemos un largo viaje por delante."

*****

After a lunch of seco -- goat stew served with rice and plantain -- Pedro and Chako looked over a map of the region, discussing the most likely places to find the elusive mapinguari.

"Yo lo ve aquí," Chako said, pointing to a spot where the Rio Negro looped around like a noose. "Pero no sé si eras allá esos días."

"Lo entiendo," Pedro replied. "¿Y los Jívaros? ¿Donde es su territorio?"

"Casi todo el este es el territorio de ellos." He looked at Pedro. "Rezaré a San Cristóbal para que todos regresen sanos y salvos."

*****

"You know," Beej said, "I don't think I've ever seen anyone else who had their head shrunk before -- how'd it happen?"

The guy looked at the demon with his bulging eyes and drew a thumb across his throat.

"Yeah," Beej said with a nod. "That makes sense -- I mean, it'd be kinda difficult to shrink just your head if it was still attached, right?" He elbowed the guy in the ribs. "But how come it's attached now? I've seen others who've lost their heads, and they're always carrying them, you know?"

"M-mmmm-mmmm," came the response.

"Yeah, of course you don't know. Anyway, I'm wondering how they did it -- shrunk your head, I mean. But I guess you don't know that, either -- you were already dead."

The guy nodded.

Just then the door to Juno's office opened. Beej leapt to his feet. "Well, nice talkin' to you, pal -- see you!" And he scurried away before his mother could see him.

*****

It was an thirteen day trek through the jungle to get to the area where Tío Chako said that he had seen the creature. Harold had long since run out of citronella oil, and he was covered in mosquito bites, but that wasn't the worst of it -- every night was spent pulling leeches, ticks and other bloodsuckers off his exposed skin. He would've liked to bathe more often in one of the rivers, but he didn't dare -- the waters were home to flesh-eating piranhas, as well as anacondas and caimans. And other, more fearsome things.

"Candiru," Pedro told him. "It is a tiny, tiny fish that smells the piss and swims up your ..." He motioned to his crotch. "¿Entiende?"

Harold nodded grimly.

*****

At long last, Pedro set down his pack and said, "Es el lugar."

Harold looked around. It seemed exactly the same as the rest of the jungle -- trees and plants growing in riotous profusion in the eternal twilight, the silence occasionally punctured by the squawk of a bird or the screech of a monkey, or the sound of something larger making its way through the undergrowth. It felt like he and Pedro were the only two people in the entire world -- Harold would have been unsettled if he weren't so drenched and weary.

They set up camp as they had every night for the past two weeks, and Pedro built a fire with sticks that he gathered, smearing them with pitch from a rubber tree -- the smell of broiling latex was terrible, but it allowed the damp wood to burn.

Sunset comes quickly in the depths of the jungle. They had just finished their supper -- boiled mote corn and ch'arqui made from llama meat -- when it arrived and they were plunged into darkness. As always, the jungle came alive then with the sounds of nocturnal wildlife.

"You should sleep, señor" Pedro said. "I will take first watch."

Harold nodded and gladly slipped into the tent. He lifted the mosquito netting strung over his hammock and settled in.

He'd just drifted off when Pedro shook him roughly. "Señor," the guide whispered urgently. "Señor, wake up! I think I hear the mapinguari!"

Harold sat up, instantly awake, and rolled out of the hammock. "Where?" he asked. "Are you sure?"

"I can smell it -- can you not?"

Harold sniffed the air -- a rancid odour, like that of soured compost, filled his nostrils. "Let's go," he said, grabbing his rifle.

The two men exited the tent and headed in the direction of the odour, training their flashlights on the ground in front of them.

A few minutes later they heard a deep snuffling sound. They raised their flashlight beams ...

The mapinguari was scratching itself against an acacia. Harold gasped as it turned its head to look at them -- the beast had to be eight feet tall, with long, shaggy, reddish-brown fur. The three claws on each of its front paws were massive, easily capable of shredding a tree. The beast had tiny eyes and ears, and a flexible muzzle that reminded Harold of a tapir's. He caught a glimpse of the massive tail trailing on the ground behind it -- thickly muscled, like that of a kangaroo.

"I knew it!" Harold crowed. "It's a giant ground sloth!"

The creature made a low, rumbling noise that sounded for all the world like it was saying huuuhhhh?

"I've got you now!" Harold crowed as he raised his rifle and took aim. He pulled the trigger, and the sound of the weapon instantly caused a pandemonium of noise in the jungle as bird, bats, monkeys panicked and took flight. The mapinguari bellowed in pain as the bullet ripped into its flesh, and it turned toward the two men, its powerful forearms raised threateningly.

It lunged at them, roaring in confused fury. Pedro screamed and fled. Harold readied himself to take another shot, but the huge beast was too close. He dropped the rifle and ran, stumbling over tree roots, desperate to avoid those massive claws.

The beast was gaining on him -- he could practically feel its hot breath on the back of his neck. "Shit shit shit shit shit! " he wheezed.

He took a tumble then, rolling down a short embankment into the river. "SHIT! " he yelled, and scrambled back onto the bank before something in the water got him.

He trained the beam of his flashlight upwards, grateful that he'd managed to hold onto it.

The mapinguari was looming over him, looking down at Harold. Its tiny eyes looked ... almost sad. Harold felt a twinge of regret for having caused it pain.

"I-I'm sorry," he said softly. And bowed his head, ready to accept whatever punishment the beast -- this jungle god -- saw fit to mete out.

But then he heard voices -- human voices shouting in a language he didn't recognise. The mapinguari heard them, too, and it calmly settled back down on all fours, turned and ambled off into the jungle.

"Hey!" Harold called. "Hey! Over here!"

Within seconds he was surrounded by a dozen or so spear-carrying warriors, wearing feather headbands, beaded bandoliers and red face paint.

"Wiñámishi jṵna kimiijusiai!" one of the warriors shouted. "Jikanyi ústa kanimuistaiyi! Uukanta!"

"I'm .. I'm sorry," Harold said. "I don't understand --"

"Uukanta!" the warrior shouted again. "Uukanta!"

Three of their number hauled Harold to his feet, and they bound him, tying his hands together behind his back and fixing a noose around his neck.

"Iijintaiyi nan chanwaarka ujaantaiyi na! "

And they led him through the jungle.

*****

Beej couldn't get the shrunken-head guy out of his mind. Or more accurately, he couldn't get the question of how breathers could shrink somebody's head out of his mind. He could do it easily, of course -- but he was a demon.

He decided to go back in time to see for himself -- after all, the information could prove useful someday.

He looked around to make sure that no one was watching, and then he snapped his fingers.

Instantly he found himself in a village in the middle of the Amazon jungle. Fortunately, since he was invisible, his arrival went unnoticed by the inhabitants. But he didn't think they would've noticed him anyway -- there seemed to be some kind of celebration going on.

A crowd of people were circling a large bonfire, singing and shuffling to the beat of drums as the thin, high notes of a couple of flutes threaded through the air. He could smell roasting meat and vegetables, and his stomach grumbled.

"Looks like fun," he said to himself, and moved closer.

Off to the side he saw someone tied to a post -- he recognised him as his new buddy, the shrunken-head guy. Same clothes.

He continued to watch, glad that he'd arrived at the right place and time.

Beej didn't even think of intervening on the guy's behalf -- what the fuck did he care about saving a breather? Eventually every one of them died anyway.

At last the drumming and dancing ended -- just as the first rays of the sun began to paint the treetops with golden light.

The prisoner was cut down, and he crumpled to the ground, unconscious.

He was lifted up by several warriors and laid out spread eagle on a stone slab, his wrists and ankles tied to wooden posts. Then one of the warriors, strode up, a machete in his right hand. He raised the weapon high, and bellowed, "UKAIYIII!!!"

"AAAIYIIII!!!" the others shouted in response.

The warrior brought the wicked-looking blade down and severed the prisoner's head with one blow, and the women of the tribe began ululating in applause.

The executioner reached down and picked up the head by the hair, holding it aloft for all to see.

Beej was impressed -- it took some skill to sever a head with a single blow, even with a machete. Clearly this wasn't the warrior's first time.

The warrior gently handed the head to another man -- this guy was older, with grey hair. They exchanged a few words -- Beej heard them say muisak several times, and tsantsa. Two words he'd heard before. They meant "soul" and "shrunken head" in the Shuar language.

He nodded to himself.

Beej had heard of the Shuar, or Jívaro. Fearsome headhunters, they were famous for shrinking the heads of their enemies -- he didn't know if there were any other tribes that did that, though. Always wondered how they shrink the heads -- looks like today's the day I get to find out!

He followed the shaman into one of the thatched huts -- a large pot of water simmered over a fire in the middle of the room. The shaman picked up a knife with a blade of chipped flint, sat cross-legged on the floor beside the fire, and set to work, chanting as he did.

Beej squatted down beside him, still invisible, as he sliced into the back of the head, cutting the flesh from neck to crown, and carefully removed the flesh from the skull in a single piece. When he was done, he sewed the eyelids shut and forced three sharpened pegs through both lips.

The old man then took a baseball-sized sphere carved from wood and placed it inside the skin, and dropped it into the boiling water. He continued chanting, shaking a rattle made of shiny black seeds, as the de-boned head cooked.

This was going to take a while, Beej knew, so he headed outside to see what the tribe was going to do with the body. He was disappointed to see that they were burying it, rather than cooking and eating it. What a waste, he sighed. Ah, well -- can't have everything.

*****

A few hours later the shaman removed the head from the pot -- Beej was surprised to see that it had shrunk to about a third of its original size, and the skin was dark and rubbery.

The old man carefully turned the head inside out and began scraping the flesh and fat from the skin. Once it was completely clean he turned it rightside out again and sewed up the slit in the rear.

"Okaaay," Beej muttered.

With wooden tongs, the old man took several small rocks out of the fire and dropped them into the neck opening, followed by a few ladles of hot sand from the smaller pot.

"Why are you doing that?" Beej asked, knowing that the shaman couldn't hear him.

He watched, amazed, as the head shrank further, the skin contracting from the heat.

The shaman emptied the head and refilled it with more sand and rocks, holding more hot rocks against the outside to shape the features. This process was repeated several times, until at last the head was the size of a fist.

"Wow!" Beej exclaimed. "That's so fuckin' cool! "

Now that the head was fully shrunk, the shaman rubbed the skin all over with charcoal ash, and then he hung it over the fire to dry.

Finally, the shaman removed the pegs from the lips and sewed them shut with cotton string, making long, decorative tassels, and presented it to the warrior who'd made the kill.

Beej, grinning, took that as his cue to head back to the Netherworld.

*****

"I gotta tell you," he said to the shrunken-head guy, "it was fuckin' amazing! You shoulda been there! Uh, well ... I guess you kinda were, weren't you? Anyway, I'll tell you all about it sometime -- maybe we can grab lunch. Oh -- uh, right. Never mind."

"Lawrence! " Juno bellowed from her office. "Get in here right NOW! "

"Be right there, Mom!" he called back. "Anyway, I gotta go. See you soon, buddy!"

[lboogie1906]

Mable Lee (August 2, 1921 – February 7, 2019) sometimes spelled Mabel Lee, was a jazz tap dancer, singer, and entertainer. She appeared on Broadway, at the Apollo Theater, and was known as “Queen of the Soundies”.

Born in Atlanta to Rosella Moore and Alton Lee, she was a child prodigy who began performing when she was 4 years old. She sang and danced for her teachers growing up—they were all aware of her talent from an early age.

She performed for Franklin Delano Roosevelt at his vacation house in White Plains, Georgia.

She moved to New York City to pursue a career as a singer and dancer and soon joined the chorus of the Apollo Theater. She did acrobatics performed with a chair, which she referred to as her novelty. She did vaudeville and nightclub shows. She auditioned and was chosen to perform at the West End Theatre. She worked at various nightclubs before Dick Campbell sent her to London, where she spent 18 months and performed at the London Palladium. She met and married Buddy Bradley in London and began teaching alongside him.

During WWII, she toured with the USO as a member of their first all-Black unit. She traveled and did shows for the Navy, Air Force, and at different camps. She performed for wounded veterans after the war in hospitals and did a show at Leavenworth.

She was featured on the cover of the March 1947 issue of Ebony.

She came back from Europe in 1950 and moved back to Atlanta, where she met her husband (Tony Mansfield). They had one son. She played in theaters and nightclubs. She appeared on Broadway in multiple productions, including the 1952 revival of the musical Shuffle Along. She danced in The Hoofers and Bubbling Brown Sugar.

She was the 2004 winner of the Flo-Bert Award which honors and a 2008 Inductee into the Tap Dance Hall of Fame.

Her last performance was in July 2018 at Symphony Space as part of the New York City Tap Festival. #africanhistory365 #africanexcellence