#bullyboys

[romantic-perversions]

[reshaddaniels]

Bully boy

[devilmaydaycare]

Watch her walk away without saying goodbye

[undiscovered-horizon]

Amendmends - Kaz Brekker x Reader

[Part II]

[contains vulgar language]

SUMMARY: When two of your thugs get into a fight at the Slat, you have to go apologize in person. The owner seems suspiciously happy to have you indebted to him.

WORDCOUNT: ~ 1.9k

>>Grishaverse-inspired playlist&lt;<

“You did what?!”

The two men flinch. Feeling too humiliated to look the incandescent bull in the eye, they resort to twiddling their thumbs and riveting their gazes into the cracked, wooden floor. They’re not greenhorns and neither are they unfamiliar with your character, so it’s unclear why they ever thought this confrontation would go in any way differently. Perhaps some juvenile naivety told them this moment would, simply, never come.

“We got into a fight,” one of them repeats. Fear makes his voice waver, resounding a lot quieter than the first time he announced their misdeed. The humiliation only gnaws further at his heart as the boy involuntarily relives all of the reprimands he had received from his parents.

His partner in crime lets out a defeated sigh. The man nudges his friend and whispers: “Come on, Sorokin, she’ll know anyway.” With a sour expression on his face, he lifts his gaze to look at the woman standing behind the desk. Your nostrils are flared as you breathe hard trying to maintain composure. The unfaltering scowl you wear so well makes him gulp. “We started a fight at the Slat. One of the patrons was cheating, wasn’t even doing it very well, so we thought it was our civic duty to put it to a stop.”

You lean forward ever so slightly, hinging on your arms. Although you’re in all ways smaller than them, it doesn’t affect their fright:  wolves, after all, also seem not as big when they're preparing to pounce. Words leave your mouth like venom slowly dripping from a viper’s fangs: “You have no fucking civic duty on the Crows’ turf, you bellend.”

“Boss, we-”

Sorokin immediately stops talking when you raise your hand in a quieting gesture. You close your eyes and clench the raised hand into a fist. Only after a slow, deep breath can you continue:

“Just shut your mouth while you still can move it freely. I don’t care for your excuses and promises to do better because I’m the one who has to go to Kaz Brekker and apologize on your behalf.” You push yourself away from the decorative, engraved desk. Unknowingly, you’re shaking your head, looking away from the two bullyboys for a moment. In a gesture of frustration, you pinch the bridge of your nose. “Saints only know what he’ll want for giving up retaliation,” you say under your breath. A moment of tense, reflective silence goes by before your gaze returns to the two men. The scowl immediately reappears. “What’re you standing here for? Fuck off.”

With a flick of your wrist, the crooks bolt out the door, praising the Saints that they get to see another day. Maybe they are the ones scrubbing the floors pro bono for the next two weeks but at least they’re alive. Considering the genius loci of Ketterdam, that is as good as anything.

Jesper and Inej do not pay attention to the constant opening and closing of doors to the Slat - there’s no point. Their curiosity, however, is piqued when the noise of the lively club becomes muffled and cheering turns into low murmurs and grunts. Although positioned in completely different places, they simultaneously look towards the entrance, wondering what menace could strike reluctance into the heartless thugs of the Barell.

As expected as it wasn’t, considering the area, it’s a woman. In an utter lack of taste and respect for social etiquette, you’re dressed in rather expensive men’s clothing. You even have a decorative cane with a panther’s head on top, although the item is strangely short, suggesting that it’s more of a status symbol than a mobility aid. Golden accessories, proof of acquired wealth, glimmer in the low, yellow lights of the club. 

“Should we do something?” Inej whispers to Jesper, making him flinch in surprise. Really, how is she doing it time and time again?

“No way, Inej,” he laughs dryly at the notion. “It’s the Golden Panther herself. We’ve no bad blood with her and let’s hope it can stay that way.”

The name isn't in any way the stranger's own incentive - only what the victims saw right before being knocked out cold: golden, heavy rings and a black tattoo of a roaring panther on the back of your hand. Some of the more egotistic goons in Ketterdam try to mimic the artwork with other supposedly dangerous animals but it never has the same ominous feeling.

“Then why is she walking straight towards us?”

His gaze returns to the unexpected guest. Inej is right - in an unbothered stroll, you’re making your way to them. When the Panther’s stern, cold gaze meets his, the man feels anxiety building up in his chest. If Kaz had a sister, that would be her. In any other circumstances, he’d laugh at that thought but with the fiend in front of him, humour has somehow fled.

Jesper slowly puts down his drink, his other hand mindlessly resting on top of the revolver behind his belt. “I don’t know but I don’t like this.”

Inej scrunches her nose. "I always imagined it’s a man."

"Well, I thought she'd be, you know, bigger,” Jesper says in a hushed voice. The Slat is strangely quiet and you’re sure to hear his comment if he speaks any louder. “Considering Panther and all."

You stop in front of them. Physique-wise, you don’t seem very threatening to either of the Crows. No, it’s something in the air, as though your presence elicits some kind of aura that makes people want to flee from sight, noisy lowlifes become as meek as sheep. Jesper wonders if this is how aristocrats and politicians feel when someone mentions the Queen of Beggars.

Golden Panther looks between the two of them. In an unexpectedly polite fashion, both of your hands are holding the decorative cane. After a moment, your gaze stops on Jesper. You look him up and down but he’s unsure whether he should feel threatened or flattered.

“You’re the one who got into that fight yesterday, aren’t you?” you finally ask.

Oh, that.

Jesper grips the gun tighter. “Yeah, that would be me.”

You put your hand into the pocket of your dress trousers, apathetic eyes still set on him, and pull out a wad of banknotes. Without looking at them, never even thinking to count the amount, you lay it next to his drink on the bar counter.

“For the trouble. Buy yourself something nice. Where’s the owner?”

“In his office,” Jesper answers with a vague motion of his hand.

With a curt nod of your head, you leave the two Crows to find the man you’ve been truly looking for. When you’re out of earshot, the stairs creaking under your weight, Jesper turns to Inej:

“Did I just get pocket money from Lady Belladonna?” he asks in a hushed voice.

“I’m afraid you did.”

Immediately, he grabs the wad of cash, counting the banknotes. His eyes only grow wider as the stack of 50s doesn’t seem to end - Jesper Fahey is suddenly something of a rich man.

You don’t knock. The door swings open and Kaz is about to tell off anyone who’s disturbing him when he notices you standing on the threshold. Without a word of either warning or welcome, he grabs his cane. Twisting off the top of your staff, you pull the accessory slightly apart, revealing a sharp blade hidden inside.

“Show me yours, tough guy. Bet mine’s bigger,” you jest. Then you close the cane and Kaz, although hesitant, lets go of his. “I come in peace.” 

“What brings you here?” he asks impatiently.

You take a deep breath and sigh. The chair in front of him is left vacant but considering the reason for your visit, it would be impolite to sit around. “I’d like to apologize.” Kaz raises his eyebrows in surprise. He knows the business well enough to know that people of your sort don’t adhere to courtesy often. “The fight that broke out yesterday? My boys. They weren’t supposed to be here but that doesn’t change anything. What’s done is done and since they wear claws around their necks, they’re my responsibility.”

For a moment you look away, biting the inside of your cheek. It’s the right thing to do but Saints’ mercy, is it humiliating. Kaz doesn’t say anything, curious anticipation egging him to let the tense silence squeeze the truth out of you.

You look at him again. The anger of having to fawn on someone makes you tighten the grip on your cane. "I can pay you for the damages but I can't undo the injuries or the fucking headache. Instead, I'm offering you my service. One job, no matter how bloody insane, I'll do it. Just leave my boys alone."

Kaz sits back in his chair, taking in the fascinating turn of events. In all of your demimonde courtesy, you’ve done exactly what he had expected you to do. You swear there’s a shadow of a grin creeping unto his face and that’s when you realize you’ve probably manoeuvred yourself into a problematic, inescapable corner. If half of the stories they say about him are true, you’re going to shake hands with death herself in the nearest future, probably more than once.

A scoff flies past your lips. You look at him through squinted eyes but he doesn’t seem to mind that. Why would he? He just scored a jackpot without stepping out of his office.

“I know that look, Brekker,” you stress the sudden lack of courtesy. “You’ve been waiting for this moment your whole fucking life, haven’t you? The Golden Panther at your beck and call.”

“There is one job that will utilize your methods,” he puts a strange, although meaningful stress on the word, “but it’s nothing sure for now.”

He plays his cards well. So well, in fact, that you can’t tell whether he’s honest or bluffing. The only thing you are sure of is that if he lives up to his name, Kaz is bound to have some kind of ace up his sleeve, even if it’s unadulterated rage - he will either find or create a problem for you to solve, never as much as entertain the thought of passing up on your offer.

There is simply no way that a man of his skill and expertise doesn’t know exactly what he’s doing. Like those miserable churchgoers praying to the Saints for a sign, you too now have to obediently await the fateful word of Kaz Brekker. You’re a fiddle and through your own goodwill, you have appointed him a fucking virtuoso.

“I’ll be anticipating your word, Brekker,” you grit the last bits of politeness through your teeth. “In the meantime, don’t try to think about me too often. Might neglect your business and the panther…” your voice trails off and you shrug with faux innocence, “The panther only needs to find you once.”

“It’s a bold assumption that I spend any minute of my time thinking about you.”

“Well, you’re doing it now, aren’t you?” The cocky smile on your face only annoys him. “До свидания,” you throw while vaguely saluting at him.

When the door shuts behind you, Kaz lets out a frustrated sigh. You’re going to make this whole operation incomparably easier for him - that is, if he doesn’t kills you first. For the sake of his sanity.

[r0-boat]

Ok. We all know about the bulls on the bullfarm au all having breeding kinks but what if Farmhand darling actually gets preggo? What would all the bulls and/or other hybrids reaction be?

Ahhhh~ more pregnancy head cannons you asked, and I shall deliver, but I won't do all the Bulls; I will only do a handful~.

Bull farm boys and their pregnant farmhand.

Cw: pregnancy, slight boss/ employee relationship if you squint really hard.

Sfw with slight suggestive themes

Ingo, Emmet, Volo, Milo x reader

Bonus: Oc Holt

Ingo

Becomes 120% extra clingy. This bull is absolutely attached to you to the hip he'll go anywhere you go. He protecc, and he is not afraid to attack, he's almost like your bodyguard. Along with his brother anything they deem as a threat they will protect you and the calf inside you standing tall and firm to anything they deem a threat.

Occasionally when work takes a toll on you and you rest on the hay bales angle cannot help but gently nudge is horns against your pregnant tummy. "Is mate ok?" From the times he can be explosively loud, he spoke to you so softly his eyes filled with worry as he rubs his hand on your back.

Emmet

Makes a nest with his pillows blankets and straw picks you up, and hauls your ass in there. Emmet seems to be more aggressive in a protective sort of way he chase other boys away from you if they got too close or try to discourage you from doing something that is too dangerous whether it be your work or something that he just didn't understand. Honestly to him it is safer that you stay in your nest that he made and do not leave he'll wrap his arms around you and he will not let you leave. You thought it was cute at first how he would have grown and discomfort when you try to pull away or when he catches you trying to leave and he just nudges you back in however it's starting to become less funny

He does not care you are not leaving whatever place he has put you in you are staying put and you are not moving. Your boss had to help you since Emmet wasn't letting him get to you and he growled every time you tried to get up. You couldn't help but chuckle watching your boss grab the Bulls horns trying to wrestle him away from you.

Volo

Puffing out his chest in pride like a peacock he's proudly shows you off. 'look at this, look at what I have and you don't.' Making sure all the Bulls that fancy you see how close an intimately he holds you making sure you reek with his scent. Pissing off the other bulls into his surprise Holt??

The times he isn't being a possessive prick he's actually pretty sweet. Purring out in a sweet voice, asking if you need anything. Those eyes are lit with such love and affection. He can't help but hold you close and pepper you with kisses. You are his now, and the swelling in your stomach is proof.

Milo

Poor Milo following you around like a lovesick puppy. Helping you with that whatever job you have. Helping you with either the very heavy lifting or anything that's too high for you to reach.

Cuddling with you and the nice green grass every chance he gets, he has the biggest, dopiest smile on his face with a hand on your tummy. If he were a cat, he would be purring so hard he'd be vibrating, nuzzling his cheek against you, careful not to hurt you with his horns, giving you nose kisses. His tail whips around as if it's waging anything you want, anything you'll get for you, no questions asked, well to the best of his abilities. He may not be the toughest bullyboy on the farm. But he is gentle as a flower, and that's okay because what you need is to be provided for and comforted, but he is best at that.

Bonus:

Oc: Holt werewolf farmer and your boss

Your jack ass boss... has become oddly strange ever since your stomach had been showing. It's not like you really minded since most the time he just give you either less work or not have you work at all. But there are some things that seemed too weird. Holt did not care only enough for you not to get hurt or sick but now. He seems to be showing up everywhere around the property where you just so happen to be working. And he doesn't say anything he just takes over most the work asks you to do something else usually something more mundane. Or insist that he would go somewhere with you no matter where it is you get that you technically live on his property and he needs to oversee what you get when you get supplies but he does not need to go in town with you when you get hungry and just want to go to the convenience store for a snack

However his weirdest Behavior is how oddly nice he is becoming. Holt normally keeping to himself, would just tell you to fuck off if you bother him too much, but now. It's almost as if he'd seek you out. The last straw is when you saw him cooking a meal big enough for two. what the fuck? You tried bringing it up with him it was an awkward conversation, but it didn't seem like he knew what you were talking about.

[rather-upsetting-news]

the urge to start every single letter with 'darling fascist bullyboy'...

[highladyluck]

It's very funny re-reading Winter's Heart with full awareness of the rest of the series.

Five hundred men of the Deathwatch Guards had come off the ships and remained in Ebou Dar for some reason.

Tuon, Mat. It's because Tuon's there.

The ordinary sort of crime expected in any large city had fallen off dramatically under the Seanchan, but the Guards took to patrolling the streets as if they expected cutpurses, bullyboys and maybe fully armed bands of brigands to spring out of the pavement.

Indeed, Mat. I'm sure this increased police activity has nothing at all to do with you meeting the new management last chapter while looking like you'd been attacked in the street (because you were).

[pen-and-camera]

You wake to sirens blaring as emergency vehicles race past your home. Turning on the morning news, you learn that a cargo ship has crashed into the Francis Scott Key Bridge, causing it to collapse into the Patapsco River below. Divers search for missing construction workers while investigators board the ship to determine what caused the accident. The vessel’s operators issued a mayday call just before the crash, reporting they has lost power. Yet, the 300-meter ship still struck the bridge at 15kph, instantly bringing down the 2.6km span. Now transportation routes are disrupted as crews clear the wreckage and begin repairing, hoping to rebuild a vital link between Baltimore and its suburbs.

-----

Jeremiah Armstead's story is one of resilience and determination. Despite the hardships of moving frequently and experiencing homelessness, which included the challenges of sleeping in a car at his height, he managed to maintain his faith and focus on his future. His perseverance paid off when he was accepted to Fisk University, a historically black university in Nashville, Tennessee, where he was able to join the basketball team.

-----

Slurring his words, Iien shouts “You’re gonna turn out like me, but a druggy!” His breath smells of booze and his spit tastes worse as it splatters on Nyaos' face with each word. Iien hits Nyaos with a half drunk bottle of whiskey over his back. As he falls to the ground, Iien yells “You’ll become a warrior and lead the Ebon Wolves! Nothing else!!” Iien grabs another bottle of firewater and storms into his basement.

As Nyaos rises, he fights back tears and walks towards the washroom. His mother, Omet, Goddess Of Secrecy, emerges from the attic. Carrying her performance clothes for the evening, she sighs and asks“He did it again, huh? Well, you know where the herbs are. You’re good with them, or whatnot. Just don’t go crying, ok? I don’t want anyone asking questions. Word spreads fast around here and there’s only so much of a show I can put on before the smoke clears. Got it, kid?” Omet whispered every syllable in Nyaos’ ear.

P&C NEWS and On the Streets are now available along with Bullyboy.

[mercurygray]

hi hello friend it’s me feeding the Godwin/Edith muse yet again because ✨reasons✨ but could I request something for them for ‘22. blood’ from your latest prompt reblog? 🧡

Sorry this took so long, friend! More 1920s Peaky Blinders AU -how could I not, with a prompt like this?

"Aren't you going to ask?"

Edith took a long, deep breath, her eyes fixed on the task at hand. "It's not my job to ask questions."

"And you're not at all curious?"

"It may surprise you to know that bloodstains are a somewhat regular occurrence in this house, Mr. Saxon-West. I stopped being curious a long time ago."

But she was curious, just a little, to know how exactly her employer's lawyer had come to be covered in blood, though she could fill in the gaps, a little, if she squinted long enough.

A car had squealed up the drive at nearly midnight, rain pelting the windshield, and several men had gotten out, banging down the door and bundling someone inside as they shouted for bandages and a doctor and heaven only knows what else, and waking up the entire house while they did it. Edith was quickly out on the landing in her dressing gown, joined almost immediately by Emma, looking around to see what was wrong. "Mama?" Two bleary-eyed boys emerged from the nursery.

"Hush, my darlings, there's nothing to worry about," Emma said, picking the younger up and walking back to the nursery. She turned around to Edith and her eyes gestured downstairs. Go and see.

Edith tightened the belt of her dressing gown and took a deep breath. If her lady wanted answers, then answers she would get.

Lord Edmund had been shot. The details hardly mattered to Edith - at a club, or a bar, or his mistress' house made no difference whatsoever. He was presently laid on the dining room table, wounds staunched with dishtowels and being seen to by the doctor, and some of the minders he'd had with him were in his stepfather's study letting their clothes dry, helping themselves to Canute's whiskey and - perhaps, in one instance - the charms of one of the parlor maids, who'd been summoned to lay a fire for them.

Edith did not know yet why Godwin had been there, though she had some ideas. He and the young lord had been very close lately, hatching plans for his inheritance. Edmund liked to live larger than his funds sometimes allowed, and some disreputable friends often helped him do it. Since his stepmother's marriage to Canute he'd delighted in joining his stepfather's bullyboys for their jaunts around town, and they, in turn, delighted in his foolish ability to spend money.

But that still didn't explain the lawyer - who had quietly removed himself from the group in the study and joined Edith in the hall. "Miss Eden, I wonder if you might help me with my shirt."

Which was how they had come to be in the first floor butler's pantry, Godwin currently leaning, shirtless, against the counter while Edith blotted the blood out of his shirtfront with cold water and salt.

"I'm also not sure why you think I would care, Mr. Saxon-West." The silence had been bothering her, and she felt it needed to be said. I'm a secretary at best and lady's maid at worst.

"Because you're Lady Emma's creature, and she never met a piece of information she couldn't use."

A creature, am I? See how you like me, then. "And you never met someone you couldn't blackmail, sir."

He chuckled at that. "So you're not afraid of being found with me in your dressing gown?"

"You don't appear to be afraid of being found fucking the help." A thread of laughter stumbled through the slightly open door. "Although if that's really what you're after, sir, I'm sure what's in the study is more to your taste."

Godwin was very close to her now, his shoulder close with hers. "I don't really go for shared goods," he said, voice supremely casual. "Or public pleasure, for that matter." He watched her closely, and she did not want to meet his eye. She knew Canute's men speculated about her - she could see their eyes following her as they came and went from the house. "That's where we were, before coming here. A club, you might call it. Now I daresay they're all in a bit of a mood."

She could see it now, the sort of place he meant - Edmund had been dressed for dinner and so was Godwin, so it somewhere for men with money, being lenient to let in Edmund's 'friends'. "And was Lord Edmund getting shot part of the mood?" She parried back. "Or an unfortunate consequence?"

But he did not answer her immediately - instead he kissed her, full on the lips, and she was so surprised she let him, his shirt slipping into the damp sink along with the brush. They had been in close quarters before, but never this close, while both were barely clothed. If you're going to taunt me, fine.

"Consequence," he said, finally, his eyes fixed on hers. "Are you sure I can't tempt you to something stronger, Miss Eden? Perhaps somewhere more private?"

"You'll have to forgive me, Mr. Saxon-West. My mistress needs me and creatures," she used his word with deliberate sharpness, "must go where they're called." She stepped away. "I believe your shirt is finished - it'll just need to dry."

She left him in the pantry and walked quickly across the hall, glancing in to the dining room to see both Emma and Canute, too, waiting in vigil over Edmund's still body, the doctor still somehow at work. There's a story there, for certain, she thought to herself. But I'd never get the truth about it from him.

[darkwhimsycreations]

Instead of putting this information in the comments of my actions post, I wanted to post these links. People need to read up on 1930s Nazi Germany seriously and how a fascist regime starts. Ron DeSantis in particular is dangerous. Especially now that Trump has been indicted. It opens the door for DeSantis. If you think that people won't vote for him, think again.

https://www.sun-sentinel.com/opinion/editorials/fl-op-edit-florida-state-guard-expansion-20230401-3joivvlczrb5xctwoqxyp3euny-story.html <-------DeSantis wants $98-$100 million for a Florida army

https://www.historyhit.com/hitlers-bullyboys-the-role-of-the-sa-in-nazi-germany/ <------ This is the same thing that Hitler did in his rise to power.

[romantic-perversions]

[consequencesofargentdawn]

More news and update regarding the sloppy tactics of Grim Dawn in Duskwood.

Yesterday we witnessed them launch a completely random surprise force-arrest upon the GM of a guild in Darkshire. This was all public in the town hall, and resulted in the rest of the GD cronies conveniently appearing in the hall within minutes to fight members of said guild. I whispered some from the guild who were attacked and they expressed great stress at the fact they were not even informed, talked with nor was anything discussed/reasoned with in this foolish attempt to essentially force kill a guild and completely alter the course of their guild plans. This also happened at almost 1am on a Saturday evening and was confirmed by multiple members of the guild that they didn't even know any of this was going to happen whatsoever - so there was no prior OOC discussion or agreements from GD towards said guild. More GD lackeys making themselves look like utter fools by forcing authority upon other guilds in that zone and then having to do the walk of shame back outside when said guild doesn't put up with their shit and entertain petty political grabs for power. It's clear that those affiliated don't care for creating enjoyable roleplay for others. They rely on metagaming and pathetic power tactics to feel a sense of superiority. Send the flood, COAD.

All we can say to our readers is "You are the flood", we are but the simple messengers. We do have to ask our readers though - is this what you want the Alliance to degrade into? A washed out, inept version of the Rotgarde doing the same type of bullyboy tactics to get legitimacy? Show them that they are not able to push you around and edit them out of your RP.

We also encourage that you screenshot your interactions with the Grim Dawn, screenshot, screenshot, screenshot. They will always contest there is "NO PROOF!!!!11" Despite there already being a small burial mounds worth. Screenshot and submit here, we will do so with total anonymity on your behalf.

[zerogate]

As soon as I arrived at RC I heard prisoners talk about “fresh fish day,” the day first-time prisoners were taken from RC into the prison population. It was also the day sexual predators lined up and looked for their next victims. Sexual slavery was the culture at Angola. The administration condoned it. I saw men being raped at RC. Freemen didn’t do anything to stop it. They wanted prisoners who had no spirit. They wanted prisoners to fear one another and abuse one another; it made them easier to control. If you were raped at Angola, or what was called “turned out,” your life in prison was virtually over. You became a “gal-boy,” a possession of your rapist. You’d be sold, pimped, used, and abused by your rapist and even some guards. Your only way out was to kill yourself or kill your rapist. If you killed your rapist you’d be free of human bondage within the confines of the prison forever, but in exchange, you’d most likely be convicted of murder, so you’d have to spend the rest of your life at Angola.

Freemen and inmate guards took advantage of these “master/slave” relationships. They were able to control some of the most violent and powerful prisoners by threatening to move their gal-boys away from them. If a prisoner was “good,” he could keep his gal-boy, and a prison pimp would do almost anything to keep his gal-boy. Freemen also used violent rapists to intentionally hurt other prisoners, placing them in cells with a prisoner they wanted to punish or putting them in situations when they wanted to start lethal fights. Those prisoners were called “rape artists.”

[...]

By that time, I didn’t think I could be shocked by anything, but the brutality and pain in the dungeon were worse than anything I’d ever seen. There were four or five men in each six-by-nine-foot cell. There was no bunk, table, or chair in the cell, just a toilet and a sink. Everyone was stripped of all his clothes and underwear and given a jumpsuit to wear. Nobody had any possessions. Each prisoner got two slices of bread three times a day. At five p.m., a guard passed one mattress into the cell. At five a.m., the guard removed the mattress. Usually one or two inmates ran the cell. In some cells bullies took the mattress for themselves all night. During the hours when there was no mattress they would take the jumpsuit off the back of a cellmate and make a pallet out of it to sit on, while that man was forced to stand naked.

Some men almost starved to death because the bullyboys in charge took their bread. It’s hard to say how much the freemen knew of the abuse in the cells. But when they looked through the cell door to take their count, they couldn’t help but notice some of the men in the cells weren’t wearing their jumpsuits. Authorities never did anything to stop it.

-- Albert Woodfox, Solitary

[tomsquitieri]

We Do It For You; Now You Can Look And Act

WASHINGTON -- The first massacre victim I met was really two, an elderly couple still holding hands three days after an ambush along a dusty Bosnian road left them and a dozen others dead.

The only way to find out who they, and the others who were slain — to give them their voice, to tell their story — were was by getting close, looking at any documents they may have had, trying to piece together the bloodied event that left innocents baking and rotting in the hot August sun, or those who never made it out of the bus they thought would bring them to safety.

Moving their hands from pockets, rolling them over, whispering questions in their ears hoping for answers to help me tell their stories and, ideally, make them the last to suffer like this.

In the dust was Veselinka Masic, her birth certificate in her left front pocket; Mlade Todorovic, atop a school diploma and working papers; Veselinka Todorovic slain nearby, her bankbook showing 77,000 dinars - then around $385; Ninela-Nia Galvanic, 16; Dragica Pljevaljcic, 84; Joka Ikohic, 65; Dalibaor Matovic, 11; Dragon Spasogevic, 24.

And a baby, tiny, helpless, whose name I was never able to get.

It was called a small war, Bosnia. The elderly couple and those murdered with them would be faces of hundreds I would see, smell, touch, ponder, come far too close and internalize far too much.

Here is some of what I learned, no matter if it was in Bosnia, Haiti, Burundi, Rwanda, Iraq, Corsica, Afghanistan, and dozens of other places where innocents were murdered, bullied, raped, and tortured:

First, those who commit the crimes always say they did not do it. Second, the war crimes we journalists learn about - or discover on our own — are just a smattering of the horrors that have occurred.

The war in Ukraine has from the start been like those I had covered, one reason I considered steps to get to Ukraine, to get to besieged cities, to follow the flow of weapons from the United States to the hands of Ukrainian troops to their use. I knew, like others who crouched and ran with me in past wars, what was going to happen in Ukraine — and it did — and what is still to happen as that war worsens.

Destroyed buildings, attacks on schools and hospitals and shelters, hundreds fleeing, lawless troops. We knew that once the Russians arrived and then would retreat, greater horrors would be unleashed.

One of the biggest single horrors of the Bosnia war was the July 1995 Srebrenica massacre, where more than 7,000 Bosnian Muslim boys and men were slain and dumped in several mass graves as the area was “ethnically cleansed” of all Muslims. A war term to soften the horror, “ethnically cleansed.”

We found some of those mass graves and relayed the information to authorities. We trekked across mine-strewn roads and wound up arrested, but we did not stop.

Be a “voice for the voiceless,” my first editor told me again and again. So I, and others, did.

Those victims of those wars needed us to give them a voice. Just as those who are deep in Ukraine reporting are doing for these latest victims.

The world always wants to look away. It does not want to hear about the grandmother who dropped to her knees to kiss my muddy boots as she begged me to take her grandchildren to safety. It does not want to hear about the trembling voices from the pre-teen girls who were raped. It does not want to hear the boasts of the bullyboys who chortled — when I asked how they knew who the “others” are — said “they smell differently” and it made it easy to pick them out to murder. It does not see the bodies bobbing in an eddy of a river, after floating downstream from a Rwanda massacre site or the Burundi bodies chopped by “pangas” — machetes — to finish them off after first being gunned down.

And it never even seems to know of the bandaged bodies of the wounded, the bloated stomachs of the starving infants, and the soft whimpers of those slowly dying.

The world does not want to be the ones going through the pockets of rotting corpses to find out who these people were, the precious lives they led, before they were ruthlessly ambushed, now strewn for animals and nature to dismember their remains on that dusty road.

We do it for you. As uncomfortable as it is, at least you can do is look and act.

[savage-kult-of-gorthaur]

SUCK ON A TANK, YOU FASCIST FUCKS!!

PIC INFO: Resolution at 2008x3047 -- Spotlight on a killer splash page of Tank Girl doing what she does best, from the pages of "World War Tank Girl" Vol. 1 #2. June, 2017. Titan Comics.

"Suck on this, you deluded-fascist-bullyboy-coward-arsehole-scumbag-wankers!"

-- TANK GIRL (script/story by Alan Martin) to Nazi "arsehole-scumbag-wankers"

Source: www.zipcomic.com/tank-girl-world-war-tank-girl-issue-2.

[dexter-the-inkling-boy]

🎵There once was a ship from the CEC. The Ishimura USG. She cracked a moon with gravity Go me Bullyboys go. Ha!🎵SOON MAY THE KELLION COME. TO SAVE OUR SOULS AND TAKE US HOME! ONE DAY WHEN THE FIXING IS DONE WE'LL TAKE OUR LEAVE AND GO!🎵

"Anonymous user. Please keep your unitologist song to yourself and Never sing that near me again. It brings bad memories from the Ishimura and I'd rather not go through mental therapy again."