#but the fact the jews did it better than anyone else? they be mad

[jewvian]

Let's be honest here, the only reason the left hates the Jews- fuck I mean Zionists, is their unfathomable amount of jealousy at our Kibbutzim.

They are jelly we did communism better than the Soviets lol they know they'll never be able to measure up~

[a-student-out-of-time]

There's a good and a bad way to subvert expectations. Unfortunately what's been happening a lot lately is that many works go for twists for the sake of being twists, the Star Wars Sequels being a prime example of this. Or the later sessions of Game of Thrones. There is a fine balance between being able to surprise your audience and not being extremely predictable.

//I’ve absorbed more complaints and feelings from both those series through pop-culture osmosis than I have from watching them. I’m more of a casual observer, but I do have some feelings on both these points (which I will put under here if you’re interested.)

//tl;dr version: I think we should unbiasedly judge media on its own merits and look over what works internally within the story and what doesn’t, be willing to make our own judgements rather than jump on bandwagons and tell people what they should or shouldn’t like, and not treat opinions as straight facts.

//And also that I’m honestly tired of hearing about the sequels and GoT ^^;

//I disagree with a lot of people on the Star Wars sequels (aside from 9, fuck 9), but I’d rather not start a debate about it nor their quality overall. Only that I think people really overreacted to them  and many others jumped on the hate bandwagon when emotions were running high.

//Frankly, many of the criticisms I saw about the films felt either wildly inconsistent about what they’re upset about or what they wanted it to be (7 was criticized for being too much like old Star Wars, 8 for not being enough like old Star Wars) and others felt like they came from bad faith and I can’t take them seriously.

//And yes, the last season of Game of Thrones is trash and wrecked everyone’s storylines for the sake of being shocking, but let’s also be real: GoT was never going to have a happy ending if it wanted to stick to its “realism.” Whoever got on the Iron Throne was inevitably going to have to purge all opposition to consolidate power. That’s just how real revolutions and coups work.

//To be clear, Daenerys’ turn to evil murderousness was stupidly executed, but it wasn’t necessarily unprecedented. What I frankly dislike about fantasy in general is its tendency toward the Divine Right of Kings. That only certain bloodlines have the right to rule and you just need to put the “rightful heir” on the throne. In other words, giving absolute power to a magically omnibenevolent person will fix everything. I may be an optimistic humanist, but I know that simply doesn’t happen.

//The entire point of GoT is that DRoK is stupid and royalty in general really kinda sucks. If you go back, you see most of the lords we follow, including “good king” Eddard Stark, are either totally indifferent to the masses or are completely sadistic and torture them for funsies since the legal system doesn’t protect peasants.

//The Starks are no better than the Lannisters simply by virtue of being overall “nicer” than them. Both sides start wars that get thousands of people killed. Also, everybody loved John Snow, but he also fucking hanged a kid and I’ve never heard anyone bring that up since.

//Most importantly, Daenerys was a likable character with a sympathetic backstory, but even before the last season, she was fully embracing being a Targaryen by blood and was openly murdering people who got in her way while she was conquering territory after territory.

//Yes, a lot of the people she killed were slaveholders, but let’s be real for a moment: not everyone who participates in an evil system is evil themselves. It’s easy for us as the audience to judge them for participating in a slavocracy, but living in one comes with being told slavery is okay. That doesn’t make them evil by nature, just subject to the biases of their culture.

//Also, slavery is evil but conquering people is fine? And burning people to death for opposing you is acceptable since you’re going to be better and free everyone, or because you had a sympathetic backstory? These are the kinds of things that get villains criticized for, but is treated as a necessary evil at worst for the protagonists.

//This is protagonist-centered morality. The show is framing it in a way where you’re being drawn in to see it that way, but also telling you not to see blatant hypocrisies for what they really are. Daenerys was even called as mad as her father by Tyrion. It wasn’t well-executed, but it was going to happen regardless of how much anyone liked her.

//Violence for a good cause is still violence. If you’re going to burn people for disagreeing with you, then say that other people shouldn’t and should listen to others, that’s full-on hypocrisy. That goes for most of the characters in the show, frankly, and the message is executed well for most of it.

//That being said, don’t think this means I think the last season of GoT is good, that the Star Wars sequels are perfect, or that I hate all fantasy books ever. That’s not what I’m saying. I try to enjoy what’s good about them and point out their flaws regardless.

//What I’m saying is it’s important to, when you want to be critical of media, put your feelings and biases aside and judge the media you’re criticizing on its own merits. In my opinion, the claims that the sequels only did things to subvert expectations is unfounded. They were going their own direction, which was admittedly controversial and not what many people wanted, but just because you don’t want it to happen doesn’t mean it’s a bad twist

//Just like how a character isn’t a Mary Sue just because they’re too OP or you don’t like them. That’s not what that term means and hearing people use it like that irritates me. While I do have my complaints about characters, people use that term as if it’s a form of literary criticism that has more use than is necessary.

//If a character is OP, they’re OP. If a character is flat, they’re flat. If a character is poorly written, they’re poorly written. If a character is at the center of the universe and literally everything else exists just to amplify them and their role in things, then they’re likely a Mary Sue/Gary Stu. It’s not a label to slap on  a character you don’t like or to give a critique (or complaint) more weight.

//This is why I say DR3 Chiaki isn’t a Mary Sue, she’s just not a very well written character. All Mary Sues are poorly written characters, but not all poorly written characters are Mary Sues. She’s not terrible, but she’s not explored much and her only big roles are being the person who brings Class 77-B together and her death turns them to despair.

//While her death was tragic and brutal, we didn’t really get a good look at who she was as a person beyond just being nice and opening up to her friends. If they’d expanded on that a little more, maybe it would’ve been more effective, but the way she died felt...manipulative and shock baity in a lot of ways since it banked mostly on our familiarity with her despite it being a totally different person.

//DR3 honestly had a whole host of shocky and just plain gross scenes that I really don’t think needed to be there.

//But likewise, if a story has a plot twist that you don’t like, that doesn’t automatically make it purely shock bait or subverting expectations just for the sake of doing so. There’s a difference between “this character was evil all along and there were a lot of clues and we just didn’t want to believe it” and “this character was evil all along for reasons we’re dumping on you now.”

//Just so I don’t seem like a hypocrite, while I personally don’t like what happened with Mikan in chapter 3 of SDR2, it was an effective way of foreshadowing the truth of them being the remnants of despair. It was set up that every had lost their memories and this was a sign that getting them back wasn’t necessarily going to have a good outcome.

//And I’ll be real: I can’t take a lot of the complaints about the Sequels or GoT seriously because much of it carries overtones of racism, sexism and antisemitism. For those more into Star wars, I think you know what I mean already and that’s all I’ll say. As for GoT, I’ve seen reddit posts viscerally attacking the writers directly and even saying that we should’ve expected the ending to suck since it was “written by Jews.”

//Yeah, go figure I can’t read any of that. I know not all people who hated the show’s ending or the films are like that, but it’s impossible to deny that those attitudes are very real.

//In the end, if you want to be critical of media, the worst way to do that is to just watch a video of someone complaining about it for half an hour. Yes, those video essays can be fun, but the only way to be truly critical of media you enjoy is to examine it yourself and look closely at what’s in it and how it’s presented. That goes doubly for shows you like.

//I know not everyone will do that and all opinions are ultimately subjective, but don’t let someone else tell you that you should hate something or that something is bad just because they didn’t like how it ended. Watch or read it yourself and draw your own conclusions. Don’t just follow the crowd and also be respectful of people who don’t agree with you. You can learn a lot when you talk to someone with a different opinion.

[aion-rsa]

Gina Carano Was Fired from The Mandalorian, But Should Cara Dune Live On?

https://ift.tt/2N0IeiI

Gina Carano deserved to be fired from The Mandalorian after months of posting dangerous online rhetoric that goes against everything Star Wars should stand for. After Carano used her Twitter bio to mock the common practice of users listing preferred pronouns, denying the gravity of the Covid-19 pandemic, posting election fraud conspiracy theories, refusing to show support for Black Lives Matter, and implying that being a right-wing conservative today was like being a Jewish person during the Holocaust, Disney finally did the right thing.

“Jews were beaten in the streets, not by Nazi soldiers but by their neighbors…even by children. Because history is edited, most people today don’t realize that to get to the point where Nazi soldiers could easily round up thousands of Jews, the government first made their own neighbors hate them simply for being Jews. How is that any different from hating someone for their political views,” read her now-deleted Tik Tok post.

While Carano did return for The Mandalorian season 2, which wrapped just before the Covid lockdowns that seemingly triggered the actor’s toxic views on social media, Disney decided that it had seen enough. In a statement released on Wednesday night, a spokesperson for Disney said that Carano’s “social media posts denigrating people based on their cultural and religious identities are abhorrent and unacceptable.” The spokesperson also confirmed that Carano “is not currently employed by Lucasfilm and there are no plans for her to be in the future,” effectively putting an end to her time on The Mandalorian and Star Wars. Deadline also confirmed that Carano and her agency UTA have parted ways.

Two days later, Carano doubled down, announcing a new movie project with alt-right pundit Ben Shapiro’s conservative website The Daily Wire. She will develop, produce, and star in the movie, which will release exclusively to the site’s members, according to Deadline. Carano dubiously framed her next move as “a direct message of hope to everyone living in fear of cancellation by the totalitarian mob.”

But while Carano may see herself as a rebel fighting for the right to claim “freedom of speech” no matter how hateful or downright false her posts, there are also plenty of Star Wars fans who are relieved to see her jettisoned from the universe they love. While Disney should still be held accountable for how it failed John Boyega and Kelly Marie Tran, actors of color who faced racist attacks upon being cast in the Sequel Trilogy, and who were sidelined as the trilogy progressed, the company has done a much better job of late of showing where it stands on the issues. The company stood in support of The High Republic show host Krystina Arielle after she faced similar attacks. By firing Carano, Disney and Lucasfilm have taken a clear stance not only against bigotry but the kind of dangerous rhetoric that has become pervasive among a small but loud minority of the fandom (although I’d hardly call them actual “fans”).

THR learned from a source close to Lucasfilm that the studio had been “looking for a reason to fire her for two months” and that Carano’s Holocaust post was “the final straw.” According to the outlet, Lucasfilm had previously planned to have Carano star in her own Mandalorian spinoff, potentially Rangers of the New Republic, and considered making the announcement during its investor’s day event in December before that idea was scrapped due to her social media posts.

cnx.cmd.push(function() { cnx({ playerId: "106e33c0-3911-473c-b599-b1426db57530", }).render("0270c398a82f44f49c23c16122516796"); });

Does Carano’s firing mean that this is the end of her character’s time in Star Wars? While the end of Cara Dune’s storyline in The Mandalorian season 2 teased that there would be more to her journey as a mercenary turned New Republic marshal, for the moment, that adventure seems to have been cut short. That said, some fans are already wondering whether Cara’s life in the galaxy far, far away could continue without Carano.

A few people on Twitter have suggested that the character should simply be recast, with Lucy Lawless already positioned as a frontrunner among fans. The Xena: Warrior Princess and Battlestar Galactica actor and activist would be more than a suitable replacement for Carano and the kind of talent the Star Wars brand should want to work with. Not to mention that Lawless would bring the energy, grit, and physicality needed to play a tough-as-carbonite brawler like Cara.

Let's make #LucyLawless the new and improved #CaraDune! #TheMandalorian @Jon_Favreau @dave_filoni pic.twitter.com/xuqqM3SOea

— 𝕂ℝ𝕀𝕊𝕋𝕀𝔸ℕ 𝕆𝔻𝕃𝔸ℕ𝔻 (@kreshjun) February 11, 2021

But as nice as it is to dream of Lawless or another fan-favorite performer taking on the role of Cara Dune and continuing her story, Star Wars has traditionally been averse to recasting its characters to the point where the franchise would rather paste a questionable CGI version of Mark Hamill’s face on another actor’s head than cast someone new to play a younger Luke Skywalker. (Sebastian Stan, for example.)

Not that Lucasfilm hasn’t tried recasting before, such as when it brought on Alden Ehrenreich and Donald Glover to play pre-Original Trilogy versions of Han Solo and Lando Calrissian in Solo: A Star Wars Story, but that movie was a box office failure for the studio. While there are many reasons why that film failed, a few fans might tell you it’s because Harrison Ford and Billy Dee Williams weren’t in it. If history tells us anything, it’s that there’s a section of this fandom that does not like change.

That’s not to say Disney should go out of its way to pander to viewers who are resistant to change. Big franchises like Star Wars need to embrace change to stay fresh and better reflect audiences. And Disney certainly shouldn’t prioritize people who would be mad if anyone but Carano played Dune on The Mandalorian or Rangers of the New Republic. My point is that Disney would likely save itself a lot of grief by not doing anything else with the character at all. There’s no doubt that the path of least resistance for Disney would be to phase out the character completely, giving her a quiet off-screen exit, perhaps coupled with some brief exposition in season 3 regarding where she went. Done.

Is that fair to Cara Dune and the fans who see themselves in her? Cara quickly became a fan-favorite after her debut on the Star Wars live-action series as a fierce gun-for-hire who’s not quite a hero and is as prone to violence as Din Djarin but who will ultimately choose to do what’s right. Many have lauded Cara for the ways she breaks away from the “traditional mold” of female Star Wars characters who have come before, both in terms of her morally gray motivations and her buff appearance, which, as fans of The Last of Us II‘s Abby will tell you, remains a rarity in our entertainment.

Read more

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How The Mandalorian Gave Fans a Different Kind of Star Wars Story

By Lacy Baugher

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Why The Mandalorian Was Always Destined to Meet Luke Skywalker

By Ryan Britt

Unlike Leia, Cara is a former Rebel shock trooper from Alderaan who didn’t immediately fall in line with the New Republic, preferring the chaos and danger of living in the Outer Rim than joining up with the new galactic government, which she felt wasn’t doing enough to quell the ever-present threat of the Empire that had destroyed her home planet. She preferred to brawl in cantinas and make her own way in the galaxy sans an official allegiance or badge, a lifestyle rarely lived by Star Wars‘ women — at least on screen. (In that way, Cara has much more in common with breakout Marvel comic book character Doctor Aphra.)

Sure, some of these traits began to change, but the show took its time developing Cara’s character, and by the time she did join the Republic’s law forces in the Outer Rim, it was after she’d witnessed many of the atrocities committed by what was left of the Empire. And even with the badge, she did some things on her own terms, like helping Mando and friends rescue Grogu from Moff Gideon.

To many, Cara has been a unique character worth following for years to come, whether it be on more seasons of The Mandalorian or in an eventual spinoff. Fans could perhaps still get that opportunity off-screen were Lucasfilm to continue Cara’s story in the books or comics, as it has with many other characters for over 40 years. It might just take some waiting.

But the mere fact that many fans want to see Cara’s story continue without the toxic presence of the actor who originally brought her to life is a testament to the power of the character herself. Like the best Star Wars characters, Cara seems to have staying power, and perhaps she deserves to outlive Gina Carano’s time with the franchise.

To The Mandalorian‘s credit, there are many other great female characters to look forward to on the show, including Bo-Katan Kryze (Katee Sackhoff), Koska Reeves (Mercedes Varnado), and Fennec Shand (Ming-Na Wen), who will actually star in The Book of Boba Fett later this year. (Please bring back Frog Lady, too.) They’re fantastic characters with their own motivations and stories, and I’d love to see more of them in season 3, but not all female characters are interchangeable and the other women in The Mandalorian’s world cannot replace Cara’s unique contributions to the show. They cannot simply “fill a spot” left behind by the last female hero, a character who was one of our first introductions on the show.

There’s perhaps no obviously right answer or course of action when things are still so raw and production is moving quickly on the next year of Star Wars stories. Does keeping Cara in Star Wars also ultimately mean that Lucasfilm is acknowledging Carano’s legacy with the franchise? Maybe. But should a great character that people look up to and relate to be allowed to exist beyond the bad decisions of an actor or its creator? Probably.

We only know this for sure: if you never see Cara Dune again in Star Wars, you only really have Gina Carano to blame.

The post Gina Carano Was Fired from The Mandalorian, But Should Cara Dune Live On? appeared first on Den of Geek.

from Den of Geek https://ift.tt/3ahfyuC

[bigtittyhimmler-blog]

Who Goes Nazi? Brooklyn Edition

If you’re anything like me, a twenty-something Twitter leftist with an advanced degree in the humanities, you hate absolutely everyone around you and badly want to kill them. You live in a brownstone playground of Timorese food and adult coloring books, and you want to suicide bomb the L train but leave a note blaming it on manspreading or whatever, so people don’t think you’re one of “those” random mass murderers (the bad kind). You hate having to tell people at parties that you “work in content,” and you hate the fact that they all also work in content. You hate that they all make content for outlets that are slightly cooler and more prestigious than the outlets you make content for. You hate that none of them have even fucked you for like thirteen months. You hate that you can’t even hate them for the ways in which they’re different to you, because there aren’t any. But fear not! There’s one thing you’ve got that nobody else does: you know that you’re definitely, 100% Not A Nazi.

But what about them? Imagine if the Nazis took over America and it was suddenly cool and prestigious to be a Nazi, and there were trendy Nazis on the TV the whole time, and they once again sold soap with slogans like “Dove: The White Pride Soap for Hating QTBIPOC and Not Amplifying Their Voices.” But also don’t imagine, because that’s exactly what’s happening.

 This game was invented by Dorothy Thompson in her classic 1941 Harpers essay Who Goes Nazi?, in which she presciently pointed out that intellectuals are definitely more Nazi than aristocrats, but not nearly as Nazi as union leaders. But she set her essay at some dinner party in the Hamptons or wherever, and last time I went out there I went swimming in the sea and a wave hit me and I lost my bikini top and a bunch of bros in boat shoes started laughing and pointing at me in a way that despite my white privilege I still feel was somehow like imbued with racism, and then afterwards I just stayed inside for three weeks writing content and ordering groceries online, so the setting needs to be updated. Let’s look at your group DM. Which of these Twitter creatives who live in Brooklyn would go along with it and become a Nazi? (All of them.) And who never, ever would? (Me.)

 Mr A isn’t actually in your group DM, and you’ve never encountered anyone like him irl, but you literally can’t stop talking about him, so he gets included anyway. Mr A is a short ugly loser, and he’s already a Nazi. He doesn’t even live in Brooklyn, he lives in his mother’s basement, and eats chicken tenders, and he doesn’t get laid, but in a different way to the way you don’t get laid, which has to do with patriarchy. Mr A is a Pizzagate. Mr A is a Gamergate. Mr A is a segregationist. Mr A opposes the reforms of the Emperor Diocletian (284-305). Mr A won’t shut up about the superiority of a “free silver” bimetallic monetary system over gold specie, and keeps on talking about the “gold shills” in a way that doesn’t really make sense until you realize that your own name is Goldschmidt, and yeah, he doesn’t really care about expansionary monetary policy at all, he’s talking about the Jews, and specifically you. Mr A is basically a pathetic worm whose life sucks and nobody likes him, but also he represents the whole of the repressive forces of society and he’s at the top of the social hierarchy. Everyone you’ve ever met is actually Mr A, wearing various masks. He is the source of all your problems. He must be killed, and once we kill him, we need to find more people like him to be the source of any problems we have left over.

 Mr B is in your group DM, but you also have a separate group DM with everyone else except Mr B in it. He keeps trying so hard to be nice, and says stuff like “so how is everyone’s day today” with a smiley emoji, and when you’re talking to him you get this airless feeling like you’re about to suffocate in his treacly good-natured presence. Every time you see Mr B at a party you’re afraid that he’s going to blurt out that he loves you, but you can’t keep your distance too much because he’s so clearly autistic, and you don’t want to be ableist. Anyway once in the group DM he said that while he obviously thought divining for water with Y-shaped copper rods was good and important and valid, he didn’t understand what it had to do with socialism. That made everything better, because clearly he’s a Nazi. The whole group DM expended hours of emotional labor educating him about how dowsing is part of LGBTQ+ culture and how his dismissive bro-y attitude was reactionary and gross, and eventually he posted a video of himself crying and begging for forgiveness and promising to do better, because you guys were the only friends he had. This was classic white fragility, but in the end you let him stay. You just have the other DM now, where you make fun of him and it’s ok, because if the Nazis came and he had license to start being cruel and sadistic to other people, he’d definitely do it.

 Ms C is one of those women who doesn’t like other women, and you know this about her because you can’t fucking stand the bitch. Plus she says stuff that’s really not ok, even though it costs nothing to have empathy and be kind. You’ve personally heard her use the D-word, the H-slur, and the L-pejorative, all while laughing and holding a glass of white wine by the stem, like she doesn’t need to consider the harm this does to others, just because she’s “funny” and “an artist.” She’s the Cool Chick. She makes nude self-portraits (the bad, skinny kind), and she’d throw you under the bus in a second for male attention and approval. She’d definitely go Nazi. But the worst thing about her is that she has the impudence to be bisexual and Asian, which makes it really hard to call her out. But then you realized that all Asian people are collectively responsible for the long history of anti-Blackness and misogynoir in their communities, and you’re thinking of holding her collectively responsible for the Rape of Nanking too, once you’re certain she’s a sushi Asian and not the dim sum kind.

 Ms D’s boyfriend works in finance, or like accountancy or something, or I think I heard he was a musician? Maybe a drummer or possibly he used to bartend at a place where they had live music. Anyway they definitely have vanilla cishet sex in the missionary position and you can’t stop thinking about it, his body, her body, naked, moving, breathing, together, almost silent, tender, disgusting. She says she’s a socialist but doesn’t devote every minute of her waking life to getting mad about people online. This means she’s just vaguely following a trend, and if the trend were being a Nazi (which it is), she’d be a Nazi (which she therefore is). You can’t imagine yourself actually hitting her but it’d definitely be punching up to maybe poison her food?

 Mr E used to be a comrade, but then he did a tweet that got 38.6k RT’s and now he’s moved to Los Angeles to spend his whole time in writers’ rooms. Last you heard he was pitching an animated show for adults about a snail with borderline personality disorder. It hasn’t even been greenlit yet, but you’re already thinking about all the ways in which it will be a missed opportunity and do harm and perpetuate tropes. Mr E will definitely turn out to have been a Nazi, and then you can start an anonymous petition to get the show cancelled so he has to move back to New York. Once he’s back you can send him a long email about how much it sucks his career burned out and how (even though you won’t say it in public) sometimes people do actually take the social-justice thing too far. That way he’ll be a comrade again, which is good, because we believe in rehabilitating people who have a genuine change of heart.

 Mr F probably thinks he’s better than you. He’s a union organizer. So are you (you added “#Unionize” to your Twitter name), but his union stuff involves workers who aren’t in tech, content, or grad school, and he probably thinks that makes him more in touch with “the real workers,” who he probably thinks are just a bunch of cis white males in a factory, who are probably all racist and probably have thick, heavy dicks that intrude on your mind in a kinda #MeToo way a lot of the time. He talks about class, and you agree that class is important because you’re not a lib (you support Bernie, you just want him to Do Better). But from the way he says it you’re certain he doesn’t acknowledge all he/him lesbians as part of the working class. He’s trying to save a tiny sector of the workers from a necessary and important socio-economic shift that will impoverish them and make their lives worse, and that’s what being a Nazi is. This is why his union needs to stop dragging their heels, change all of their rules and priorities, and let you get him fired.

 Ms G (me) will never go Nazi, because she is beautiful and kind and pure, and has all the good opinions instead of the bad ones. Because of this she’s allowed to do things that other people can’t do. She can totally fail to understand what having an authoritarian personality actually means, and construct a version of the Who Goes Nazi? essay in which the people who go Nazi are just people who are already right wing, having confused politics with personality, probably because she herself has no personality other than her politics. She can minimize, ignore, or even encourage the infliction of actual suffering when it happens to the wrong kind of people. She can write that “nothing that terrible has really happened” since the publication of Mark Fisher’s Exiting the Vampire Castle, even though Mark Fisher himself is mysteriously not around to appreciate that fact. She can do some shit with threatening to leak an unedited draft that I don’t even want to go into. She knows that the Nazis don’t come promising hatred but promising to be your friend, but it’s ok because she doesn’t really have any friends, just mufos. She’s doing great. She’s building a better, kinder world. She will never, ever be the Nazis.

[melodiouswhite]

Live forever - Ch. 02

(A/N: Yep. This thing still exists. :3)

It was 1550 and just like so many times before, he could never run fast enough.

Those blasted witch persecutions were getting out of control!

Yes, he was used to being persecuted.

For almost his entire life, he had been both revered and abhorred by people, who either were frightened of him and his powers or were simply malevolent.

He remembered a particularly nasty incident in 1507 (shortly after his 41st birthday), when he had been schoolmaster of a cram school in Sickingen. Someone had come and accused him of indulging in sodomy with some of the male students! Yes, he had lain with both men and women, but never had he touched his own pupils! Not to mention they had been mere children! This was wrong in so many ways! How had someone even got that idea?! Needless to say, he would have been severely punished, had he not escaped in time.

Never had he been so hurt in his entire life. Just the memory went down to his substance.

All the other times it blasphemy or outright heresy, witchcraft and similar fun stuff.

Nothing surprising in these days, in this war between the Catholics and the newly formed Protestant Church. The fact that he had real magic powers didn't exactly help matters, even though he had learned by now to keep his mouth shut (most of the time).

He was used to it.

But this was the 3rd time in five years that he had to flee from a bloodthirsty mob or a narrow-minded inquisition that wanted to see him burn! Some of them even had chased after him with firearms!

This was too much!

Having enough of this, he decided to migrate to France. He had heard that persecution wasn't as extreme there and he still remembered the time, before the Protestant Church had been a thing. Acting like a good Catholic, no one would notice him – he hoped.

Problem was just … he wasn't a good Catholic – or even a good Christian.

Never had been.

It had always been too suffocating for him to bear.

But he couldn't always go against the stream and hope that he wouldn't be hunted down with pitchforks and such for at least a week.

Well, I guess I have no other choice. Perhaps I will be lucky and find an area that isn't wrecked by war and where the people are more relaxed than here.

Shortly before his 100th birthday, a French couple walked into his life to change it forever.

He had got into a bar fight and had to run from a group of thugs that obviously wanted to beat him to death.

Why trouble just flung itself around his neck was beyond him, but now was no time to ponder on that – he had to avoid getting lynched!

As he ran around a corner, he spied a chubby, friendly-looking woman sitting in front of a bookshop and embroidering a handkerchief, singing a gay tune.

He didn't think twice.

He ran over to her, fell onto his knees and begged: “Madame! Please, help me!”

For a second she seemed bewildered, but then she caught on instantly. She grabbed his wrist, pulled him up and pushed him inside the bookshop.

“Stay there”, she ordered.

He pressed himself against the inside wall beside the door and tried to catch his breath.

Then he noticed the man standing behind the counter of the shop.

It was a tall, thin man with platinum blond hair and friendly, silvery eyes that looked at him curiously through big glasses. Probably the shop-owner and husband of the lady outside.

“Can I help you?”, he asked in French.

“Hide me, please!”, the other pleaded, “If you don't, I will die!”

The blond Frenchman rolled his eyes and told him to come behind the counter, which he did.

He curled together to fit under the counter.

Just as he had hidden, the door burst open and he heard the footsteps of several people.

“Have you seen this guy?”, one of them asked gruffly.

“What guy?”, the bookseller queried coolly, “Be more specific.”

“Some ugly ginger! About as big as me, with a fancy green cloak, black hat and white shirt! Looks like the Devil incarnate!”

Under the counter he felt his blood boil.

Ugly ginger?! Devil incarnate?!

Alright, he knew that he wasn't exactly handsome, but this was just incredibly insulting!

The rudeness seemed to agitate the blond bookseller as well, as he could see him tense up. But the man kept his cool.

“First of all, I didn't see an ugly ginger or anyone for that matter, for I was in here the entire time. Ask my wife, if she has seen anyone. She's the one who was sitting outside. Secondly, that's incredibly rude. Learn some manners. And thirdly, what do you want in the first place? Beat the unfortunate man up and rob him?”

Awkward silence.

“I suspected as much”, the bookseller remarked scornfully. “Anyway, you won't find him here. Now get out of my bookshop.”

The blond radiated such calm authority that the thugs hurried to obey his request.

After they were gone, the bookseller and his refugee waited for a bit to make sure that the mob wasn't still lurking outside.

Then the latter could hear the door open and tensed up again.

But it was just the lady from earlier.

“They're gone”, she sighed, “Such ruffians. People really have no manners these days.”

“Really”, her husband agreed, before bending down to inform their refugee that he could come out.

“Thank you so much”, he groaned in relief. “I thought I was going to die!”

Well, not exactly that, but he definitely would have been worse for wear.

“You're welcome”, the Frenchman responded, “You're not the first one we've had to save from a bloodthirsty mob. What was their problem anyway? Are you a Jew or an huguenot?”

“No”, the German snarled. He was something far worse, but knew better than to say that out loud. “Just a stupid bar fight.”

Their thoughts told him that they didn't buy it, but they didn't say that out loud.

He on the other hand was curious, who his saviours were and decided to dive into their minds.

A quick scan made his eyes widen in shock.

“By the way”, the other man spoke up, “We haven't introduced ourselves yet. My name is-”

“Nicolas and Perenelle Flamel!”, the redhead whispered. “No way!”

Their eyes widened in return.

“How do you know?”, Perenelle Flamel demanded to know. “Who are you?”

He swallowed and stretched out a hand.

“I'm Dr. Johann Georg Faust. It's a pleasure to meet you.”

He was pleasantly surprised, when they invited him to stay with them for the time being.

“We have heard of you”, Nicolas Flamel stated, as they were having dinner.

“The German merchants who come here speak of you. They tell wondrous tales, one more fantastic or ludicrous than the other.”

“And some very blasphemous things”, Perenelle told him. “That you boasted of being able to perform the miracles of Christ.”

He frowned. “I can't remember ever saying that. In fact, I'm quite sure that I never said that. I admit that I'm not a humble man, but this is defamation. What other things did they say about me?”

“That you were a worshipper of Satan, a son of the Devil, a witch or a warlock, a fraud … charming things like that”, Nicolas answered ironically.

“Charming indeed”, the ginger-haired alchemist grumbled sourly.

Perenelle quickly amended: “But they also said you were a great doctor, astrologer and healer. An encyclopedist, they say.”

Their guest smiled. “Thank you. I have studied and practised long and hard to become exactly that.”

“Out of curiosity though”, Nicolas spoke up again, “How much of the unflattering things is true? I mean, you're obviously like us. But how did you know who we are?”

He wasn't sure, if he should entrust that secret to the Flamels.

“What ever it is, you can tell us”, the blond assured him, “We're three immortal alchemists, who discovered the Philosophers' Stone. It doesn't get much more unhallowed than that.”

He took a deep breath, before telling them this: “I can read minds and see the future. And … I'm a black mage. But I have never hurt anyone, I swear!”, he added hurriedly. “I just use these abilities to get by!”

“We believe you”, Perenelle assured him and took his hand. “Two centuries have told us to know when someone lies.”

She and her husband exchanged a look.

“Well, since you obviously have nowhere else to go, Dr. Faust, why don't you stay with us?”, she offered, “Alchemists should stick together, especially immortals like us.”

Her husband nodded. “It would be refreshing to have a comrade on our journeys through the world. We could always use help around the household and we could generally support each other.”

The German alchemist and necromancer thought for a bit.

Now that he thought about it, his life had been pretty lonely so far. He couldn't remember ever having friends, nor had he ever been in love.

“Sure. As long as you don't mind wandering around with a mad alchemist who practises witchcraft, is way too showy and magically attracts trouble wherever he goes.”

The Flamels exchanged another glance.

Then they smiled and shook hands with him.

[qm-vox]

The Far Realms vs. Obyriths: Cosmic Horror in D&D

Shout-out, once again, to Afroakuma, from whom I learned most of the material I’m about to explain and with whom I’ve had many fascinating discussions about this topic.

It’s ya boi Vox, back at it to complain about RPG shit in an educational fashion again. Remember when I did a whole article about (evil) gods in D&D, arguing that they have more potential than to be used like supervillains? We’re gonna do that again, but this time with incorporating cosmic horror elements into your D&D campaign. Some of this advice may also be useful for games similar to D&D but for the sake of my own sanity I’m gonna confine myself to the one system or I’m gonna be here until my kids are in college.

This article will be broken down into three parts: an overview of cosmic horror’s origin and original thesis (in which we travel my favorite magical land, Full And Complete Context), a breakdown of the Far Realms in D&D (including older takes from late 2e & 3.5, how those changed in 4e, and their ambiguous state in 5e) & how you might use them for a cosmic horror campaign, and a breakdown of Obyriths in D&D and how you might use them in your campaign.

No discussion of cosmic horror is complete without some Content Warnings. Right up front: cosmic horror has its roots in extremely racist fiction, and I’m going to be talking about that straight-up. Also included in this article will be body horror, descriptions of mind control and mental corruption, supernaturally-induced madness, violence, and medical horror, among other things. This is a genre that hit the ‘fuck shit up’ button with its face on fuckin’ Zero Day and does that but again every time we successfully write something in it. Additionally, spoilers for some of Lovecraft’s work will be in here, with absolutely no tags and no warnings before they happen. You have been warned; do as thou wilt.

HP Does A Racism - Origins Of Cosmic Horror

Yeah, I’m about to be like that about it.

In the beginning there was Howard Phillips Lovecraft, an absolute garbage fire of a human being whose personal issues are such a knotted mess that I’m half-sure that the concept of the Ouroboros is just the echo of his bullshit reaching backwards through time. Like many authors of his time, Howie Love here was born into significant wealth, and while his education would be cut short (he had some manner of health problem in high school that ended his attempts at schooling) it was pretty high-quality, as it tends to be when you’re rich and white in the late 1800s. When he began writing his most famous body of work, Lovecraft had three attributes which would shape it: EXTREME racism, an incredible love for the works of Edgar Allen Poe, and every fucking phobia ever turned loose on God’s green Earth.

If you want to know more about that first point, try looking up what he named his cat; Lovecraft was so racist that even other racists thought he was too racist. Mother fucker was so racist that he wrote about the dangers of contaminating one’s bloodline with French-Canadians. His racism made it into all of his works in some way, shape, or form; many had themes of miscegenation, plenty included people of color only as deranged cultists of terrible powers, and as we’ll get into later in this segment the very racism that caused him to do these things also made him write the...let’s say ‘villains’ for lack of a better term, of his ongoing body of work as thinly-veiled stand-ins for white people.

No, really.

Lovecraft’s early work included a few short stories in the American Gothic style, the most famous of which is The Rats in the Walls. It’s a fairly classic story as far as those go, but Howie Love would soon abandon American Gothic for the genre he founded and defined: cosmic horror. Keep the racism and phobias in mind going forward, they’re about to become real important.

Howie Love Clowns On Himself - Themes And Thesis Of Cosmic Horror

While Dagon is generally accepted as the ‘first’ cosmic horror story, I prefer The Colour Out Of Space as the definitive example of the original thesis of cosmic horror at its most clean and clear (it’s also the work of Lovecraft’s that has aged the best; I highly suggest it if you haven’t read it yet!). In it, an alien presence - arguably but not necessarily an entity - crash-lands outside the fictional town of Arkham. Our narrator, a surveyor, coldly investigates the horrors that occur after and learns the sorry tale of a family destroyed by this alien presence as it blights their land, corrupts their bodies, and drives them to madness. The presence leaves, but not wholly; a fragment of itself remains behind, alongside the chilling possibility of a repeat performance.

The Colour Out Of Space, and indeed most of Howie Love’s work, was written at a time in the United States and the United Kingdom where human exceptionalism was the norm. Humans were not merely important, but special, chosen, exalted in nature and placed in a universe whose sole purpose was to be the stage for our domination. The Colour Out Of Space proposed a different idea: that we ain’t shit. Not only is humanity not exalted, but humanity is insignificant, existing at the mercy of fate, able to be casually annihilated at any time by forces we do not understand. It was a shocking proposal when it was published, and though the zeitgeist that gave it power has faded (most people realize we ain’t shit these days, can’t imagine how that fucking happened) it still resonates with many people.

The later works that defined the Cthulu Mythos would build on this theme, introducing powerful beings which claim dominion of Earth or of all reality. You’ve probably heard of most of them - Cthulu is the big one, of course, but there’s also Yog-Sothoth (The Dunwich Horror), Azazoth, Catboi Slim (Nyarthalotep), and many more, not all of which were written by Lovecraft himself. These beings are gods, or else so far above humanity that the difference is academic, and this brings us to the second defining theme of cosmic horror that Lovecraft would lay out, that of forbidden knowledge.

Protagonists in Howie Love’s stories have a tendency to lose their minds. Later authors would chalk this up to the idea that witnessing these gods or their works is so inherently horrifying that the mind simply snaps in their presence, or even that these gods are bound up in the concept of madness (this second one is a rather incompetent reading, not that I’m thinking of any PAIZO in particular that just ran with it in their RPG setting), but Howard’s own work doesn’t always bear that out. The protagonist of Call of Cthulu is not driven mad by that being - he is driven towards the brink by the realization that the Cult is still out there (and coming for his life), and that Cthulu will only rise again. Our viewpoint character in At The Mountains Of Madness realizes he has committed unspeakable atrocities on living beings much like himself by mistake, and that if further explorers come to disturb their slumber they will only repeat the same errors and lead to mankind’s annihilation. It’s not just that these ancient powers are terrifying or even that they are alien, but that to comprehend them is to understand that humans are so far beneath them that their attitude towards us cannot be thought of as ‘benevolent or ‘malevolent’, because we are beneath their notice, lesser in comparison than even a bacterium. In such a context, all humans do is consume resources better used by our superiors, and thus our existence is a profanity upon the divine. The only moral action, the stories argue, is self-annihilation; only ignorance permits us to justify our own existence to ourselves.

Sound familiar? Almost like this is the exact argument chucklefuck racists make about the existence of people of color, Jews, and anyone else they happen to not like? Yeah. This is the part where Lovecraft accidentally made himself the villain of his own work. Congratulations Howie, you played yourself. And since his audience was largely fellow white men also hard up on that whole racism thing, this idea of human profanity tapped a deep well of anxiety. I’m not about to argue that racism is over (it isn’t) and that’s why this vision of cosmic horror is less popular; indeed, it’s retained a pretty solid cult (heh) following, in part because the idea of such beings is inherently kinda terrifying. But I’d be remiss not to bring up the fact that this terror has its roots in racism, so...there you have it.

Other authors also built on the Cthulu Mythos, with Lovecraft’s enthusiastic blessing. These days their works tend to be mistakenly attributed to Howie Love himself, but that’s not actually his fault; they were published on their own, under their own authors’ names, and as far as we can tell Howard never tried to take the credit. These other authors had a tendency to substitute the indifferent divinity and corrupted humans of Lovecraft’s work with direct malice; their vision of these god-like beings was one in which they noticed humanity and did harm to it, creating a movement away from Howie Love’s original thesis (”human insignificance will lead to the unimportant and unmarked event of our destruction” & “seeking knowledge can only lead to self-annihilation”) during his life which only picked up momentum after his death. Indeed, most modern attempts at Lovecraftian horror mimic this overt malevolence, often without even lip service to the original thesis. It’s not necessarily an unworkable angle of horror, and it definitely has bones in with its origins; “God is real and He hates you personally” is a terrifying idea! But this movement away from the cold indifference of stories like The Colour Out Of Space definitely contributed to the current climate of...sloppy adaptations, let’s say.

Not that I’m thinking of any Paizo in particular.

So Should I Use Mythos Content Directly In My D&D Game Or What?

No, because I will cry and tell everyone that you punched my children and kidnapped my girlfriends.

More helpfully, probably not. The presence of other divinities, but especially evil divinities like Erythnul (Greyhawk) or Malar (Forgotten Realms) makes the thematics of cosmic horror pretty fucking weird. If you really wanted to, your best bet is to not use the published system of divinity at all (see the previously-linked article, up at the top of this one) and instead make Lovecraft’s gods the setting’s only gods. That means asking yourself some hard questions about clerics in your game world and possibly divine magic in general - that’s a separate article though - and even then you’re in for a rough row to hoe. D&D’s characters tend to be competent, dynamic, empowered - a far cry from the educated but otherwise fairly helpless protagonists on which cosmic horror tends to trade. Themes of futility in the face of incomprehensible beings don’t really make for good D&D most of the time, not when so much of the system (any edition, it doesn’t matter) is set up to create and reward cunning and heroic struggle. Classic cosmic horror, in the original proposed form, is not a good fit.

Thankfully, we have two solutions to give you what you crave in-house. Let’s start with the one that is somehow both the closer fit and the further fit.

You Have Fucked Up - The Far Realm Overview

Originally introduced in late AD&D 2e, the Far Realm as an idea hit its stride during 3.0/3.5 before getting a major rework as part of 4e’s cosmology, where it became the source of most/all aberrations. We’re gonna go ahead and pretend 4e didn’t happen, not because 4e is bad (and for the love of fuck please don’t start an edition war on my cosmic horror post) but because 4e’s cosmology just doesn’t really fit in with any of the rest. 1e <-> 3.5 is more or less coherent and you can beat 5e into line with a wrench and some harsh language, but 4e...well, anyway.

The Far Realms is outside reality. No, not in another dimension, we know what those are - those are the Planes. It’s outside reality; it is Somewhere Else. “It” is probably even the wrong term, since by definition any place (”place”) that isn’t the multiverse as D&D knows it is the Far Realm. To paraphrase Afroakuma, if the Great Wheel is a Lego brick, the Far Realm is a giant squid; if the Great Wheel is a bowl of Fruit Loops, the Far Realm is the theory that intelligences from Pluto rig the results of major sporting events. The contexts are not compatible. These two things do not go together in any way. Combining the two can only end in sorrow and woe.

So mortals try to combine the two all the time, because we’re dipshits like that.

Every now and again, some truly, monumentally stupid person - usually but not always someone inside reality - breaches the skin that contains reality inside itself, and lets in the essence of Outside. This is a phenomenally bad idea; the immediate result is corruption in both directions as the essence of each form of reality bleeds into the other. Both attempt to ‘scab’ the breach, translating the foreign substances and beings into something more like the reality they have moved to. If a breach happens, there is one of three outcomes. If you are very, very lucky, no being on the other side notices the breach, and you’ve ‘merely’ blighted and corrupted a vast stretch of land, tainting it with something sort of like, but not enough like, Chaos and Evil for millennia to come - maybe even forever. If you’re not lucky, a being on the other side notices the breach and acts to seal it, the ripple of which causes you to not have a nation or continent any more as said corruption absolutely consumes the lands in which you live. And if you are phenomenally unlucky, the being on the other side is just as stupid as you are, and it comes through. The last time that happened the original Gnomish pantheon got murdered. Their homeworld doesn’t exist any more.

There is no ‘good’ outcome. This is the repeated and absolute theme of the Far Realms; whatever your reasons for getting involved with them, whatever you wanted, whatever you were seeking, you don’t get it. Mortals fuck with the Far Realms because our inability to comprehend them leads us to think of them like things we can experience. The scabbed-over beings we meet that are from there (Psuedonatural creatures; see the Alienist prestige class in Tome & Blood and Complete Arcane, as well as the bigger version in the Epic Level Handbook) are Chaotic Evil because that is how reality translates them. They aren’t Chaos, they’re another reality, and their unwilling and unwitting corruption of all around them gets redefined as Chaotic Evil in order to reduce their damage to all of existence to a manageable fucking level. Were you seeking the Far Realms in order to harness power for great change? Get fucked, you can’t control what happens. Were you seeking magical power? Get fucked; the reason people go mad when exposed to the Far Realms isn’t just that the knowledge they gain makes no sense, it’s that the complete lack of context means all of the stuff you killed and stole and lied and cheated for is more or less completely goddamn useless. Trying to escape existence for some reason? One, death is faster, but two, hope you enjoy suffering the entire time you die - and that’s if the breach stays open long enough for you to be able to enjoy death as a concept before you get sealed away in a place where mortality doesn’t meaningfully exist.

You don’t get what you want. This was a bad idea. You fucked up.

5e, the most recent edition of D&D, mainly continues this trend. It has suggestions of the lazier interpretation of Lovecraft’s work tied to the Far Realms, which I heartily suggest you ignore, but some of the other ideas are phenomenal. The Great Old Ones Pact for Warlock has one in particular that I like quite a bit, which suggests that the Warlock-to-be created an unintended connection to a Far Realms intelligence and gained power against both of their wills and possibly without the intelligence in question even noticing. You don’t need to change a lot in 5e’s run to bring out the extant themes of the Far Realms - though admittedly this is greatly assisted by the fact that 5e barely has any Far Realms content to begin with, so there’s not a lot to edit. That also means there’s not a lot to use, so if you want to use Far Realms stuff in 5e you’re gonna have to get ready to spend a lot of time making your own. Which brings us to...

Who The Fuck Funded This Research?!? - Using The Far Realms In Your Game

Considering that all-important theme - “this was a bad idea” - the Far Realms are likely to be antagonistic in nature in your game, even if ‘antagonistic’ isn’t the right term. Published adventures have used Far Realms content as a sort of backdrop (Firestorm Peak comes to mind here) before, and you can easily make Far Realms creatures a more direct problem for your PCs by centering the campaign around a cult or research team attempting to cause a new breach. This could be a great time to engage with player-side themes such as the ethics of magic use, the cost of power, and the burden of responsibility for said power, assuming your group is down for it. Even if they’re not, horrifying monstrosities that by definition have no place in this universe are great to kick in the head(s).

What motivates people to cause a breach? Mainly stupidity, but the special kind of stupidity you only get when someone is highly educated and deeply intelligent. For awhile, in the real world, there was a burst of designers making D20 heartbreakers - successors to D&D 3.5 meant to fix its many catastrophic flaws. Each person thought they had it, the secret to make the system they both loved and hated finally function, and they were all wrong. Causing a breach into the Far Realms is like that. Every sign points to it being a bad idea. Reading the research and spells of the last people who tried it reveals that it’s a bad idea. All of the diaries and primary sources of those who did it and those who stopped them say it’s a bad idea, but that’s okay because I, Wizardhat von Dipshit, am not like those fools. I will be more careful, and the power to reshape the Planes will be mine!

The easiest way to make Far Realms creatures for use in your campaign is to start with an existing monster and fuck it up; rearrange its abilities (adding or emphasizing mental attacks and psychic damage, if you can), alter its physical form, and generally just make that shit wrong and fill its blood with spiders. If you want to get more alien from there or make something original, the best guideline I can offer for you is that aboleths were the result of Far Realms taint in the beginning of this reality (it’s telling that the closest thing reality could translate their progenitor into was a Greater Deity).

No one wants power for its own sake, of course, but what your antagonist actually wants is more or less irrelevant because the important bit is that they had every chance to know better and they’re about to make this bad decision on purpose anyway. This is how the Far Realms brings out cosmic horror themes in a heroic context; power that is beyond both mortal comprehension and control, which has no place in this reality and recoils from us as violently as we recoil from it. Like Lovecraft, whose stories revealed a deep cynicism about knowledge and science, your antagonists will be erudite individuals whose ruinous plans are only possible because of what they have learned and, in turn, chosen to ignore. If nothing is done, unstoppable catastrophe will be unleashed, and with it will come madness and desolation. If only some heroes were on hand, eh?

The disconnect the Far Realms has from classic cosmic horror is also the source of why they fit; they don’t belong here. In Lovecraft’s work, it’s humanity that doesn’t belong - we are a blight upon the rightful property of higher beings. The Far Realms are instead an intrusion, something from Elsewhere which doesn’t want to be here as much as we don’t want it here. That helps those classic cosmic horror themes work much better in this context, but maybe you’re looking for something else, something from here. Do the Planes have cosmic horror from within the shell of Reality?

Yes. Oh yes, they do.

Ancient Evil Survives - Obyrith Overview

In the beginning, there was war.

The primordial War of Law and Chaos is the greatest conflict to have ever rocked the Planes. It was so destructive, so all-encompassing, that it consumed entire Material Plane worlds, reshaped the nature of the Planes themselves, and is still happening, even now. It began in the early days of the Great Wheel and was prosecuted by Chaos, led by the self-styled Queen of Chaos, over a single question: should reality be real? Should effects follow causes, should gravity exist, should fire burn and light reveal, should things age and die, should...

The forces of Law said yes to these questions and fought to establish and maintain an order and logic to reality. Chaos fought for an unbound reality, one in which each individual would be completely free to express their own true essence as tangible changes in the existence around them. The War was never truly won or lost, but the imprisonment of Miska the Wolf-Spider broke the backs of the Chaotic coalition and brought the War to a stalemate of sorts, in a reality which, if not dominated by Law, is definitely Law-leaning. Mortals are familiar with the terrible demons used as footsoldiers by the Abyss, the Tanar’ri, who reign yet in that terrible place. But it was not the Tanar’ri in command of Chaos, and not the Tanar’ri who prosecuted that terrible War. Indeed, the beings we now recognize as demons rose up against their creators, the Obyriths, after the imprisonment of Miska. They overthrew the Obyriths in a great slaughter and replaced them as the dominant exemplars of Chaotic Evil.

The Obyriths are not dead. They plan, and they wait, and they wage war and slaughter upon their wayward slaves in the Abyss. Every last one of them burns to reignite the War and achieve their vision of unbound reality, free of the wretched Law and all too weak to survive without it.

Prisoners Of The Flesh - Obyrith Nature

So what are Obyriths? The easiest answer is that they’re demons - the first demons, in fact, which preceded the more famous Tanar’ri (when you think of demons in D&D chances are you’re thinking of a Tanar’ri), and while this answer is entirely correct it is not the whole story. Tanar’ri are famously Chaotic Evil; they revel in corruption and destruction and are driven to maliciously annihilate or taint all they come across. A demon army marching across the land will stop to personally kick every puppy between point A and point B and they will absolutely mutiny against you if you try to stop them from doing so. What is good and pure must be soiled; what exists must be made to not exist, its foundations shattered, its virtues turned against themselves, its values abandoned. Tanar’ri respect only raw might, and only as long as they think they can’t defeat it.

But Obyriths, their progenitors, are Evil Chaos.

Let’s have some examples. This little guy is a draudnu, a kind of Obyrith made from the bones of chaotic celestials which post-dates the ‘end’ of the War by a pretty significant amount of time. They’re on the weaker side for Obyriths.

(You’ll find this boi in Monster Manual V for 3.5 incidentally.)

Take a nice long look. Really take it in - because that’s not the draudnu. That’s the prison of flesh, the scab, that reality has forced on the draudnu, that the terrible Law has locked it within. The actual draudnu looks like it’s inside me God it’s inside me I can feel it growing and twisting it HURTS get it out, it’s seeping into my blood it’s inside me it’s INSIDE ME -

Let’s have another example. This is a sibriex, recently re-published in Mordenkeinan’s Tome of Foes for 5e with no mention of Obyriths, which is a damn shame. They were instrumental in defining the forms of the common breeds of Tanar’ri.

Fun, right? But again, that’s not a sibriex; the actual form of a sibriex is perfection. Absolute beauty and grace. I am nothing compared to this perfection. I am no one in the face of this perfection. My existence can only profane this perfection. I must serve the Perfect One. I must let it remake me and reshape me, I must appease it, I must make amends for the crime that is my trespass upon the reality made for the Perfect One.

Those two are ‘common’ Obyriths, examples of that race of demons which have peers who are much like themselves, but the Obyriths still have extant Demon Princes. The Queen of Chaos is still alive and nursing her ancient hate. Pale Night’s true form is so profane that reality cannot stand its existence; when she reveals it to you, the multiverse destroys your soul so that knowledge of her truth does not exist. Obox-Ob, murdered by the Queen of Chaos, yet exists as an Aspect of himself - and the Planes live in fear of the rise of the Prince of Vermin, whose truth is agony, rot, and corruption, such that even if you magically remove memory of it from your mind you continue to die from the soul outward.

And Dagon plots within the depths of his palace, sponsoring and advising Demogorgon - the Prince of Demons - and contemplating unimaginable lore of evil. The Demon Prince of Depths looks like this.

This is the form carved on blasphemous altars in the depths of the oceans, where sunlight has never reached. This is the form worshiped by mortals who delight in corruption, destruction, and fear, who dream of a sea where vision is a distant memory and predators hunt by the scent of blood. It is the form sought by those who lust for ancient lore, kept in places far from mortal sight and utilized by an evil older than many gods and mortal races, a form whose mere touch can taint a body of water, mutating & mutilating all within and unleashing their fury, their terror, their slaughter, for ages to come. And it is not Dagon. Dagon’s true form, imprisoned within that flesh, is I’m drowning in the cold dark, I can feel my bones breaking, my eyes are bursting, I’m blind and I’m drowning and I can’t die, my lungs are gone, the water is seeping into my blood I’m drowning and I just want to die make it stop I’m DROWNING.

It’s telling that witnessing Dagon’s true form, his Form of Madness, can give even creatures that breathe water, or which do not breathe at all, crippling hydrophobia.

The true forms of Obyriths are not flesh or matter; they are not, by nature, Material beings the way other Outsiders and mortal things are. Their true forms are that you, personally, are going mad. You, personally, are being assaulted, violated, and infected; you, personally, are being victimized, corrupted, consumed, and betrayed. Imagine if the act of pouring flesh-eating beetles into someone’s eyes had a personality, will, and desires - not the person doing it, the act itself - and that’s an Obyrith. They are evil because what they are is evil, much in the way Erythnul is evil. Unlike their creations, the Tanar’ri, Obyriths aren’t in it to kick every puppy that has ever existed. They want to throw off the yoke of the Law and release their unbound forms. They want an existence of darkness and isolation in which all beings are free to express their true essence to the limit of their might and their will.

They just wanna be themselves.

No matter who has to die.

The Foes Of All Reason - Using Obyriths In Your Campaign

Do you enjoy life’s little conveniences, such as cause-and-effect, linear time, predictable & observable physical laws, not having your body boil away beneath the agonizing will of some random asshole, and the capacity to recognize patterns in nature? Then Obyriths are your enemies. As demons, Obyriths can be summoned and are thus easy to use in the sort of ‘guest star’ role that Tanar’ri are often used in, even if it takes a moon-sized pair of brass balls to decide you can contain one. However, this use - while valid - is not a good way to bring out their cosmic horror themes, and since you decided to read an article about cosmic horror in D&D this far down I’m going to go ahead and assume you’d like to do that.

As one of the Planes’ most ancient and active evils - arguably the most ancient one that hasn’t died or otherwise fucked off - Obyriths are absolutely prime for campaigns that deal with ancient lore, primordial conflict, and unreality. If you like the idea of long-burn plots by masterminds with the patience of aeons, Obyriths are definitely for you. For an example of one such story, check out The Tale of the Whale, written by Afroakuma. The downside to using Obyriths in this way is that if you want to do so in canon settings, you need to be prepared to do some absolute fucking deep dives on the lore, which may require access to books or PDFs as far back as 1e & 2e. If you’re using your own setting this problem is lessened, though at that point you do have to manage to sell the ancient nature of such beings in a way that makes them feel suitably eldritch.

For more...let’s go ahead and say modern for lack of a better word, takes, keep in mind that Obyriths are not Tanar’ri. They do not scheme to overthrow the government of a nation; your pale, fleshly shadow of the Law is nothing to them. The plots of Obyriths upend the Laws which underpin reality itself. Could the great contract that details the alliance between the tribes of Men and Cats be found and perverted, turning each against the other in all reality? Could the insects of this realm be infected with the essence of Obox-Ob so that the Demon Prince of Vermin can feast on mortal souls and effect his own return to power? Could a bridge linking the Deep Ethereal to the Abyss be constructed, permitting the sibriexes and their master, the Prince of the Chrysalis, to shape new slaves from the very essence of raw Potential? Obyriths pervert what is and should be, not just because it suits their end goal of chaos unbound, but because corruption and violation is their very nature. It’s how they think, how they move, what they believe in, love, and value.

Obyriths have a lot to suggest for them when it comes to cosmic horror stories in D&D’s context. They bring out direct themes of madness, terrible truth, malign alien intelligence, and reality-unreality. You can comprehend their motives and even their nature, sort of, but their end goal is completely alien to mortal beings; the reality they want would be completely unrecognizable to the denizens of the current one. They are evil as mortals understand the concept, but not in a way that matches or even relates to their peers, which means they act in surprising and unpredictable ways.

All of this of course damages their ability to fulfill the classic cosmic horror thesis, but there’s something to be said about the idea that an alien intelligence, to be horrifying, needs something humans can attempt to relate to. It certainly makes writing for them easier.

If you’re using Obyriths in 3.5, you’re set to go; look for them in the various Monster Manuals, as well as Fiendish Codex. If you’re attempting to use them in Pathfinder, good decision but you’re gonna have some stat block converting to do. Trying to use them in 5e is gonna be the absolute bitch of a job, and I’m not sure where to even start on those suggestions except to note that the signature trait of Obyriths - the thing that makes them them, mechanically - is a Form of Madness ability, where they reveal their truth to their victims. Forms of Madness are mind-affecting abilities which hit all non-demons near the Obyrith, tainting them in some way. You can see some example ideas above, and the ones from 3.5 in the published books I just mentioned, but here’s hoping I can find an expert on 5th Edition’s mechanics kind enough to lend me a hand here.

I hope this article proved helpful to you! As with all of my work, questions and critique are welcome. Thanks for reading!

[iamkatehardy]

Unlikely Allies (Tommy Shelby x Reader | Alfie Solomons x Reader)

Tags: @kaliforniacoastalteens , @raceylacy, @littlemisscaptainfandom

Warnings:Suggetive at some point, but not smutty (yet), Violence

A/N: Long story short, thought this would be a short chapter, turned out it isn’t (3,5k +), and I had to delay some of my ideas for the next chapter :P 

Also,  was dying to write the final scene of this chapter,it’s one of the scenes I had in my head since I started working on this fic!

You can check out the previous chapter in my Masterlist :p

Leave your feedback, which is endlessly appreciated❤

Chapter 2

Tommy was a man with a lot of dreams and plans, he had always been. One of his most recent plans was to reopen The Garrison Pub, more lavish and sophisticated than ever; and once he put his mind to it, it didn’t take long to happen. As expected, he made something big. He invited family, friends, you, and a bunch of petty criminals with whom he had strategical alliances. Although some of them could be intimidating, their presence didn’t bother you; not many people got under your skin, and you feared no living being, after all you had been through.

Until you carried the vendetta you had promised to, you had to be the grief-stricken widow, that was one of the many rules in the Families; so, to avoid bigger problems with powerful people, and with the respect you had for your late husband, you wore black; an expensive embroidered dress hugged your figure, with a train trailing behind you.

Your looks were always bold, as bold as you; multiple layers of the finest diamonds worked in harmony, in the necklace that adorned  the smooth skin of your neck, and your lips were devil red, at least until they’d meet Tommy’s, which was your ultimate goal for that night. You were looking forward to steal the show, especially in his eyes, and you did.

As soon as Tommy laid his eyes on you, he gave you a signal, and you both made a discreet exit to a quiet room, the one where meetings were supposed to take place.

“I must congratulate you for the excellent work you did here, it’s outstandingly beautiful.” – Your eyes roamed around the room.

He placed two glasses on the table, pouring his favorite Irish whiskey on them, and then placing one of them in front of you.

“Do you know what else is outstandingly beautiful tonight?” – Looking at is glass, Tommy moved his hand in a circular motion, playing with the whiskey inside.

“What?”- After taking a swig of your drink, you smirked, watching him.

“Don’t play games with me, you know the answer. You know I’m talking about you.” – He stared at you in amazement, drinking his whiskey in one gulp.

“Don’t suck up to me with compliments, Thomas Shelby. What do you want?” – Your eyes squinted lightly, as you sat on the table, in front of him.

“I’ve always been told it’s not flattery if it’s true…” – After putting his glass aside, one of his hands rested in your ribcage as he drew you closer, and his other hand traced your cheek slowly.

“Who’s playing games now, huh?” – You looked up at him, with the smirk of a woman who knew exactly what came next. Before he could answer, you grabbed him by the shirt collars, pulling him toward you, and kissing him passionately.

The kiss lasted for some long minutes; your fingers were tangled in his hair, and your tongues fought desperately for dominance. His hands roamed hungrily over your body, because he knew about all your sensitive spots; he could easily make you shiver each time he touched you.

“Tommy…” – You whispered breathlessly in his ear, and it only increased his desire to go on and on.

When he brushed his lips lightly against your neck, you gripped his hair tighter, laying your head back, amid caresses and heavy breaths. His lips moved over your chin, and he started pulling your hips closer to the edge of the table and helping you to wrap your les around his waist. Your body could feel every part of his, and it made you ache for him.

You took a minute to look up at him. His eyes were big, bright, and even more beautiful in that soft light. Tommy brought his head slowly down, never breaking the eye contact, until his warm mouth crashed against your soft lips once again.

The heated moment was abruptly interrupted when the door swung open. You could hear steps and a cane, combined they created a distinctive rhythmic sound. Tommy stepped aside, and you could finally see the man who entered the room; closing your eyes, you took a deep breath, trying to keep control.

“Alfie, I’ll be out in a moment.” – Tommy slid his finger across his lips. He knew they were probably smeared with your lipstick, if not his whole face and neck.

“Not only is he the most unpleasant creature in the fucking world, he has little to none sense of opportunity.” – You hissed

Alfie tried to act indifferent, but the truth is that he wasn’t pleased with what he had just seen. He swung his cane for some seconds, looking at it; after a while he stopped, placing one hand over the other, supported by the cane. He clenched his teeth.

“This is what I wanted to tell you earlier, when we came here. Mr. Solomons is one of my guests of honor tonight. Do you want another drink?”

Great dissatisfaction was noticeable on your face.

“I think I’ll have the whole bottle, thank you.” – Rolling your eyes, you grabbed the bottle and stormed out the room, since Alfie wouldn’t.

Tommy sat down, lighting a cigarette and pouring himself another drink.

“Have a seat, please, Alfie. Let’s discuss business, before I am dead drunk.”

Alfie’s presence made you restless, and not even the luxurious party could make you neglect that feeling. He was up to no good, and you feared for Tommy’s safety, but there was something else: something about him stirred emotions up in you,

The meeting between Tommy and Alfie was long; they discussed details of their agreements, and when would Tommy send his men to the bakery.

In fact, it didn’t take long until Tommy’s men arrived at their destination, and saw Solmons’s wrath; but even the walls had eyes and ears in Camden Town, and Sabini quickly sent a clear message, written in blood: war was coming. Being a Shelby, Tommy would never back off without a fight; it was both admirable and mad. He called an emergency meeting with some of his most trustworthy allies.

“We need to take Sabini down…” – He started, playing with his glass. Taking a deep breath, he made a pause, lighting a cigarette up. – “The Eden Club is ours… And I already bought a filly that is currently being trained by Mrs. May Carleton; that’s our ticket to Epsom, where our final blow will take place.” – He took a long drag of his cigarette.

Your eyes rolled involuntarily at the mention of May Carleton, the way she looked at Tommy made you realize that she was competition.

“(Y/N), I would like you to accompany me to the races, I need your help.”

“You know I made a blood oath, I can’t touch Sabini or any other Italian until they give me motives to.”- You insisted.

“Touching them is my job, you’ll have another role in my plan love, and I wouldn’t put you at risk.” – His eyes moved from his glass, and his gaze finally met yours, trying to put you at ease. – “And about our deal, 5000 bottles of Scotch will be shipped this week, no cost involved. Consider them an offer for your valuable loyalty and help.”

By the end of the meeting, you and Tommy were the only people left in the room.

“You once told me that one day you’d have the world in the palm of your hand, and that’s a dream we share… But it’s getting too dangerous for you out there.” – Your eyes were teary, and glued to the window you were facing. – “Don’t fly too close to the sun, Tommy.”

His footsteps echoed through the emptiness and silence of the room, before he hugged you from behind, resting his hands on your waist, and his chin on your shoulder; you could feel his breath on your skin.

“It’s the last time before…”

“It always is, isn’t it Tommy? At least until you get in even bigger trouble.” – You interrupted him and turned around, laying your head in his chest. – “Forget this, forget revenge, forget this damned life. Let’s go to a place where love is everything, not hate. I promise I’ll give you whatever you’re missing… I’ll reinvent the world just to show you that this love that binds us can set us free. Let’s switch this life for something better, just you and me… Please.” – You whispered against his chest.

Although his heart was beating faster at your words, you knew that making that proposal was nothing but a shot in the dark. You were willing to try anyway. His arms enveloped you, in silence, giving you an inexplicable sense of safety and completeness. That wasn’t a yes, and you knew that; all you could do was seizing what he had to offer you.

You spent the night together; it was just as magical as you remembered it. It was as if even after all those years your body responded only to his touch, his affection; you were sure it could never be that special with anyone else in the world.

While you were in paradise, in Tommy’s arms, Arthur was meant to meet Alfie Solomons, after he had made an invitation. What the Shelbys didn’t know was that Solomons’s loyalty had been bought by Sabini with false promises, and the meeting was a trap. This betrayal was also enhanced by the rage that blinded Alfie, for the fact Tommy and you had any kind of involvement, or emotional commitment; in his sight, Tommy engaged with Italians first by shagging you, besides that, he couldn’t stand seeing you both together even if you were Arabic, for unknown reasons that transcended him.

You were sleeping soundly, with your head in Tommy’s chest, when John stormed into the room, to warn his brother about what happened to the eldest Shelby. What John saw didn’t surprise him, but the revelation he made definitely caught his brother off guard. After he left, Tommy dressed up in a hurry.

“I told you that fucking Jew wasn’t trustworthy. I’ll kill him.” – Covered in his sheets, you sighed nervously.

“Killing him won’t set Arthur free, love. I need to talk to him.”

“Talk? Talk?!”

“You stay here, ok? Don’t get me in trouble.” – He said before leaving, letting a letter slip out of his pocket.

“You do that alone, Tommy.” – You said in annoyance, before getting up and inspecting the letter.

The situation wasn’t great. Arthur had been arrested, the Eden Club taken by Alfie and Sabini’s men, and the war was now against the Shelbys.

Alfie tried to fuck with Tommy, but he didn’t get away with that. All he got was a life threat and 35% of the business, but greedy as he was, he had another trick up his sleeve. After Tommy left, he rethought the subject and decided to his price was higher than just 35%, “all or nothing” was his offer again, he wanted the whole business or he’d let Arthur hang.  That was when you decided you’d take the matter in your own hands.

“You have hard feelings towards Alfie, I can’t let you do that, (Y/N).”

“Yes, I fucking have, and they’re more than justified. Tell me, Thomas, where did kissing his ass take you? Right, no-fucking-where. So, we’ll do it my way now.”

“At least let me go with you.”

“Fine, but you won’t interfere in my plans.”

It was time for you to pay a visit for Mr. Solomons. Ollie stood outside the bakery, with a notebook on his hand, when you arrived. You and Tommy had it all planned, you both knew that no one was in the bakery that day, besides Ollie and Alfie, so it was the perfect opportunity to strike.

“Good Afternoon, we’d like to see Mr. Solomons , please.”

“Mr. Solomons doesn’t have any appointments today.Plus, Mr. Shelby is not welcome here anymore.”

“Hmmm, I bet we can get around that… And the appointment is for me only, Mr. Shelby will wait here.” – You tapped your foot impatiently on the floor.

“I’m sorry, you’ll need an appointment, and there won’t be any today, maybe we can schedule….”

Before he could finish the sentence, you headbutted him so violently you knocked him out. Tommy looked at you in disbelief.

“You told me to make smart moves and you knock his pupil unconscious?”

“No, Tommy, I told you to use your fucking head, and that’s exactly what I did, isn’t it?” – Shrugging, you smirked. – “Now, wait here, I won’t take long.”

You walked quickly and confidently through the “bakery”, holding your gun on your right hand. You were somehow anxious, so the corridor seemed to be interminable. When the door of the office flew open, Alfie looked up and saw you coming forward.

“Hasn’t anyone taught you to knock yet, doll?”

“That really shouldn’t be your biggest concern right now…” – Sitting on his desk, with the gun against his head, you opened the drawer, and threw his gun on the floor, after unloading it.

“Easy there, sweetie. If you’re still interested in the rum, we can discuss that. Don’t be precipitate, aye.” – He was blinking quickly, trying to study you.

“How cordial of you. I’d clap, if didn’t have a gun in my hand.”

“I can offer you the rum, a charming lady like you doesn’t even have to pay!” – He clasped his hands.

“I love your good will Alfie, I really do.” – You said sarcastically, grabbing his cheek with your free hand. – “And just because you’re being nice, let’s play a game, yeah?” – You got up, spinning around; after unloading your gun, you took a single bullet in your hand. – “You see, I have a bullet with your name engraved on it, for a long time now. I planned to use it today, but since you’re being so generous, I feel like being generous as well!” – Turning your back to him, you played with your gun, closing the cylinder and spinning it multiple times right after, before turning back to him. – “And if you’re smart or lucky… Or both! You might live to see tomorrow, Alfie.”

Alfie stared at you in silence, looking very grave.

“Don’t look at me like that, it’ll be fun!” – You said, sitting on his desk again.

He didn’t say a word, just looked at his hands, which were cold and sweaty in that moment. Alfie Solomons, Mr.Know It All , was caught off guard by a woman

“You’re always so full of shit, and now you’re so quiet… Has cat got your tongue, love?” – You slid the gun barrel, almost gently, up his cheek, stopping in his temple.- “Pow… Pow…” – You whispered in his ear, your wet lips brushing against his earlobe before pulling the trigger. – “5, or less, attempts left, depending on how lucky you are… This was just the warning.”

He crossed his legs and squeezed his eyes shut, with a groan.

“Ok, Mr. Solomons… I can deal with the silence; your voice annoys me anyway…” – Rolling your eyes, you sat straight again. - “But you will look me in the fucking eyes when I talk to you, are we clear?!” – You shouted, lifting his chin with the end of the gun, making him face you.

“Fuckin’ Hell! What the fuck d’you want?!” – Alfie shouted back, nervously.

You made a cynical shocked face and shook your head in disapproval.

“You know what? I didn’t like that tone…I didn’t like it at all.”– You pulled the trigger again. He shut his eyes again and you could feel his Adam’s apple moving against the gun, as he swallowed hard, in a mix of fear and relief. – “Now, apologize and ask nicely, please.”

“I’m sorry…” – It was almost inaudible at first, then he decided to say louder, before you lost your temper. – “I’m sorry. What do you want from me?”

“First of all, open your eyes, because I’ll pull the trigger if you make me ask it one more time. Second, you’ll withdraw the charges against Arthur, or else… Bang.” – Your smile was cynical again.

“You and the fucking Shelbys….” – He muttered, venomously, as he slid his hand on his sweaty hair.

“A valuable lesson for you: Never make a stupid or cheeky remark when you have a gun in your face. I didn’t like that, love.”- You put the gun against his forehead and pulled the trigget twice in a row.

Alfie was panting heavily; at that point he thought he wouldn’t make it out alive.

“I’ll do it…” - Beads of sweat dripped from his forehead, covering his face. He was clearly a mess.

“You’ll do what? “ – Biting your lower lip, you tilted your head.

“I’ll  drop the charges against Arthur Shelby, if that’s what you want me to do, a’ight?!” – His hands were shaking.

“That’s right. Good boy, Alfie, good boy. God, you’re sexy when you’re scared.”

“I’m not fucking scared, aye!” – He slammed his hand on the table, raising his voice.

“The tone, love, I had warned you about that already….” – You pulled the trigger again, and he winced, trying to keep his shit together. – “And you do seem pretty scared to me, so why would you spend your last shred of luck trying to keep all manly and proud, instead of assuming you are scared? Well, it doesn’t matter; I’ll go straight to the point Alfie, you kind of are out of options here.” – Getting up, you pierced his soul with your eyes.

“If you kill me, you’ll never set Arthur free, innit?”

“You underestimate me, Mr. Solomons. You might be my plan A, but just so you know, I have plan B, C, D, E, and so on. With or without you, Arthur will be free soon. You see, you ran out of luck, 5 shots and no brains on the floor it’s actually remarkable, but we both know what happens next, the next shot will be fatal. So before I pull the trigger, I’m giving you the chance to make smart decisions, as the smart man you are.”

“I told you already, I’ll drop the charges. What else d’you want, sweetie?”

“I want 100 barrels of rum, and the 35% you stole from Tommy.”

“I thought you didn’…”

“Shhhh, changed my mind!” – You pressed the gun against his forehead again.

“Fine, I’ll do that! Anything you want.” – He stuttered, and his eyes were suddenly shut again.

“Most importantly, I want your word. A man’s word and honor are the most valuable thing he has.”

“I give you my word; you’ll have everything you’re asking for.” – His gaze met yours, and you could see he was being honest, for once.

“Despite your past as a cheating cunt, I’ll take your word.” – After spitting in your hand, you offered it for him to shake, and he reluctantly did, after spitting in his own hand. ”Alright, we’re done here then, love.” – You smirked, tossing the gun aside on his desk, and turned on your heel, walking out.

“Stop right there, aye.” – He took the gun in his hands, aiming at your back, and licking his lips. He didn’t quite know why he hadn’t shot you yet, without even warning, but he couldn’t.

“Or what?” – You turned slowly around, crossing your arms over your chest.

“Or I’ll fucking shoot you.” – He shouted, infuriated.

“Uhhh, badass… You know, that’s not the first time you tell me that, I don’t like that, love.” – You approached his desk again.

Alfie got up, trying to establish dominance;  you leaned over his desk, staring at him , your hands resting on his paperwork.

“Shoot me.” – You placed your hand over his, guiding it, until the gun barrel was pressed against your lips. Parting your lips suggestively, you made him slide it inside your mouth, while you moaned playfully.

The sound that escaped your mouth had more effect on him than he’d like to admit. Your lips slid back again, wrapped around the gun, groaning against it, until it was finally out of your mouth.

“Right, you fucking can’t. Man, you really feel yourself with a gun in your hand though, don’t you? Crazy to think you’re the same man who was shitting himself in that chair moments ago.” – Your smile was cocky, and he grabbed your wrist as a warning. - “Get that shit out of my face, and just do what you said you would, aye? Before I run out of patience.”

“Don’t push me, doll, or I shoot.”

You laughed, placing two fingers two fingers in your cleavage, and pulling out a bullet engraved with his name, dangling it in front of his eyes.

“Your unloaded gun? Come on, do you really think I am that stupid? That I would turn around, leaving a loaded gun on your desk, so you could shoot me? No, love, this bullet had been here all along, buried between the twins. That gun was never loaded, really… But you gave me your word, so now there’s no way back.” – You smirked.

Alfie slapped your hand, making the bullet fly across the room.

“Were you making a fool of me the entire time?!” – His eyes were darkened with rage.

You ripped the gun out of his hand violently, tossing it on the floor.

“I was. And your face… priceless.” – You approached him, your faces inches apart.- “ The first time I came here, I was unarmed… Second time, the gun wasn’t loaded… But I swear to God…” – You got even closer, your lips brushing against his full lips as you spoke. – “If you break your word… If I have to come back here again…. You’ll be dead before I even open that door, Alfie. And this isn’t just an empty threat, as the ones you usually do, this is a warning, and I’m dead serious, love. Are we clear?”

“Crystal.” – His eyes devoured you.

“Good, Mr. Solomons, good.” – You smirked and planted a soft wet peck on his lips, before heading out to meet Tommy, declaring your mission accomplished.

Alfie angrily slid his hands on the desk, throwing everything to the floor, cursing loudly, and as if it wasn’t enough, he flipped the table as well.

“What are you doing to me woman?” – He whispered breathlessly, with his hands on his head.

[lets-talk-appella]

Accidents Happen

Bechloe Week - Accidental Kiss

AO3 and FFN

Summary: A different (read: better) version of the events at Beca’s freshman year activities fair.

Word count: 2k

Beca Mitchell is not happy. There are three things contributing to this.

First, there are people everywhere. She hates people. Some guy is even wandering around in a Speedo, which, why is that allowed? No thanks. Stay away.

Second, her dad seems to think it’s okay to just burst into her dorm room, so that’s awesome. What is that even about? Like, personal space much? Especially when it was all his idea for her to be there in the first place. The least he can do is respect her privacy.

Third, and perhaps the largest source of her unhappiness, is the fact she’s even on this stupid campus in the first place. She should be out in LA this very moment, apartment hunting or setting up connections with music producers. She should be working on her career, on her life, instead of stuck at this ridiculous, overcrowded, and super lame activities fair.

Come on. It’s college, not middle school, so why is this even a thing? Don’t people have to study? Who could possibly have time to run in a circle all day? And for God’s sake, why would anyone voluntarily join a Triathlon club? Utter madness.

She scans the booths surrounding her with disinterest, keeping an eye out for anything that might be even remotely music-related. Despite her displeasure at being there, she might as well suck it up and try to find something, anything, that could help boost her cred in LA next year. Because there’s no way she’s staying in Barden past her first year. She’s absolutely certain of that.

She’s not expecting to find much in terms of music-related clubs on the relatively small campus. She’s not even sure if Barden has a band of any kind. Though, she kind of thinks she may have read a blurb about a couple of competitive show choirs or something in the Barden Buzz (dumb name) campus newsletter her dad had forced into her hand.

So yeah. She’s not expecting much at all.

But then, her eyes land on a large green banner proudly displaying ‘DJs’ and her footsteps stutter in surprise. Okay. It’s not ideal, but she can manage with a DJ club. If nothing else, it would at least get her some time at a soundboard and possibly some money if she can do gigs at local bars for the year.

She glances down at the guys running the booth. Even from a distance, she thinks they look out of place, not like what a DJ should be, but whatever. Again, small campus.

Gritting her teeth and forcing herself to just go for it, she moves toward the DJ club table.

Chloe Beale is totally panicking. This is insane. She’s not sure where her best friend went, because this uptight, stressed, and strangely nauseated Aubrey Posen next to her is completely different from the kind and stable one she’d last seen before their summer break. She knows what’s behind it, of course. Puke-gate had been a major topic of conversation in the a capella world for the past four months, and she knows Aubrey hates herself for it.

And now, Aubrey is a woman possessed. Her obsession with recruiting new Bellas with bikini-ready bodies seems a bit much. Sure, maybe past Bellas had been appealing to both the ears and the eyes, but at this point, Chloe would take anyone who can sing. The Bellas are in serious trouble and they can’t afford to be so nit-picky. As long as they have good singers, she’ll be happy.

The problem is, no one’s stopping to talk to them. She’s not sure if it’s because of the puke incident or the reputation given to the Bellas by their previous leader, but everyone seems to hate them. Chloe’s not used to being hated. She doesn’t know what to do about it.

Except, she has to do something soon or the Bellas will be over. That’s unacceptable. She met Aubrey through the Bellas and making music is her favorite thing on Earth. The Bellas can’t be finished. They need one more chance to win at Nationals to redeem themselves.

She just needs to hand out more flyers, that’s all. Someone will join.

When the girl who calls herself Fat Amy stops by to demonstrate her singing, Chloe allows herself to feel the first fluttering of hope. Okay. They got one person to informally audition, and she’s a decent singer. They only need seven more. Great. Easy. Simple. Not a problem.

Chloe’s panicking again.

That’s when something draws her attention to a petite brunette walking away from the Deaf Jews booth, a small frown on her face. Chloe’s heart thuds and her breath catches. She immediately registers three things about this girl.

First, she’s absolutely stunning, all casual style, dark eyeliner, and tons of ear piercings. Also, boobs. She’s certainly turned a few heads, both male and female, but doesn’t seem to have noticed any of them.

Second, Chloe immediately picks up on the girl’s closed expression and standoffish body language and she wants nothing more than to meet the girl underneath all that. She’s sure there’s a big softie hidden under there. Now, just to get to her. Chloe’s always loved a challenge.

Third, and Chloe can’t explain how she knows it, but she can already tell that this girl is going to mean something to her. This girl is important.

Unfortunately, her focus on the mystery girl makes her forget the flyers in her hands. It’s a breezy day, and in the instant it takes for her to relax her grip, the wind snatches away the papers, playing with them and sending them cascading down. Her attention breaks from the girl in time to see the dozens of white papers scatter on the ground around her and Aubrey.

With a groan and an apology toward the waspish woman in her best friend’s skin, Chloe kneels to collect the flyers from the ground.

If Beca was unhappy before, it’s nothing compared to the irritation she feels now. Deaf Jews. Honestly. They could have advertised that a little better. Or did their being deaf mean they had no sense of banner design? Somehow, she doesn’t think so.

The only good thing that had come from it was running into the amusing blonde with an Australian accent. Beca doubts she’ll ever see her again, but at least she’d gotten a laugh out of their brief interaction. That had been nice, despite her current annoyance.

Does this campus not have any other music clubs? God. If not, she has no idea how she’s going to survive the year. If all she has to look forward to is a rude roommate and meaningless coursework (Philosophy? Really?), she isn’t sure she can keep her promise to stay an entire year.

She looks around the activities fair, craning her neck and not watching where she’s going as she tries to spot literally any music-related banner. There had to be something. Anything. There just had to be.

She’s not looking where she’s walking, so she’s quite startled to hear a sharp, bossy sort of voice yell right in her ear.

“Hey! Look out for –”

But it’s too late; she whips her head around at the sound, only to get a flash of something red and blue and much too close to her before –

Chloe gathers the papers as quickly as she can, annoyed at herself. She can’t believe she allowed some random girl to distract her so badly. Aubrey is going to chew her out for sure. Worse than that, who knows how many potentially good singers had walked by while she had basically groveled on the ground, collecting the pieces of her life.

She finally scoops up the last errant flyer, giving it a firm shake so it knows what it’s done. She’s unaware of her surroundings as she shoves the paper back in place with the rest of her stack. As a result, Aubrey’s sharp voice startles her. Automatically, she straightens (only a figure of speech) to stand, her brain barely registering a whirl of chocolate-colored hair, pale skin, and wide navy eyes before –

They smash into each other, Chloe rising to meet Beca’s advance, the timing, proximity, and height just right for their lips to collide in a completely accidental kiss.

Beca jerks back almost immediately, heat rushing to her face in embarrassment. Did that really happen? Her mind reels, scrambled, trying to catch up. Did she just smash mouths with a total stranger?

Did she and the beautiful redhead in front of her kiss? And did she just think the word ‘beautiful?’

Chloe doesn’t move. She feels as if she’s rooted to the ground in shock. It had been like something out of a cliché TV show. She had definitely just kissed the captivating brunette from earlier entirely by accident.

And it had been kind of thrilling, despite how briefly their lips had been in contact.

A strangled gasp forces its way from Beca’s mouth, a hurried and automatic, “I’m so sorry!”

The redhead doesn’t reply. She stares at Beca, her eyes a little unfocused. It’s unsettling. Beca wonders if perhaps she’d given the girl a concussion.

“Uh.” The quiet sound of confusion tears Beca’s eyes away from the girl she’d just locked lips with to instead focus on her blonde companion, the one who’d tried telling her to look out. She seems as shocked as Beca feels, which is totally unfair because excuse me, she’s the one who kissed a complete stranger.

Beca turns back to stare at the redhead in front of her. A smile spreads over the girl’s face, which confuses Beca even more. Surely, she’s about to be yelled at for not watching where she was going, or maybe even accused of sexual harassment. But no, this girl actually looks like she’s… okay with what happened. Like she thinks the kiss was fine.

Then the girl reaches out. Beca flinches, certain she’s about to be shoved away or possibly slapped across the face, but instead, she feels a piece of paper nudge her hand.

“Here,” the redhead says simply. “Take this.”

As if on autopilot, Beca grabs the flyer without even glancing down at it. She really, really wants to leave. She’d made a fool of herself. Even if the girl doesn’t seem upset at all. Even if she’d had amazingly soft lips.

The brunette takes the flyer, making Chloe’s chest inflate with a balloon of happiness. She’s not sure why she’d offered a flyer, but she had. It just felt right.

It felt as right as those lips brushing against hers.

Flyer in hand, Beca turns to leave without another word. The redhead looks completely ecstatic that she’d taken it, her smile widening and her expression turning intense. She definitely glanced down at Beca’s lips.

What a weirdo, thinks Beca as she walks away. She had kissed a total weirdo by accident at the lamest activities fair of all time.

She wants to see her again.

Beca looks down at the flyer in her hand, noting the logo for something called the Barden Bellas. Apparently, it’s an all-female a capella group. That’s pretty lame. But then again, it is technically music. Auditions are in a couple of weeks. Huh.

The redhead will almost certainly be there.

Maybe Barden isn’t all bad.

[d2kvirus]

Dickheads of the Month: January 2019

As it seems that there are people who say or do things that are remarkably dickheaded yet somehow people try to make excuses for them or pretend it never happened, here is a collection of some of the dickheaded actions we saw in the month of January 2019 to make sure that they are never forgotten.

It seems that Rachel Riley is quite smart at maths but a complete moron at anything else, what with her accusing Noam Chomsky of antisemitism in spite of the fact that Chomsky is a little bit Jewish, before following it up by encouraging her far-right Twitter followers to dogpile onto anyone voicing different opinions to her - which mainly involved a 16-year old girl bearing the brunt of it.  However she wasn’t finished there, as when she was rightly being criticised for encouraging her followers to dogpile onto people she then went whinging to the press about being bullied by left-wing trolls before announcing she needed personal security for when she was attending Countdown tapings, which sounds uncannily similar to the same stunt Laura Kuenssberg pulled a couple of years ago

Starting the year with a bang we had Chris Grayling first try and defend the Seaborne Freight farce by saying he was supporting up-and-coming British business (while omitting the parts about them being owned by the brother of a significant Tory donor, or not having any ships or trading history, let alone the fact the contract wasn’t even put out to tender) and followed that up by claiming the rail fare hikes are entirely the fault of the unions and definitely nothing to do with shareholder dividends or years of rail services taking the piss with fare hikes on January 2nd every year.  Of course, Grayling being Grayling, he also helped out the Britait debate by saying that a second referendum shouldn’t take place because if the result came back in support of Remain it would go against The Will Of The People™ - which apparently said people willingly voting to remain wouldn’t be

It didn't help Grayling that those checking the Seaborne Freight website found that their Ts & Cs were from the template used when setting up a website for a takeaway food outlet, the timetable for services was blank (and, for some reason, in Latin), while their privacy page had forgotten that the fields marked [Business Name] are supposed to be filled with the name of the business using the website

Overly sensitive snowflake Piers Moron Morgan spent a hell of a lot of time and energy yelling from the rooftops how appalling it was that Greggs are selling vegan sausage rolls, which is apparently the downfall of humanity as we know it and definitely not the hourly cry for attention from an attention-seeking lunatic - and while some claimed it was a stunt because he and Greggs share a PR agency, that theory appears to have been ever so slightly undermined by him then spouting off about McDonalds selling vegan Happy Meals

It’s funny how James Goddard demonstrated just how much of a difference a day makes, with him threatening Anna Soubry and Owen Jones on January 7th and bellowing at police officers that if they so much as touched him he’d start a a war...yet on January 8th he was bawling his eyes out on Twitter because his Facebook and PayPal accounts had been terminated

Lying (through his teeth) in front of a tractor Boris Johnson claimed he never mentioned Turkey at any point during the EU Referendum campaign - and when confronted with his numerous comments about Turkish immigrants flocking into the UK if the country voted Remain by Channel 4 journalist Michael Crick, he ran away to hide like an utter coward

Proving that gaslighting is the in thing at the BBC, Director General Tony Hall stated in an interview with the Financial Times that there is no need to discipline Andrew Neil for referring to Carole Cadwalladr as a “mad cat woman” as he had apologised - except for the fact that, while it may be plausible that Neil apologised to the BBC, there has not been a public apology for his comments

Sticking with the BBC, it took just two editions of Question Time before Fiona Bruce showed her true colours as she spent ten minutes making jokes about Diane Abbott (including suggesting that she only became Shadow Home Secretary because she once slept with Jeremy Corbyn) prior to one edition which Abbott was a guest on, and for the remainder of the episode constantly talked over Abbott while letting the other guests speak uninterrupted, including allowing Isabel Oakeshott to not just make a patently false statement but use said patently false statement to attack Abbott.  It wasn’t helped that when the BBC finally got around to admitting fault almost two weeks later, their statement actually said it was a joke - you know, like the school bully tries to claim when they get caught

Oh boy, there were so many triggered manbabies were up in arms about a Gillette advert for suggesting that maybe, just maybe, being a toxic dickhead isn’t any way to behave - to which they responded by acting like a bunch of toxic dickheads throwing a temper tantrum all over social media not seen since Nike featured Colin Kaepernick in an ad campaign

I’m going to assume AnonymousQ1776 thought they were being really, really clever when posting that video clip of Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez coupled with their sneering comment that made them sound uncannily like a teenage edgelord who doesn't know what communism is but throws the word around a lot.  I’m also going to assume they weren’t happy when the stunt backfired on them by not only making Ocasio-Cortez look like a normal human being who does normal things, but doing so also reopened the can of worms about what Brett Kavanaugh was up to when he was younger...

Middle England’s favourite edgelord Rod Liddle obviously needed to be extra quote-unquote provocative this month after using his column in The Sun to suggest that what Britain needs is a new political party that represents traditional values - which means neither Muslims nor the entire LGBT spectrum are not allowed

Just when you thought John Humphreys couldn’t sound any more like a pompous windbag with the credibility of a arthritic toad, he only goes to suggest that the Republic of Ireland should rejoin the UK - because who gives a toss about centuries of history or the minor inconvenience of 92% of irish people preferring to remain in the EU when Radio 4′s most jumped-up presenter suggests they swallow their pride and return to the warm chokehold of the British Empire? 

It appeared The Daily Star had a real scoop when they printed an interview with Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson in which he made scathing comments about the “snowflake generation” and how they were “looking for reasons to be offended” - that is until Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson issued a statement saying that not only did he not say those things, but he also never gave that interview

It seems The Board of Deputies of British Jews never got around to reading The Crucible judging by their going Full Baddiel and accusing Tottenham fans of antisemitism and, in the same statement, said they should follow the model of Chelsea fans - yes, the same Chelsea fans who have subjected Spurs fans to songs about Hitler and gas chambers for decades, who just so happen to be under investigation by UEFA for their anti semitic chanting during a Europa League match against Vidi in December

This month’s worst case of Trump Derangement Syndrome comes from Sarah Huckabee Sanders after she said that God wanted Donald Trump to become President in an interview with the Christian Broadcasting Network

Lucky for Lara Kollab there’s nothing in the hippocratic oath forbidding being an anti semitic bigot on Twitter.  On the other hand, there certainly was in the employment contract at the hospital she worked at, which is why they fired her

Somehow the British Army paid £1.5m on an recruitment ad campaign that was so successful that it led to members of the army quitting when finding out their photos were used to recruit “Snow flakes" (sic) and “Me me me millennials” - but that didn’t stop Gavin Williamson claiming it was “a powerful call to action” (rather than “bloody patronising”) while James Cleverly mouthed off like an idiot on Twitter in support because mouthing off like an idiot on Twitter is all that somebody who makes their surname fair game on a regular basis like James Cleverley knows how to do

It took a while but Jake Paul finally found a way to reclaim his crown of Most Odious Paul Brother by hitting upon a loot box scheme to encourage his viewers to, in effect, gamble - because apparently he (and Ricegum) only paid attention to the part where the likes of Electronic Arts were making money hand over fist when they were shoving loot boxes in all their games, but didn’t bother listening when various gambling commissions began looking into the practise

To prove my point James Cleverly took it upon himself to take to Twitter and sneer “You do realise that it’s not a documentary” when I, Daniel Blake was airing on TV - because it's better to score points on Twitter than admit that a UN report late last year was damning of the Tory government’s treatment of their less well-off citizens, isn’t it?

Trying to explain away his dickheadishness saw Wayne Hennessey claim he wasn’t doing a Nazi salute in a photo that happened to be taken by German teammate Max Meyer, he was actually waving at somebody - and the reason he had his finger on his top lip wasn’t the well-known mimicry of Hitler’s ‘tache but he was putting his hand to his mouth so somebody on the other side of the room could hear him.  For some strange reason nobody was convinced...

Attention-seeking loon Laura Loomer didn’t learn from the humiliation conga line that was her so-called protest at Twitter HQ judging by her protest against illegal immigration that involved her climbing over the fence around Nancy Pelosi’s property and setting up a stall on Pelosi’s lawn - at which point she appears to have forgotten what she was protesting about and instead kept yelling for Pelosi to respond to her, even though anyone with C-SPAN would’ve told her Pelosi was currently in the Senate

In order to promote her UK tour Azealia Banks thought the best idea was to vomit a long string of invective about the Irish on her social media all because she got irked by one Aer Lingus flight attendant

Can somebody tell Bill Maher that he doesn’t make himself sound more correct every time he regurgitates the “adults shouldn’t read comics” rant he first brought it up in the wake of Stan Lee’s death?  Because it appears nobody has

Out of curiosity, is Gregory Prytyka Jr. still popping over here in an attempt to find material to try and attack me with because they can’t handle the fact I called them out for their tedious shitposting, or have they crawled back under the rock they usually live under?

And finally, harrumphing to himself in a way that everyone can hear (although they wish they couldn’t) is Donald Trump and his banquets that look suspiciously like those given by the megalomaniacal villain of Kingsmen, continuing to throw a diplomatic temper tantrum over a wall he said Mexico would pay for

[dfroza]

people can search the world for many things

but the treasure is our Creator who is known as Spirit within the heart when welcomed in the True illumination of the Son.

and who really wants to grow old and die? death is Love’s enemy, just as getting old. we have been promised a new body that will always remain youthful and that will never die. this is the rebirth we look forward to our whole lives through.

we have to find what’s real. what is True. hope that is far greater than this world. grace that amazes us.

Today’s reading of the Scriptures from the New Testament is the 19th chapter of the book of John:

Pilate took Jesus and had Him flogged. The soldiers twisted thorny branches together as a crown and placed it onto His brow and wrapped Him in a purple cloth. They drew near to Him, shouting:

Soldiers (striking at Jesus): Bow down, everyone! This is the King of the Jews!

Pilate (going out to the crowd): Listen, I stand in front of you with this man to make myself clear: I find this man innocent of any crimes.

Then Jesus was paraded out before the people, wearing the crown of thorns and the purple robe.

Pilate: Here is the man!

Chief Priests and Officers (shouting): Crucify, crucify!

Pilate: You take Him and crucify Him; I have declared Him not guilty of any punishable crime!

Jews: Our law says that He should die because He claims to be the Son of God.

Pilate was terrified to hear the Jews making their claims for His execution; so he retired to his court, the Praetorium.

Pilate (to Jesus): Where are You from?

Jesus did not speak.

Pilate: How can You ignore me? Are You not aware that I have the authority either to free You or to crucify You?

Jesus: Any authority you have over Me comes from above, not from your political position. Because of this, the one who handed Me to you is guilty of the greater sin.

Pilate listened to Jesus’ words. Taking them to heart, he attempted to release Jesus; but the Jews opposed him, shouting:

Jews: If you release this man, you have betrayed Caesar. Anyone who claims to be a king threatens Caesar’s throne.

After Pilate heard these accusations, he sent Jesus out and took his seat in the place where he rendered judgment. This place was called the Pavement, or Gabbatha in Hebrew. All this occurred at the sixth hour on the day everyone prepares for the Passover.

Pilate (to the Jews): Look, here is your King!

Jews: Put Him away; crucify Him!

Pilate: You want me to crucify your King?

Chief Priests: We have no king but Caesar!

Pilate handed Him over to his soldiers, knowing that He would be crucified. They sent Jesus out carrying His own instrument of execution, the cross, to a hill known as the Place of the Skull, or Golgotha in Hebrew. In that place, they crucified Him along with two others. One was on His right and the other on His left. Pilate ordered that a plaque be placed above Jesus’ head. It read, “Jesus of Nazareth, the King of the Jews.” Because the site was near an urban region, it was written in three languages (Greek, Latin, and Hebrew) so that all could understand.

Chief Priests (to Pilate): Don’t write, “The King of the Jews.” Write, “He said, ‘I am King of the Jews’!”

Pilate: I have written what I have written.

As Jesus was being crucified, the soldiers tore His outer garments into four pieces, one for each of them. They wanted to do the same with His tunic, but it was seamless—one piece of fabric woven from the top down. So they said,

Soldier (to other soldiers): Don’t tear it. Let’s cast lots, and the winner will take the whole thing.

This happened in keeping with the Hebrew Scriptures, which said, “They divided My outer garments and cast lots for My clothes.” These soldiers did exactly what was foretold in the Hebrew Scriptures. Jesus’ mother was standing next to His cross along with her sister, Mary the wife of Clopas, and Mary Magdalene. Jesus looked to see His mother and the disciple He loved standing nearby.

Jesus (to Mary, His mother): Dear woman, this is your son (motioning to the beloved disciple)! (to John, His disciple) This is now your mother.

From that moment, the disciple treated her like his own mother and welcomed her into his house. Jesus knew now that His work had been accomplished, and the Hebrew Scriptures were being fulfilled.

Jesus: I am thirsty.

A jar of sour wine had been left there, so they took a hyssop branch with a sponge soaked in the vinegar and put it to His mouth. When Jesus drank, He spoke:

Jesus: It is finished!

In that moment, His head fell; and He gave up the spirit. The Jews asked Pilate to have their legs broken so the bodies would not remain on the crosses on the Sabbath. It was the day of preparation for the Passover, and that year the Passover fell on the Sabbath. The soldiers came and broke the legs of both the men crucified next to Jesus. When they came up to Jesus’ cross, they could see that He was dead; so they did not break His legs. Instead, one soldier took his spear and pierced His abdomen, which brought a gush of blood and water.

This testimony is true. In fact, it is an eyewitness account; and he has reported what he saw so that you also may believe. It happened this way to fulfill the Hebrew Scriptures that “not one of His bones shall be broken”; and the Hebrew Scriptures also say, “They will look upon Him whom they pierced.”

After all this, Joseph of Arimathea, a disciple who kept his faith a secret for fear of the Jewish officials, made a request to Pilate for the body of Jesus. Pilate granted his request, and Joseph retrieved the body. Nicodemus, who first came to Jesus under the cloak of darkness, brought over 100 pounds of myrrh and ointments for His burial. Together, they took Jesus’ body and wrapped Him in linens soaked in essential oils and spices, according to Jewish burial customs.

Near the place He was crucified, there was a garden with a newly prepared tomb. Because it was the day of preparation, they arranged to lay Jesus in this tomb so they could rest on the Sabbath.

The Book of John, Chapter 19 (The Voice)

Today’s paired chapter of the Testaments is the 9th chapter of the book of Ecclesiastes:

Teacher: So I set my mind on all of this, examined it thoroughly, and here’s what I think: The righteous and the wise and all their deeds are in God’s hands. Whether they are destined to be loved or hated, no one but God knows. Everyone shares a common destiny—the righteous and the wicked, the good [and the bad], the clean and the unclean, those who sacrifice and those who neglect the sacrifices. The good and the faithful are treated no differently than the sinner. Those who take an oath are treated no differently than those afraid to commit. Such a great injustice! Here is an evil that pervades all that is done under the sun: the same destiny happens to us all. Human hearts are inclined toward evil; madness runs deep throughout our lives. And then what happens? We die. So long as we are alive, we have hope; it is better to be a living dog, you see, than a dead lion. At least the living know they will die; the dead don’t know anything. No future, no reward is awaiting them, and one day they will be completely forgotten. All of their love and hate and envy die with them; then it is too late to share in the human struggle under the sun.

Teacher: So here is what you should do: go and enjoy your meals, drink your wine and love every minute of it because God is already pleased with what you do. Dress your best, and don’t forget a splash of scented fragrance. Enjoy life with the woman you love. Cherish every moment of the fleeting life which God has given you under the sun. For this is your lot in life, your great reward for all of your hard work under the sun. Whatever you find to do, do it well because where you are going—the grave—there will be no working or thinking or knowing or wisdom.

I turned and witnessed something else under the sun: the race does not always go to the swift, the battle is not always won by the strong, bread does not always fill the table of the wise, wealth does not always accrue to the skillful, and favor is not always granted to the knowledgeable; but time and misfortune happen to them all. A person can’t possibly know when his time will come. Like fish caught in a cruel net or birds trapped in a snare, without warning the unexpected happens, and people are caught up in an evil time.

I have witnessed an example of wisdom under the sun and admit I found it impressive: Once there was a small town with only a few people in it. One day, out of nowhere, a king and his powerful army marched against it, surrounded it, and besieged it. The villagers didn’t know how to fend off such a powerful enemy. But one man, who was very poor but very wise, rallied the villagers and managed to drive the army away. (The village remains to this day, but no one remembers the name of that one wise man who saved the village.) So I said, “Wisdom is better than strength.” But the wisdom of the poor is despised; nobody listens to their wise counsel.

It is better to hear the soft-spoken words of a wise person

than the rant of a tyrant in the company of fools.

Wisdom is better than weapons of war,

yet one wrongdoer can undo much good.

The Book of Ecclesiastes, Chapter 9 (The Voice)

my personal reading of the Scriptures for friday, may 28 of 2021 with a paired chapter from each Testament of the Bible along with Today’s Proverbs and Psalms

A post by John Parsons that takes a look at life:

Life in this evil world can be suffocating at times. And though we may not be under the oppression of a cruel Pharaoh, we are affected by the "princes of this age" who spurn the message of the Messiah's redemption and love, and we are still subjected to bondage imposed by taskmasters who defy the LORD and who seek to enslave us by means of lies, propaganda, and threats of violence... The devil is still at work in the hearts and minds of many of his "little Pharaohs" that serve the world system. Nevertheless “there is no fear in love” (אין פַּחַד בָּאַהֲבָה), especially since we know that ein od milvado -- there is no real power apart from the LORD (i.e., He is the only true Power in the universe). Indeed, Yeshua is elyon lemalkhei-aretz (עֶלְיוֹן לְמַלְכֵי־אָרֶץ) - the “Ruler of the princes of the earth” (Rev. 1:5) - and that means that they will answer to Him (Psalm 2). If you belong to the Messiah you are not part of this world and its matrix of deception but instead serve the King of Kings (Col. 1:13; Acts 26:18; 1 Pet. 2:9). Therefore set your thoughts on things above, not on things of this world (Col. 3:2). In the end all things born of the lie will be exposed and forever put away from us (Eccl. 12:14). ”The great Day of the LORD is near; it is near and hastening quickly” (Zeph. 1:14). “For though the vision awaits its appointed time; it hastens to the end -- it will not lie. If it seems slow, wait for it; it will surely come; it will not delay” (Hab. 2:3).[Hebrew for Christians]

5.27.21 • Facebook

Today’s message (Days of Praise) from the Institute for Creation Research

May 28, 2021

A Little Flock

“Fear not, little flock; for it is your Father’s good pleasure to give you the kingdom.” (Luke 12:32)

The world tends to measure success by size, and this seems generally true in the Christian world as well. The most “successful” churches are considered to be those with the largest congregations, or the largest budgets, or the greatest number of converts baptized each year, or some other quantitative index. But this is not God’s criterion. At the judgment seat of Christ, “the fire shall try every man’s work of what sort it is” (1 Corinthians 3:13). Not how big it is, but of what sort it is! Quality, not quantity, is the criterion.

Christ’s encouraging words to the “little flock” were given toward the end of an extended warning against the desire to accumulate wealth. “Take heed, and beware of covetousness,” He had said (Luke 12:15), speaking to His small group of followers. He was their Shepherd and would provide the needs of His “little flock.”

Christ’s warnings against individual covetousness evidently apply also to group covetousness. A church, or any other Christian organization, needs continually to guard against the desire to be impressive in the eyes of the world. The cities of Christendom exhibit many ornate cathedrals and temples that are now mostly empty and spiritually dead.

The Lord Jesus promised an “open door” to the little church at Philadelphia because it had “little strength” and had “kept [His] word” (Revelation 3:8), but threatened to “spue...out of [His] mouth” the tepid church at Laodicea, which was boasting that it was “rich, and increased with goods” (Revelation 3:16-17). Not every “little flock” has kept God’s Word, nor has every big flock become lukewarm, but Christ’s words serve as both warning and encouragement. The greater blessings of the coming kingdom have been promised to the faithful “little flock.” HMM

[treadmilltreats]

Why do you think your better than others?

I knew that there is racism still in this country, but I never realized it was this bad. Maybe because I am like Tinkerbell and I have always just seen a person's heart. To me if you are a good person, if you are kind, caring and compassionate, that is what counts. 

My mother grew up in Harlem, for God's sake so I never saw racism in my home. I was lucky enough to be brought up in a town that had families of color, we had Jewish families, we had Spanish families, mixed raced families, we even had gay families. This was in the late 60's and a small town, so it was rare that we were not closed minded about these things, as many towns across our nation were. 

We didn't judge a person by the color of their skin, we saw their hearts, we saw their kindness,  they were our friends. It was an incredible place to grow up in and maybe because of that I thought the rest of the world was like we were.

My very first best friend was black, my "Uncle" who was our family friend was black.Hell, I even go to a prodimidly black church, so this has never been an issue for me. Unfortunately I was wrong not only does the rest of the world still have racism but yesterday I realized that it is in your own back yard. With so many friends and family showing their true colors on social media it is shocking to realize how many racist were hanging out in their closets for so many years.

I remember meeting someone online, he seemed nice so after a few emails we decided to meet at the beach.

He was a mixed race man, and as I wrote about yesterday, I didn't care. He was 6'5, a little too tall for me but through text messaging he seemed sweet so I overlooked it.

As we are walking and talking, he starts off by telling me his mom was Italian and his dad was black. Then he asked about my church I go to and when I told him about my church, he responded that he would never go to my church because there were way too many blacks in one place, and that he didn't want to hang out with ghetto people.

Hello? Did he just didn't say that? I told him he was sadly mistaken if he thought my church was ghetto! That I have met some of the kindest, sweetest, giving, smartest, business people there. He had no idea who went to my church or what they were like and yet here he was prejudging them.

Well, right away we are off on the wrong foot, insult my church? Oh hell no, I am definitely not feeling this man, but I am polite and we keep talking. He goes on to tell me how his dad is an ex NBA basketball player and how he played for a professional team in another country. He tells me how rich he was, how people always stop him and recognize him on the street. Now come on really? Does anyone you know here watch Swedish basketball? Okay, buddy.

I am getting a little more put off by the moment and as I tell him "Oh really, well money doesn't matter, I walked away from a marriage with lots of money, and I know for a fact that money doesn't make you happy" He looks at me like I have lost my mind, oh yeah, this date is going downhill fast.

Until it impoded when he asks me if I was married to a white man, I tell him yes, a Jewish man, now he proceeds to tell me how Jews own the world, they think that they are all that, that they are not chosen people.

"Let me tell you how it goes" he says and I'm thinking, oh go right ahead because if you haven't dug your grave already this will really do it. "Please go on" I say.

"It goes whites, then Jew's, then blacks, then Indian's and on the bottom of the barrel is Spanish people"

  

He did not just say that???

And with that, the date was over for me but before I left him standing there by himself, I turned and said.

 "Oh by the way, I guess I didn't mention that I am half Puerto Rican"

He stood there with his mouth open, then he said as I turned and walked away "Oh, are we leaving?"

I said "No, I am" and with that I walked away.

Wow, I remember thinking good thing I didn't dress up for this date! I am still in shock, I have dated a lot of losers (okay, no smartass comments from the peanut gallery) But this one took the cake!

Now I tell you this story for a point, did he really think there was more white blood in him then black? Was he mad at the rest of the world for this reason? I don't know what his problem was but I know he was a racist, as stupid as that sounds.

What I have never understood is that it doesn't matter what color you are, cut us and we all bleed red. When we die we all go in the ground, we all become dust, period! Doesn't matter what color you are, doesn't matter how much money you have, it doesn't matter who you love, we are all the same, so why can't people realize this?

No one is better than anyone else, money doesn't make you better, your color doesn't make you better, your "rank" in society doesn't make you better, what makes you a better person is how you treat others, period.

Yes, I have been learning a lot of lessons this past year but the one I keep learning over and over is what I will put up with and what is definitely not okay!

Being an out and out racist is not okay, treating people like trash is not okay, being okay with the way black people have been treated for years is not okay.

So today my friends my last thought is what I always say at the end of every blog, be the change you want to see, it starts with you.

Love thy neighbor, like you love yourself because in the end, we are all children of God.

"Be the change you want to see"

 

"And just when the caterpillar thought his life over...he turned into a beautiful butterfly"

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[thinktosee]

JOURNAL – DAVID AND CAMUS – PART 4 – THE FALL

Titian’s Fall of Man, c1550. Image courtesy Museo del Prado, Spain

This journal is a continuation of Part 3, which may be accessed via this link :

https://thinktosee.tumblr.com/post/613609798512115712/journal-david-and-camus-part-3-the-fall

Journal to David

Dear David my Son,

“I always thought our fellow citizens were crazy about two things : ideas and fornication.” (The Fall, p5)

Albert Camus’ monologue of 1956, titled “The Fall” is arguably the most distilled exploration of his philosophical beliefs about Existentialism. The term, “arguably” is applied here as it’s possible you’d disagree. Yes, “The Stranger” is emotionally, yet intellectually stimulating – fused to mine the soul trapped within the reader, rendering it to explode to the surface, as a dramatic offering of our otherwise dormant passions! (1) “The Myth of Sisyphus”? Well, that’s absurd. It is exasperating and predictable like any ritual, religious or otherwise. Besides why do we have to repeat it again and again? Boring. Say what? That’s Life, ain’t it? In Sisyphus, Camus makes us see the folly of our ways, of our life, with a Dante-que’ twist.(2) It’s no doubt a revealing story, I agree. But let’s get back to The Fall, shall we?  That’s the real enchilada there. That’s the story of the fall of man.

Sisyphus, burden and hope – Image courtesy reasonandmeaning.com

The Fall hints at the Garden of Eden when Google, oops pardon me, I mean Knowledge, made its entrance on the camouflaged stage following the supreme feast of the apple. And as in Sisyphus, that original fall is repeated forevermore everywhere, as if perfection and triumph are within our slimy grasp, each time we laboured. But hey, what do I know? You were the Camus-go-to-guy. You were the Existentialist, David (3). I am just following in your footsteps. Hence, our fall? Our never-ending search for Knowledge.

Camus’ The Fall takes the reader through the colourful musings of Jean-Baptiste Clamence, formerly a successful defence lawyer in snooty Paris, to his new digs in “Mexico City” a bar located in so very depressing Amsterdam. What in heavens caused this fall from grace? A couple of things, just like what happens on any given day to many of us, really, when Truth happens to cross our path, like a black cat :

Our copy of Albert Camus’, The Fall. This excellent edition is translated by Robin Buss, Penguin Press, 2006. 

1. One day in Paree, Jean-Baptiste had an altercation with a motorcyclist. It was clear from a legal perspective, that Jean-Baptiste was quite right. However, an observer didn’t see it that way and rudely chastised him for his behaviour. While being distracted by the observer, the motorcyclist took a swing at our kind lawyer and sped off. The incident infuriated and also embarrassed Jean-Baptiste. Where did these negative and violent urges in him originate, he wondered? Wasn’t he a man for the common people? Were his professional and also personal support for the down-trodden superficial after all? Was all this service, for himself, rather than for them? To create and then foster a false image of oneself? The seed of knowledge took root when he began to ponder on these Socratic questions.

2. In the second example, which is recounted in Part 3, Jean-Baptiste’s utter and pathetic failure to act when the young woman jumped into the river, gave him cause to re-examine his bona fides – his life’s assumptions. What in today’s lingo may be dubbed as his “fake news” life. Our contrived persona, really.

With these in mind, Jean-Baptiste migrated, wandering, and finally ended down under. Sitting on a mound in water-logged Amsterdam, he meets a stranger one day. Being expansive, as lawyers tend to be, and over a series of lectures or monologue, he recounts his fall. These accounts trace his “regression” and amplify what the fall is to Jean-Baptiste, as it possibly was to Adam and Eve, or to any one, including me.

The Fall really is about a Socratic exploration to live a life without any pretence, or camouflage. A life of freedom and not dependency. Or as you admonished me to “Be Yourself!” That is the only constant. Adam and Eve’s fall in the Garden ushers the introduction to Knowledge, and away from a blissful dependency and ignorance. So is Jean-Baptiste Clamence’s. So is mine. 

Image courtesy Sanskritimagazine.com

Let Camus tell us then what he means in a few selected passages :

“ ‘Do you want a clean life, like everyone else?’ Of course you answer yes. How could you not? ‘Fine. We’ll clean you up. Here’s a job, here’s a family, here’s some organized leisure’ And the little teeth bite into the flesh, right down to the bone.” (p6)

“There, give up. Mine is a double job, that’s all, just as humans are double.” (p7)

“I live in the Jewish quarter, or what they called the Jewish quarter until our Hitlerite brethren cleared a space in it. What a clean-up! Seventy-five thousand Jews deported or murdered : that’s vacuum cleaning. I admire such diligence, such methodical patience! You have to be methodical when you have no character. Here, the method worked wonders, there’s no denying it : I live on the site of one of the greatest crimes in history.” (p8)

“There is no denying that, at least for the moment, judges are necessary, don’t you agree? And yet I couldn’t understand how a man could appoint himself to exercise that surprising office. I had to accept it, since I saw it, but rather in the way that I accepted locusts….with the difference that the invasions of those orthoptera have never brought me a penny, while I used to earn a living by conversing with people whom I despised.” (p13)

“…but I would also only take their cases on the sole condition that they were good murderers, as others are noble savages.” (p13)

Fortunately, my profession satisfied this call to the heights.” (p17)

“Conversely, the indignation, talent and emotion that I expended relieved me of any debt towards them. Judges punished the crime, the accused atoned for it, and I, free of all responsibility, beyond judgement or punishment, reigned at liberty, bathed in a prelapsarian glow.” (18)

“I mean, relatives and in-laws (what a word!) – it’s a different tune. They find the right word, but it’s usually the one that wounds. They pick up the phone to you like someone picking up a gun. And their aim is on target.” (p21)

“Perhaps we do not love life enough. Have you observed that only death awakens our feelings?” (p21)

“That’s a charming house, isn’t it? The two heads there belong to negro slaves. A trade sign : the owner was a slave trader. Huh, they didn’t mince their words in those days! They came right out with it and said : ‘I’ve got a house on the street, I deal in slaves,  I sell black flesh!’ Can you imagine anyone nowadays stating publicly that that was his business? What an uproar! I could hear my fellow lawyers in Paris from here. They’re adamant on this matter and wouldn’t hesitate to publish two or three manifestos,……I might even add my signature to theirs. Slavery! Why, no, we’re against it! If we are forced to have it in the home or in factories, fine, that’s the normal run of things, but boasting about it, is going too far.” (p28)

“I’m well aware of the facts that one cannot do without dominating or being served. Every man needs slaves just as he needs fresh air.” (p28)

“Just between ourselves, servitude, preferably with a smile, is unavoidable. But we don’t have to acknowledge that fact. If a man can’t help having slaves, isn’t it better for him to call them free men? As a matter of principle, firstly, then so as not to drive them to despair. Surely we owe them at least that compensation? In this way, they will carry on smiling and we can keep our conscience clean. Otherwise, we might be forced to examine ourselves and become mad with grief….” (p29-30)

“The truth is that every intelligent man, as you know, dreams of being a gangster and ruling over society by violence alone. As this is not as easy as one might think from reading novels in the genre, people generally turn to politics and hurry to support the cruellest party. It matters little, wouldn’t you say, to abuse one’s mind if by that means one succeeds in dominating everyone. I found that there were sweet dreams of oppression within me.” (p35)

“There was no deception involved, or merely that blatant deception that they consider a mark of respect. As people commonly say, I loved women - which amounts to saying that I never loved any one of them. I have always thought misogyny to be both vulgar and stupid, and considered almost all the women I have known to be better than myself. However, while setting them so high, I exploited rather than served them. What does that mean?” (p36)

“Otherwise, there would be a solution and one could at last be taken seriously. Men are not convinced of your arguments, your sincerity or the seriousness of your suffering, except by your death.” (p46)

“If we are to end, doubt, we must stop existing, purely and simply.” (p47)

“The most natural idea for mankind, the one that comes naively, as if from the depths of one’s being, is that of one’s own innocence. In this respect we are all like the little Frenchman in Buchenwald who insisted on trying to lodge an appeal through the clerk, himself a prisoner……The clerk and his friends laughed : ‘Useless old chap. There’s no appeal here.’ ‘But, you see, Monsieur,’ said the little Frenchman, ‘mine is an exceptional case. I’m innocent.’ “ (p50)

“But above all because wealth shields from immediate judgement, lifts you out of the crowd in the underground, shuts you up in a chromium-plated car and isolates you in huge expanses of protected parkland…Wealth,..is not actually acquitted, but a reprieve.” (p51)

“How could sincerity be a condition of friendship? A liking for the truth at all costs is a passion that spared nothing and that nothing can withstand.” (p51)

“Dante allows for neutral angels in the quarrel between God and Satan : and he places them in Limbo, a sort of waiting room for his Hell. My good friend, we’re in the waiting room.” (p52)

“What we call elementary truths are the ones we discover after the rest.” (p52)

“I proclaimed my loyalty, yet I think that there is not a single person that I loved whom I did not also eventually betray. Of course, my betrayals did not get in the way of my fidelity.” (p53)

“I began to advise ‘transference of guilt’ as a tactic for the defence. Not that form of ‘transference of guilt’, I said, which has been perfected in modern inquisitions where a thief and an honest man are tried at the same time that the latter can be made responsible for the crimes of the former. What I meant, on the contrary, was defending the thief by bringing out the crimes of the honest man, in the event, the lawyer.” (p58)

“I had always lived a life of debauchery, since I had never ceased to desire immortality.” (64)

“The purely verbal references to God that I sometimes made in my pleas in court made my clients suspicious. No doubt they were afraid that heaven would be less qualified to look after their interest than an advocate…” (p66)

“I realized that the shout that I heard many years earlier echoing across the Seine behind me had not ceased to travel across the world,….I realized too that it would continue to wait for me…”(p68)

“...we cannot be certain of anyone’s innocence, while we can confidently pronounce everyone guilty. Each man bears witness to the crime of all the others.” (p69)

“Believe me, religions are wrong when they start to moralize and sound off with their commandments. We have no need of God to create guilt or to punish. Our fellow men are enough, with our help.” (p69)

“Don’t wait for the Last Judgement, it takes place every day.” (p70)

“But too many people are now climbing up on the cross just so that they can be seen from further away, even if in doing so they have to trample a little on the one who has already been there for so long.” (72)

“Judges are swarming over the corpse of innocence, judges of every species, those of Christ and Antichrist, who as it happens are the same, all reconciled in little ease” (p73)

“What does it matter, after all? Don’t lies in the end put us on the path to truth?” (p75)

“He announced that we needed a new pope who lives among the poor and needy, instead of praying on his throne…” (p78)

“…you see, the main idea is not to be free any longer, but to repent and obey a greater knave than you are.” (p85)

“The judgement that you are passing on others eventually blows right back in your face and may do some damage.” (p86)

“Since we could not condemn others without at the same time judging oneself, one should heap accusations on one’s own head, in order to have the right to judge others. Since every judge eventually becomes a penitent, one had to take the opposite route and be a professional penitent in order to become a judge.” (p86)

“Throw yourself in the water again so that I might have once more the opportunity to save us both!” (p92)

 If only, we have that opportunity once more, David. 

daddy

Sources/References

1. https://thinktosee.tumblr.com/post/177348082353/david-and-camus-part-1-the-stranger

https://thinktosee.tumblr.com/post/177516436953/david-and-camus-part-2-the-stranger

2. https://www.amazon.com/Myth-Sisyphus-Albert-Camus/dp/0848833481

3. https://plato.stanford.edu/entries/existentialism/

[junker-town]

How cycling can define a country

The Tour de France is a wicked test of physical and mental prowess that only Belgium could love so acutely.

Belgium claims to be the most cycling-obsessed country in the world, which says a lot about Belgium. This year, it is hosting the Grand Départ of the Tour de France, the largest competition in a sport rooted in a form of madness, and in mad people comfortable communing with the weirdest parts of themselves.

In many ways, Belgium embodies the Tour better than its eponymous nation. France likes to wield the Tour with a subdued sense of duty. Belgium, a country lopped onto France’s head like a brain slug, wields it like the sack of firecrackers that it is. Belgium regularly gets Tour stages, but not regularly enough to get used to the novelty. Saturday in Brussels will be the first Belgian start for the Tour de France since 2012, and the city is filled to the cracks with decorative yellow and green polka dot nods to the race.

Belgians are certainly more passionate about the sport on the whole, up to creatinga robust state-sponsored development system that offers stipends to riders who may never sniff a pro contract. Early in the sport’s history, provincial races were so popular and narrowly focused that everyone knew their fastest local butcher, fishmonger, or paper boy. A Belgian cyclist named Eddy Planckaert once rode so fast he claimed he reached a divine state and ejaculated.

Belgium also produced Eddy Merckx, and no one has ever been better than him. The Cannibal won everything there is to win. Briefly: Five Tour de France titles among a record 11 grand tours, every one of cycling’s five one-day monuments at least twice, and three world championships. That success more than 40 years ago still motivates Belgium to fling its most physically gifted youth at a beastly sport.

All this is to say that there is something special about cycling even if it may seem dull and alien to some. And if you don’t get it, that’s OK. Even Belgium, now, is in the process of figuring out why the hell it was ever attracted to the sport. Mike Carremans is the curator of the VeloMuseum, which covers 150 years of Brussels’ cycling history. It opened in September and was supposed to end last January, but was so popular that an extension was granted through the 2019 Grand Départ in Belgium.

Carremans says that 15 years ago, cycling’s popularity in Belgium had been waning, “It was folklore. It was something you’d do while visiting your grandparents,” but has since gotten hip again, if not quite returning to heyday levels. Velodrome stands have carnival atmospheres, where young folk drink and party while cyclists race round-and-round-and-round into wee morning hours. And lately academics have flocked to the sport to document how it sunk roots into Belgium, and what that says about the country.

Carremans isn’t a traditional researcher. He was a burly, jolly painter before he became a burly, jolly academic for this project. He has a thick black beard beneath a thin Rollie Fingers-mustache beneath a set of glasses that his eyes light up whenever he remembers a piece of lore he’d like to tell you. VeloMuseum was in part an excuse to examine his own passion for cycling. He took on the VeloMuseum project, he says, because “I never got a driver’s license,” and as a tribute to his late father-in-law, who used to pepper him with cycling stories — “I really regretted that he didn’t live to see this project.”

Brussels is in the process of rebuilding itself as a cycling city, a distinction it carried until the 1958 World’s Fair, when, according to Carremans, it destroyed its biking infrastructure for car parking. On the day before the first stage of the 2019 Tour de France, the city will rename a street after Willy De Bruyn, a transgender cyclist who was born Elvira and dominated women’s cycling in the 1930s before coming out as a man and undergoing gender reconstruction surgery in 1937.

Despite achieving cycling stardom, De Bruyn struggled to hold on to jobs after he came out. He would continue to research and publicly discuss intersexuality, however (Carremans claims as part of a traveling circus show), and eventually opened a bar in Brussels that advertised using his image and two facts: “World champion cyclist” and “Became a man.”

Not all the details of De Bruyn’s story are comfortable by modern standards, but they highlight a common trait among the best pro cyclists: They’re fully themselves. Explaining why might be a matter of physiology. To win a race like the Tour de France, you need to be able to live with one’s mind. Otherwise, mental stress leads to adrenal stress, which leads to the body’s severe deterioration at the end of three hellish weeks. The best tend to have some combination of naive, monastic, masochistic, or sociopathic personality traits. Whatever the mix, they’re able to obfuscate or repurpose the immense pressure that comes from outside their bicycles.

It’s fitting then that the Belgian cycling boom took place between the two World Wars, when cycling became a cheaper, more democratic sport at a time when everyone needed hard distractions from everything else. During World War II, pro cyclists were some of the only people who were allowed to travel around and outside of the country for competitions, the Germans believing that people could use something fun to do besides being occupied.

Those cyclists became part of the resistance by dismantling their bike frames, stuffing them with travel documents, letters, photos, and fake IDs, and reassembling them to ride off and distribute the contraband from town to town. Italian cyclist Gino Bartali was one of these couriers, a three-time winner of the Giro d’Italia, and two-time Tour winner, who risked his life under Benito Mussolini’s regime. Bartali’s story was only publicized after his death in 2000.

“When people were telling him, ‘Gino, you’re a hero’, he would reply: ‘No, no - I want to be remembered for my sporting achievements. Real heroes are others, those who have suffered in their soul, in their heart, in their spirit, in their mind, for their loved ones. Those are the real heroes. I’m just a cyclist.’”

My favorite story that Carremans told me is about three Belgian cyclists during World War II who took off ahead of a train full of Jews being transported to Auschwitz. The trains only stopped when they saw a red light, so the cyclists hid until the train approached, brandishing a lantern and a red piece of paper. Once they had fooled the train into slowing down, they popped out from their hiding place, opened a cargo door, and released more than a hundred captives.

Carremans can — and did — talk for hours about cycling. There’s no end to the stories, and it’s in their accumulation that one begins to get any sense how such a strange sport can actually matter to country, even one roughly the same size Maryland. The answer isn’t divinity — though any individual might feel that way — but unity. Cycling is a tool to conquering an environment, a way to live with oneself and with nature, and so a way to live among humanity.

Over time, across a winding path, cycling became an example in Belgium of how anyone can learn to live alongside their darkness. That is its saving trait as a sport — that even when it’s deathly dull to watch, there’s no way to defeat the sense of awe that anyone is disciplined or crazy enough to take on mountains.

And even if cycling wanes as the primary obsession in a cycling-obsessive country, it will persist as a guiding light. It’s too late to kill cycling: The stories are all too damn good to die.

[whatwouldfrogsdo]

Red (or Memories)

Day 7 of Nursey Week!

Thanks to everyone who’s been reading these. It’s been so much fun. Happy Nursey’s-birthday-day!

Also on AO3 here.

This reporter for the Daily is counting her blessings today that she sat next to the Samwell Men’s Hockey (SMH) goalie, Chris Chow, in Physics this year. Not only did he brighten up an otherwise torturous class, but it was with his help that we secured an exclusive interview with the NHL’s newest Samwell star, Derek Nurse. The soon-to-be Red Wings’ rookie shows up in a jersey he says came through the post that morning. It’s not the one he will eventually wear on the ice, but a gift from the Michiganian team following his signing. It’s a shockingly bright shade of red, and it’s accompanied with the green hat the defenseman is rarely seen without, and a beard which rivals the one he grew during the playoffs this year. He gets a soy amaretto latte, and turns his phone to silent before we start.

(SD) Thanks for coming here today! How does it feel to be an NHL player? (DN) It’s surreal. Everyone else is getting ready to go into senior year and I’m moving to Detroit. Of all of us to go professional, I didn’t think it would be me first. I mean, you’ve got Chowder [Chris Chow, rising senior and SMH alternate captain] who’s a mad genius in the goal, and Will - Dex [William Poindexter, rising senior and incoming SMH captain] - who… Well, you know, we’ve been d-partners since we were frogs. He’s gonna make a great captain. Of course, it probably would have been Chowder if half the team hadn’t forgotten when they were voting that NCAA rules about goalies being captains are different to NHL, but Will’s gonna make a great captain.

And, of course, there’s more to your relationship with him than just on the ice… Yeah, sure. He’ll hate it if I wax poetic in an interview, though. I better start practicing not saying anything about him for when I’m dealing with paps. Besides, anyone who had that Geography class with us last semester is sick of us.

So we’re not going to talk about being the first openly LGBTQIA+ player to be signed? It’s not that big a deal. Jack’s out. [Jack Zimmermann captained the SMH team for a record three years, before signing with the Providence Falconers in 2015. He was given the A after just a few months with the team, and became the first openly LGBTQIA+ player in the NHL earlier this year when he announced his relationship with now-outgoing SMH captain, Eric Bittle]

Jack has also been very open about mental health awareness. Rumor has it that this is another area you'll be following in his footsteps. Yeah. I was diagnosed with bipolar when I was sixteen, so it's a topic pretty close to my heart. And so many people in our generation have mental health issues, so it's a really big deal. I remember one roadie we ended up in rooms of three so it was me, Will and Chow. We lined up all our medication and I think if I remember right we had about ten lots between us. Course, some of that was vitamins or Tylenol or whatever but the point stands.

So are you and Jack going to do anything together to talk about these issues? It's been discussed. I have to meet with Red Wings PR before I can commit to anything, though. They might want me to keep my head down the first year or so, before I start talking about all these things that were just avoided in the NHL for so many years.

How about playing against your former captain? Will that be strange? Not just one former captain, and yes of course it will be, but I'm ready to start showing them up.

Right. You're actually the third Samwell student to go into the NHL in three years. Yeah, that’s pretty crazy. We’re all in the same division, too, though maybe that makes sense, with it being this area. Holster [Adam Birkholtz, who signed with the Boston Bruins last year] keeps going on about reunions and the All Star game, but I think he’s forgotten that there’s fifty other players they’d pick before they even considered putting rookies on the team. Hell, he was playing AHL this year, and I’ll probably end up in that same boat.

Maybe in the future, though! Maybe. Who knows, we might have some more NHL prospects in the team. I already mentioned Chowder and Dex, but Whiskey [Miguel Alves Guimaraes, rising junior] was drafted to the [Philadelphia] Flyers [in 2015, opting to play NCAA first to get his degree], and I wouldn’t be surprised if at least one out of Tango [Tony Gallegos, rising junior] and Kingsley [Deonte King, rising sophomore] manage to sign. I’m sure we can get together a Samwell alumni team once there’s enough of us in the League.

I know you said you weren’t going to talk about William Poindexter, but can I ask how he feels about you signing before your senior year? Is it going to make him more or less likely to pursue a professional career himself? He’s furious. Sure, there’s the two hour flight, and the fact that he’s New England through and through so he can’t physically let himself support a team that isn’t the Bruins or the Falconers, but mostly he’s pissed ‘cause he tried the jersey on and it clashes so horribly with his hair. He went darker than it when I pointed that out. He blushes to sort of Samwell red. As for how it is me going now instead of next year… It just means that we’ve been pushed into figuring stuff out a little earlier. I remember with Ransom [Justin Oluransi, class of ‘16] and Holster, it was really strange watching them try and decide where they were going to go, when they were both trying to make their own individual decisions and not affect each other’s but we all knew eventually they would try and stay in the same place as each other. I’m glad Will and I don’t have that to go through next year, anymore. He knows where I am for the moment. He also knows that it’s hockey and I could get traded at any time, so there’s no point him looking for jobs in Detroit just because that’s where I’ll be, because what if next season I’m in Arizona or somewhere instead? I can’t really say if he wants to go pro or not. I just can’t say.

Can’t because you don't know or because you're not allowed? That’s a very blurry line.

If you did get traded, where would you like to go? Hey, chill, I haven’t even moved out of the [SMH frat] Haus yet. And it really will be good to be in Detroit. My sister lives there. But, if I have to pick one, I’d like the [New York] Rangers. Who doesn’t have a dream of playing for the team they grew up supporting? And it’d be ‘swawesome to live in Manhattan again. Or, either of the New England teams would be cool, both because of getting to play with former teammates again, and because Will might actually cheer me on.

So when you play the Bruins or the Falconers with the Red Wings… [He laughs] Yeah, Jack and Holster are gonna get all the support over me.

We normally reserve this question for commencing seniors but as you’re going to miss that, what’s your best memory of Samwell? Oh, f**k. I don’t know, man. There’s too many to count. The SMH [team] don’t believe in dull moments.

How about what you’re going to miss the most? Graduation, for starters. [He laughs]. Ah, but Bitty [Eric Bittle]’s pies, and obviously all the team. I’ll still see them as often as I can but them not being right there in the same place will be strange.

And, finally, I think I already know what you’re going to say for this but who are your biggest Samwell inspirations? F**k yeah, you know what I’m going to say. Every one of those boys from SMH are amazing. Some of them can be jerks sometimes, but they’re great. Jack Zimmermann went and came out in the NHL at the perfect time for me so he’s my hero. Larissa Duan [class of ‘16, and former SMH team manager] is, like, the most amazing artist and one day we’re going to write a book together. Or, I’ll write and she’ll illustrate. Justin Oluransi, standing up for his own happiness, and proving that stereotypes are complete bulls**t. He’s the main reason I had the courage to go pro, so I owe a lot to him. Adam Birkholtz played B League Juniors when he was younger, and now has got himself into the NHL, and did you see his protest against Trump when the White House wrote all mention of Jews out of the Holocaust Memorial Day statement? What a legend. [Birkholtz at protests in Boston in January can be found on all Samwell Daily social media pages] Eric Bittle, was an openly gay NCAA captain before his boyfriend came out. He’s also 99% the reason I didn’t starve the past three years, and he learnt how to bake without dairy just for me. S**tty [B. Knight, class of ‘17] who’s been there for me longer than anyone else besides my family. [SD: Do you know his first name, then? DN: He has a first name?] And of course, my best friends, Chris Chow, Caitlin Farmer [rising senior and incoming Samwell Women’s Volleyball team captain - see next week’s edition!] and Will Poindexter. I love all three of them in majorly different ways, and Samwell wouldn’t have been the same without them.

With those touching words about some of Samwell’s biggest personalities, past and present, the interview is over. I thank Derek again for meeting with me, and he responds, with a wink, that it’s chill and that he didn’t want ESPN to get his first interview. His face lights up when he looks over to the door and sees the three people he just named as his best friends. They're all wearing Samwell athletics hoodies, and Will Poindexter holds one out for Derek who pulls it over the Red Wings jersey before stepping outside. He still has a few more weeks of Samwell before trading crimson in for bright red, after all.

[scribeofthenewworld]

Poland, 1942

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1VrfmfUdDEMPN90aMz7Uax8vJWy7QJ-JH76-iPndKrBk/edit?usp=sharing 

Yessirr approached the hole in the fence surrounding the Jewish part of town and, after a quick glance to make sure no one was around to see him, ducked through to the other side. He quickly made his way to the spot where he had arranged to meet his friend, and after a few minutes, a smallish shape emerged from the fog. Yessirr detached himself from the shadows he had been lurking in and approached his friend, grinning. 

“Didn’t see you there,” Elliot greeted him. “‘Ow you been, mate?” 

“Alright, and you?” Yessirr replied, trying to mimic the other boy’s accent. 

“Fine.” Elliot lounged against the wall. “So, where are ye gonna show me around today?”

“Dunno,” Yessirr said. “Where you want to see?” 

“Well, you’ve shown me the main square and the market. What else is important? Or interesting,” he added. 

“Well,” Yessirr replied slowly, “there is doki, you know, by water. Also, eh… where things are made, fabryki, but that part in town not so safe.” He paused. “There is also part with bars and kino, you know, with films--”

“The cinema,” Elliot supplied. 

Yessirr nodded. “...And whorehouses.”

“What, like the entertainment district? Guessin’ that part’s not so safe, either,” Elliot said.

“Is safe enough if you are with me.” Yessirr smirked. “I go there many time.” 

Elliot shook his head, trying not to laugh. “Don’t believe for a moment you’ve been in a whorehouse before.”

Yessirr’s smirk deepened. “I have. My mate’s dad owns one.” 

Elliot looked incredulous. “‘Ow’re your mates all bloody maniacs? At any rate, I’d like to go to the cinema sometime, or somat.”

“Alright, yeh,” Yessirr agreed, thinking bitterly that he probably wouldn’t even be allowed in; he could sneak out of the ghetto not wearing the Star of David, but his features would betray his heritage to anyone who knew better. And almost nowhere in the entertainment district served Jews. 

“At any rate, we’ll go there during the day,” Elliot mused. “If we walk there now, it’ll be right dark by the time we get there. Why don’t you show me your neighborhood?” 

“Oh… uhh…” Yessirr hadn’t expected him to ask, at least not so soon. “Uhh, not right now.”

“Oh. ‘Ow come?” Elliot asked. Yessirr said nothing, trying to think of an excuse. “Another time, then,” Elliot said after a moment of silence. 

“Yeh,” Yessirr agreed, already thinking of excuses to avoid it. Not only was he not confident in Elliot’s ability to get through the fence without being noticed, but if they got caught leaving, they would both be in serious trouble. Elliot would also likely draw a good deal of attention, as he was obviously not Jewish, and he could only imagine how his parents would react. Yessirr simply did not think it worth the risk. “C’mon, I will show you doki and boats right now.” 

“By the water? The docks? Is that off the Wisła?” 

“Yeh.”

Yessirr led Elliot towards the river, passing several people heading home for the evening. 

“My mum wants to have you for dinner,” Elliot informed him. “Ever ‘ad Swiss grub?”

“No. Why would I have?” 

“Jus’ wondering. So you coming? Or nah?”

“Yeh, am coming. I want to practice my English.” Yessirr grinned. “Besides, your sister is quite banging.” 

“Oy,” said Elliot, shoving him lightly, “ye better not try somat.” 

“‘Course not.” 

“My dad’ll be back tomorrow, you got to meet him too.”

“I would like it.”

Elliot’s family had recently traveled from Switzerland. That was what he had told Yessirr, at least; he and his sister didn’t sound like any Swiss Yessirr had ever met. He suspected that Elliot’s father was a spy — he apparently left for days at a time, and Elliot seemed to know very little about where he went or why. Elliot also seemed to know very little about what his father did for work back in Switzerland, only that it was related to the military. Besides, why else would they choose to relocate in the middle of a war, especially from a country that was not a part of it to one that was? It made no sense to Yessirr. 

As the pair approached the docks, they passed a group of four German soldiers going the opposite direction. Out of habit, Yessirr moved to the far side of the road and turned his face away from them as they passed. He hadn’t had any trouble with the soldiers yet, at least not outside the ghetto, but he didn’t want to take any chances. 

“I don’t like the bastards either,” Elliot said once they were out of earshot, “but they shouldn’t give you any trouble if you just ignore them.”

“Speak for yourself,” muttered Yessirr. Then he smirked. “Ever wanted to rob one, just for laughs?”

Elliot looked alarmed. “Like, pickpocket a bloody soldier?” 

“Yep.” 

“Nah,” Elliot replied, “am no’ fuckin’ mental.” He shot Yessirr an incredulous look. “Why, you sayin’ you tried it, mate?”

Yessirr grinned. “Perhaps.” 

Elliot was in awe. “You’re mad, you know it?”

“Never said I was not,” Yessirr replied with a laugh. 

They walked in silence for some time. At length, Yessirr asked “So if you are from Switzerland, how come you and your sister do not sound like it?”

Elliot looked at him. “What you gettin’ at?”

Yessirr shrugged. “Am just saying, you sound Western.” 

Elliot was silent for a moment before he answered. “We moved to Switzerland just a few years ago, from England.” 

“Oh. It makes sense.” It didn’t really make sense. “Just a moment.” Yessirr looked at Elliot. “If you are English, how come the Germans have no’ arrested you yet?”

Elliot looked blankly at him. “We’re not English, we’re Swiss. Ah, here we are, then.” Elliot rapidly changed the subject before his friend could ask any more questions.  

Yessirr still had many questions, in fact, but they had reached the docks, and Elliot clearly did not wish to discuss the matter further. As they walked along the beach, several fishermen tied their boats or unloaded their fish for the day. Yessirr had seen a few of them before. 

“Cześć, Yessirr!” called one whom Yessirr had known for some time, waving. 

“Cześć, Maciej,” Yessirr called back. Maciej dropped a nod to Elliot, who returned it. 

“‘Ow much time you spend around here?” Elliot inquired. 

Yessirr shrugged. “Not much, lately.” This was true; Yessirr had once spent a good deal of time around the docks when he had lived nearby. His mother used to take him and his sister to play along the water; then when he grew older, he and his friends would skip Hebrew school and hang around the docks. That was before the war started. He had once been friendly with nearly all the fishermen, and had even been out in a few of their boats, but Maciej seemed to be the only one left who had taken Yessirr out on the water back when he was a boy. Now he didn’t recognise most of the men tying up their boats. 

“C’mon.” Yessirr led Elliot toward the fishery. “This is only place worth seeing.” As they made their way, Yessirr pointed out the different kinds of boats and their purposes to Elliot. 

“‘Ow you know all this?” he inquired. 

“Mum used to take me and my sister here when I was a lad.” He paused. “We lived close to here, then.”

“Where d’you live now?”

“Around edge of town,” he said lightly. This was, technically, true. 

He showed Elliot around the fishery, explaining the basics to his friend as they went. 

“We should go back,” Yessirr said once they had finished looking around. “It will be dark soon.” 

“Can you show me back to the main square?” Elliot asked him. “I dunno how to get there from here.”

“Yeh,” Yessirr replied, opening the door and waving Elliot out ahead of him. Then he froze, throwing his arm out to stop Elliot from exiting. He heard a voice speaking broken Polish in a harsh, ugly accent.

Elliot opened his mouth to ask why, then he heard the voice, too. Yessirr motioned for him to move back inside and silently closed the door. “Germans?” Elliot whispered. Yessirr nodded. Elliot looked nervous. “What’ll they do if they find us in here?” 

“They will think we are stealing,” Yessirr whispered. “We probably get arrested.” 

Elliot gulped. “So… what d’we do?” 

“Just stay in here ‘til they leave.” Yessirr crept back up to the door and put his ear to it. He didn’t hear anything, but he knew better than to assume they had gone. He was about to push the door open a crack to peer outside, but suddenly he heard the voice again, now very close. 

“Potrzebujemy tych ryb. Dla żołnierzy,” the soldier said in his guttural accent. 

Yessirr retreated several steps and motioned for Elliot to follow him to the back of the warehouse. 

“What’d they say?” whispered Elliot. 

“He say they need the fish. For the soldiers,” Yessirr whispered back. 

They pressed themselves into the darkest corner of the warehouse as the door opened. The sound of large boots hitting the ground reached them, followed by a chorus of voices protesting in Polish. 

A soldier said something in German, and another responded as the door opened and closed again. Yessirr grabbed Elliot’s wrist and pulled him along the wall to the front corner of the building. Releasing him, Yessirr inched close to the door and put his ear to the crack, listening hard for voices. Hearing nothing, he pulled the door open a crack and listened again. He heard the Germans’ heavy footsteps receding, and he motioned for Elliot to follow him, praying that the other boy could see him in the dim light. He did, for a moment later he was at Yessirr’s elbow. Yessirr pushed Elliot out before him then slid out himself, closing the door silently behind him. He grabbed Elliot and pulled him to the other side of the fishery, where they could hide in the shadows cast by the structure. They slid along the wall and, once they had reached the building’s rear, Yessirr took off across the grass in the direction of the road. He didn’t stop running until they reached a space between two buildings, where both boys collapsed against the wall, breathing hard. 

“That… was bloody close,” gasped Elliot. 

Yessirr said nothing; he was quite shaken. He hadn’t thought they would see Germans around the docks; until now, he hadn’t run into them in any of the places he usually frequented. “C’mon,” he said, “is already dark.” 

Yessirr led Elliot to the main square through backroads and alleys; he wasn’t keen to run into any more soldiers. 

“My mum’s like to beat my arse,” Elliot moaned. “She has a right fit when I come back past dark.” 

“Mine also,” Yessirr said. His parents had long since given up on him acting like a good Jewish boy, but that didn’t stop them from being angry when he didn’t. They reached the main square and, bidding one another farewell, parted ways. Deciding the fence was too far out of the way, Yessirr opted to scale the wall. He did so without any trouble and quickly made for his street. He had planned on sneaking into his house, but when he arrived the light was on and his family, along with the others they shared the apartment with, were in the middle of dinner. He decided against it and entered through the front door — the moment he did, both his parents began demanding to know where he’d been. He muttered an excuse and began stuffing food into his mouth. The lecture continued throughout dinner, and Yessirr retreated to his room as soon as he had finished eating. 

His father came in soon after and asked him where he had been and why he was back late. Yessirr said he’d been at Samuel’s house studying and lost track of time. He could tell his father didn’t really believe him, but he only told Yessirr to be back earlier from then on. Yessirr agreed and shut the door as his father left. Part of him felt guilty; he knew his parents worried about him, worried that he would say the wrong thing to some Nazi soldier and wind up arrested or killed. But he hated being at home. The tiny, cramped room he had to share with his sister, Sarai, and three other kids he barely knew made him feel restless and trapped. He pulled a cardboard box from the bottom drawer and took out the grenade he was working on disassembling. Yessirr loved explosives more than he knew he should, but he couldn’t help it; technology had always fascinated him, especially large engines and weapons. 

He had once spent a good deal of time around the factories, studying the machines, trying to figure out how they worked. There had been a time when he had wanted nothing more than to join the military as a weapons technician to build guns and explosives. His parents had been horrified when he’d informed them that he wanted to drop out of Hebrew school to build firearms; Jews didn’t join the military, and they certainly didn’t build and create weapons. For a long time Yessirr hadn’t understood their opposition to it, until his father sat him down and explained that the kinds of weapons he wanted to build would likely be used against his own people. Until that day, he hadn’t truly understood how much people hated them. 

He shook his head to clear it and set to work carefully cutting through the grenade’s protective outer shell. He usually waited until the children fell asleep to study it, but he wanted to relieve some of the nervous tension he felt. The grenade was a dud he had stolen from the dumping grounds behind the arms factory, where he acquired most of the parts he had studied. Whether or not he could fulfill his dream, Yessirr was determined to teach himself how mechanics worked. His delinquent friend Gunari had once taught him how to rig primitive explosives, but had warned him that the process was unsafe and the final product volatile. He hoped to combine the method he knew with the knowledge he gained from studying the grenade and make something better. Not for the first time, Yessirr thought that maybe he should just become an independent arms dealer and use the money to send his family to Sweden, or maybe even America. 

Hearing movement outside his room, he pulled the knife out of the grenade as quickly as he dared and placed it back in its box, shutting the drawer just as the door opened. Sarai walked in, followed by Agata, the youngest child of one of the other families — the Steinholdts, he thought. There were so many children in the same house that he could hardly keep them all straight. It had only been a few months since they had all been forced into the tiny district of Podgórze, with four families crammed into every matchbox apartment. Like cattle, he thought, right before they’re slaughtered. 

Sarai tugged at his sleeve. “Will you read me a bedtime story?” she asked, speaking in Yiddish. Yessirr groaned internally; as much as he did not want to, he couldn’t refuse his sister such a request. 

“What shall I read?” He replied in Polish; even in his own home, amongst his own family, Yiddish had begun to feel like a foreign language to him. Not that he couldn’t speak it, but it felt strange and distorted on his tongue — a trademark of the heritage he was rapidly growing to hate. 

“Read from the Torah,” Agata chirruped. 

Yessirr shook his head. “Do you not read from the Torah all day? I will read you a    bajka.” He pulled a book of tales from the pile beside the dresser and began reading The Legend of the Warsaw Mermaid. Once he’d finished he stood, kissed his sister goodnight, grabbed his favourite jacket, and left the room. 

He immediately ran into Izaac and Izabel, the twins his mother had unsuccessfully tried to force him to befriend. Of all the children in the apartment, they were closest in age to Yessirr, but he had rarely met two such uptight, self-righteous pricks. They glanced at one another, then at him, taking in his jacket and shoes. “Are you… going out?” Izabel inquired. Yessirr said nothing. “At this hour?” Izaac pressed, incredulous. “What will your parents say?” Yessirr stared ahead and kept walking, resisting the urge to turn and sock him in the nose. 

“It reflects badly on us all, you know,” Izaac called after him, “when you behave like this.” 

Yessirr clenched his hands into fists. He knew he should ignore Izaac, but the other boy irritated him in a way that made it very difficult. He spun on his heel. “I would rather people believe us all scoundrels,” he spat, still speaking deliberately in Polish, “than self-righteous fools such as you.” He turned about and continued walking, anger pulsing through him. It made him even angrier knowing how Izaac and Izabel’s parents looked down on his own for his behaviour. Yessirr had been acting out since the age of six; there had never been much hope of him turning out well-behaved, but that was no fault of his parents. 

Yessirr stalked through the apartment ignoring everyone he saw, still fuming. Normally, he waited to sneak out until long after everyone had gone to bed, but he felt as though he might explode if he stayed in that apartment for one more moment. Making up his mind, Yessirr crossed the main room and pulled the front door open. “I’m going downstairs, to Elijah’s,” he said to his mother, then closed the door on her objection and the other adults’ stares. He knew his mother saw through the lie, but at that moment he could not bring himself to care; he just had to escape. 

Outside he breathed in the cool night air, his claustrophobia dissipating. He made his way to a squat brick building near his apartment and scaled it, then sat on the roof for a little while, looking up at the sky. The early spring breeze was too cold for him to doze off, and before long he heard footsteps — not just footsteps, but the heavy clunk of army boots. Peering down from his perch, Yessirr saw a single S.S. guard making his way across the street. Curious and suddenly in the mood for risk, Yessirr quickly climbed to the ground. He began trailing the guard, creeping closer until he was only a few feet behind. The man was doubtless up to no good — no S.S. guard would be walking alone through the ghetto at night otherwise. For a moment Yessirr considered trying to knock the man out, but quickly decided against it. Instead, he shadowed the guard, biding his time, until at last the man paused, giving Yessirr the chance to sneak up behind him, slip a hand into his pocket, and lift what was there. The guard looked over his shoulder as Yessirr slipped away and ran down a back alley. He returned to his spot on top of the building before examining his loot. Cigarettes, matches, and a very small amount of cash. Pocketing the money, Yessirr put a cigarette in his mouth and lit it. It was better than nothing. 

The next day, Yessirr ran home after school, threw on a different shirt, and shouted to his mother that he would not be back for dinner as he ran out. Approaching the part of the fence where he usually exited the ghetto, Yessirr glanced about casually; there were usually people out and about, especially in the middle of the day, but as luck would have it, this particular hole in the fence lay relatively out of the way on both sides. Glancing behind him periodically to make sure he was not being followed, Yessirr reached the gap and climbed through with no difficulty. As he walked through town, however, he ran into trouble in the form of a familiar face. 

As he passed an S.S. guard, he made eye contact with his Rabbi, who raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Yessirr looked away as quickly as possible, but the guard had noticed their unspoken exchange. Yessirr moved to duck into an alley, but he heard the guard directly behind him, ordering him to halt. Yessirr stopped and slowly turned to face the soldier, who looked him up and down briefly. “Żyd?” he asked after a moment. Yessirr’s mind raced, considering his options. 

“Please, sir,” he said in English, attempting to mimic Elliot’s accent. “I have no’ done nothin’ wrong.” 

The guard looked surprised, but after a moment he replied in guttural English. “You are Jewish, ja?” 

“No, sir,” Yessirr said. 

The guard looked at him suspiciously. “Why do you speak in English? You are English?” 

“No sir, Swiss.” 

The guard looked unconvinced, almost bored, as though he had heard every excuse in the book (which, Yessirr thought, he probably had). “I am not interested,” he declared after a moment. “Turn out your pockets; show some identification.” 

Yessirr fished around in his pockets, thinking desperately of how he might escape. His hand closed around the cigarettes, and he had an idea. “I have… only this…” he said, slowly pulling one from his pocket. 

He and the guard stared at one another for a moment, then the guard inquired hesitantly, “You… got any more?” Yessirr pulled another from his pocket and held them out to the guard, who shrugged and said, “I suppose is good enough.” 

Yessirr handed him the cigarettes and bolted through the busiest part of the street into an alleyway before the guard could change his mind. He half-ran to Elliot’s neighborhood then fell against a building, his heart racing. Composing himself as best he could, he completed his trip and knocked on Elliot’s front door. Elliot opened it, grinning, and ushered him inside. 

“Ay mate, my dad’s back, we can all…” he trailed off as he took in Yessirr’s expression. “You alright, mate?” 

Yessirr nodded. “Just ran into trouble — I got stopped by  guard, almost got arrested—"

At that moment, Elliot’s sister, Lucille, stuck her head out from the kitchen. “Hi, Yessirr.”

Yessirr grinned at her. “Cześć, Lucille.” 

“Dinner will be ready in about ten minutes,” she informed them. 

“A’ight,” said Elliot. Lucille disappeared back inside the kitchen. Catching the smirk on Yessirr’s face, Elliot shot him a look as though to say don’t even think about it and led him into the sitting room. A man who vaguely resembled Elliot sat in an armchair reading a newspaper. “Yessirr, ma’ dad,” Elliot told him, gesturing to the man. “Dad, this is Yessirr.” 

Elliot’s father looked up and smiled at him. “Hello, Yessirr.”

“Hello, sir,” Yessirr replied. 

“Please,” he said, “call me Manwell.” 

Elliot flung himself down on the couch. “So, what happened with the guard?” 

“Was nothing,” Yessirr assured as he sat down beside his friend. “He stopped me, asked for identification, and I bribed him off with cigarettes.” 

Elliot shook his head in amazement. “Where’d you get cigarettes?”

Yessirr smirked but said nothing as Elliot continued to shake his head. 

Manwell looked up from his newspaper. “Why’d the guard stop you in the first place?” Yessirr shrugged, although he knew why. 

“Yessirr,” Manwell said, sounding thoughtful. Yessirr stared at him. “No’ a name I’ve heard before. Where are your parents from?” 

“Here,” Yessirr said. “We are Polish.”

Manwell looked thoughtful. “Where are you from?” Yessirr asked quickly, wanting to change the subject. 

“Switzerland,” Manwell answered. “Before that, England.” 

That explained the accent, Yessirr thought. But it still did not explain why the Germans hadn’t arrested them all yet. He was trying to think of a tactful way to broach the subject when Lucille entered and announced that dinner was ready. 

The food was good, if somewhat bland. Yessirr asked Manwell what he did for work in the military. “Relations stuff,” he said lightly. “You could say I’m something of a diplomat.” Definitely a spy, Yessirr thought. 

“I always wanted to work for military,” he told Manwell. “I want to build things. I have taught myself some, uhh, mechanic, but I want to become expert.”

“Yessirr loves weapons,” Elliot interjected. 

Yessirr elbowed him, but Manwell nodded. “That field is expanding fast; there’s a good deal of opportunity for invention. Unfortunately, the Germans seem to be ahead in that particular field at the moment.” 

“In Europe maybe, but in arms race, United States beat them.” Yessirr grinned. “They have money to put into weapons. That is military I want to work for.” 

“Maybe then they’d finally end this war,” Elliot suggested.

“Maybe. Or maybe I start out with Związek Walki Zbrojnej.”

Elliot chuckled at that, but Manwell looked mildly alarmed. 

They finished dinner, and Elliot’s mother suggested that he show Yessirr the house. 

“Can I ask you something,” Yessirr asked as Elliot led him upstairs, “if your family is British, how come Germans have not arrested you all?”

Elliot was silent for a moment. Then he replied, “‘Cause we’re Swiss, aren’t we?” 

“Głupie gadanie,” Yessirr shot at him, “you no’ sound Swiss at all. Besides, even if you are from Switzerland, your father is British citizen, no? As is, I think, your whole family.” 

Elliot turned to look at him, studying his face. “And what about you?” he shot back. “‘Ow come I’ve never seen your house, met your family?” Yessirr met his friend’s gaze, saying nothing. “Yessirr’s a Jewish name, innit? Which means you live in Podgórze,” he went on. “But that’s walled off, so ‘ow is it I always see you out here without that star they make you all wear?”

Yessirr looked hard at Elliot for a moment, then decided it didn’t really matter whether or not his friend knew. “There is hole in the fence,” he told him. “I go in and out through there, or I climb over wall. There is my truth, now tell me yours.” 

Elliot hesitated for a moment, then shrugged. “Our documents are fake,” he admitted. “As far as the Germans are concerned, we’re all born and bred Swiss citizens.” 

Yessirr was somehow not surprised. “One more thing: is your dad spy?”

Elliot looked genuinely shocked. “D’you think he could be? Oh, my God, that’d make sense. I mean, he’s got connections to the Armia Krajowa, but...” He broke off, incredulous. “You really think of everything, mate.” 

Yessirr laughed a little. “Is how I have survived. I respect your dad, though; he is fighting Nazis, I mean really fighting them. I wish I could help, somehow.” 

Elliot looked thoughtful. “C’mon,” he said, turning to walk down the stairs. “What say we go for a stroll, eh?” 

“Sure,” Yessirr said. “It will be dark soon, though.” 

Elliot waved a hand dismissively. “Eh.” 

Yessirr shrugged and followed his friend outside. “Where you have in mind?” he inquired as they walked down the street. 

“Well, you’ve shown me around a bit,” Elliot said. “Think maybe it’s time I showed you somat.” Puzzled, Yessirr followed Elliot past the main part of town and then, to his surprise, out of the city altogether. Yessirr had expected Kraków’s exits to be better guarded, but there was no one in sight when they reached the city limits. After walking off-road for some time, Yessirr finally spoke up. “Do you… you do know where we are going, yeh?” 

Elliot kept walking. “‘Course I do.”

Yessirr was less than confident but, figuring he had very little to lose, allowed Elliot to lead on. At length, the pair arrived at what appeared to be some sort of farm. 

“Ah, here we are, then,” Elliot said, turning a superior look on Yessirr. “And ye doubted my sense of direction.”

“Umm.” Yessirr was not exactly sure how to respond. “What exactly… why we are here?”

“You’ll see.” Elliot led him toward what looked like a barn; it was difficult to tell in the dying light. 

Yessirr tried to assess his surroundings; he could conclude that the place was a farm, agricultural from the look of it, but why they were there, he still could not imagine. They reached the barn and Elliot pulled the door open, motioning for Yessirr to follow him in. The barn was full of people, all of whom looked around their age. Several of them raised a hand in greeting to the pair as they entered. Yessirr looked questioningly at Elliot, who turned to him, grinning. “Welcome to the resistance, brother.”