#cocaine holders

[nysberry1]

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[paradoxproductions]

shes just like me fr fr....

[sadscaredboy]

I’m on cocaine and I’m scared (as always) but I’m also enjoying myself at the same time…?

Like, it sucks being a trauma holder but it’s cool being in an adult’s body bc I can have experiences I normally wouldn’t have.

The first couple lines were fine but now my head is so loud.

I don’t deal with the psychosis nearly as much as Pri (the host) does and now I see why it’s so scary. And right now its *just* paranoia and auditory.

I’m with someone safe but I’m doing all I can to remember to take deep breaths and not get swept away in a tornado of scary thoughts.

I’m always sad and scared, so…

Why do I want more…?

[maxwell-grant]

I managed to finally read The Chimera Brigade and it's given far, FAR more to talk about than I ever expected, and much like last time with Mina Murray and my LOEG breakdown, I'm devoting a separate post to a specific character that gives me far too much to talk about to include in the main write-up. The character in question is a French pulp hero I've covered some years ago by the name of Leo Saint-Clair a.k.a The Nyctalope - here presented as the "protector of Paris", entrusted by Marie Curie herself to watch over the city, and just about detested by everyone who has to interact with him on a daily basis, with the feeling very much reciprocated. He is a profoundly funny character, one of the smartest and most purposeful usages of a classic pulp character I've ever read, and one of greatest, most incisive takes on a pulp hero I've ever seen.

The official English translation of the comic calls him "The Eye", because despite being from 1911 and not having seen any kind of continuous publication since his author was disgraced for becoming a Nazi collaborator, apparently there are Nyctalope rights holders from Jean de La Hire's family who forced them to change the names for this comic and to alter it for all releases of the prequel series Lehman and Gess did, which is a hilariously obscene and yet fitting note to start this on - the very idea of Nyctalope rights holders invested in the sanctity of their hero, which is very funny considering that, within the story of The Chimera Brigade, the Nyctalope is driven in no small part by the fact that his legacy was entirely penned by hack pulp writers, and he desperately wants to correct that so he can take his place next to the greats that he claims he used to be on equal level with. It's an extension of the all-consuming insecurity that completely defines him and makes him such a pathetic, funny, and ultimately compelling character to watch, regardless of how much context you have for who The Nyctalope is.

Saint-Clair, as his alias indicated, has the ability to see in the dark after an injury. He has an artificial heart. He leads a crimefighting organization, the CID.

His decline is all the more pitiful: after traveling through time, rediscovering Atlantis and exploring an errant planet called Rhea, Saint-Clair becomes a collaborator in a 1944 tale called Night of the Nyctalope.

Even as an outcast, he remains a major figure in the French imagination, the missing link between the "gentlemen crimefighters" of the end of the 19th century and the modern adventurers of whom Bob Morane is emblematic.

He is painfully aware that, next to the likes of Lupin and Fantomas and Holmes, he is an insignificant nobody, that history will simply not remember The Nyctalope the same way it did them, and he has no idea why. We can certainly understand easy enough why he is generally despised by the other characters: he's a weasel, he's a cop, he's vindictive and petty, he's a reactionary, he's uncomfortable to be around, he's rude and snooty and demanding, he's self-obsessed, he's a piece of shit, he's unlikable, and we eventually learn he failed his most important promise on the most profound level possible and has only aggravated the problem ever since. And he is aware of all of that, and none of that, in his view, should have any kind of bearing on his record. Up until the finale of this, he had brushed off his failure to protect Spain from fascism, the dying promise that Curie entrusted to him above all else, as a quirk or flaw on the record, comparable to Holmes' cocaine addiction. None of these flaws explain to him why is it that he is not on the level of Lupin and Fantomas, despite having known them and been, theoretically, on their level. He has no context for his own existence.

He doesn't know how profoundly the world is gonna forget him. He doesn't know he's the last of a kind already on their way to extinction. He doesn't know what Jean de La Hire is gonna do in 1940. He doesn't know that whatever legacy he could have as a proto-superhero is gonna be tainted to shit because his author was a hack who sold out to the Nazis and fled town for it. He just knows that there is a Canon, and he is not a part of it, and this fact is killing him and blinding him to everything that doesn't revolve around his attempts to secure a legacy for himself.

The streets of Paris are adorned with big signs of him as it's protector, he is invited to political conferences as an international player of note, and Marie Curie, whose discovery of radium and whose scientific institute defines the backstory of the entire setting, entrusted him to protect the city, a huge unthinkable honor that her own children are baffled by, and none of this truly matters to The Nyctalope, because it's not enough. He holds a position of authority and power, but he is far less concerned with the impending war and bloodshed than he is at what's going to happen to his own legacy. Best exemplified by a particularly funny sequence in Issue 4, where he attends a Soviet conference and and learns firsthand about the alliance/treason kicking off the war that's gonna ruin all their diplomatic efforts so far, and his immediate concern is "what about the Eisenstein biopic I was promised??".

A single hour of darkness, and the vampires will tear the city apart.

What is Saint-Clair waiting for?

The first deaths. The public will crucify us, all he'll have to do is name the place. Well played.

It's in large part this obsession with legacy and imagery that makes him such an unpleasant person. The Curies even state in Issue 3 that the Nyctalope is willing to let the Chimera Brigade fail publicly and let casualties occur if it means he can take greater credit for fixing a problem they failed to contain, and eventually you can even see why he is so obsessed with the public perception: all of his victories and achievements have been hidden. Defeating and killing the secret ruler of the world, protecting the city from the shadows or up top in his airships, keeping dangerous beings hidden in his cave, none of that gets the public applause the Chimera Brigade got for stopping that alien frog.

If he'd kept up his promise to Curie and saved Spain, no one would have seen it happen. He says as much in the last issue that even now, to him, Mabuse is nothing, no more of a threat than Cagliostro, and certainly not as big of a priority as those dirty communists at the Curie Institute he will publicly deal with first. If you stop the threats before anyone sees you do it, they might as well not have existed, and he can't afford that anymore. He needs to have something to show for it all, he needs to have a victory that matters, he needs to belong in The Canon, and he has no way of understanding why he doesn't already.

I've said before, on my old post about the Nyctalope, that he is inherently emblematic of failure in a way that I find very interesting in so far as what it can say about the genre he's part of. How, disturbing origin and weird sci-fi adventures and design aside, he really was essentially a fairly clean-cut superheroic do-gooder. A Superman, a Captain America, indistinguishable from any other idealized patriotic do-gooder, and how none of that changed when his author sold out to the Vichy government. How just that single turn exposes how contextual and finnicky the entire premise of a pulp hero/superhero is, and how what happened to the Nyctalope could have befallen any number of other characters within the medium.

The Chimera Brigade's take on Nyctalope isn't even really about that historical fact surrounding him, although it is very much cognizant of this fact - it is more so about the failure state he represents and lives in. He stands for France, and thus stands for the failure of France in the pre-war era, the failure to do anything against it's fascist neighbors, the failure to assist in containing the threat of Nazism until it was far too late, the obsession with legacy and preservation of image coming at the cost of human lives. The failures of the Nyctalope are the failures of France, and he is a perfect character to stand in for failure. He is the perfect character to do this kind of thing with.

Significant and recognizable enough that he matters, not too significant or recognizable enough to not be irrelevant. A guy who was a perfectly ordinary pulp hero, if not for these strange proto-superhero quirks and that inescapable shame of his creator. He is part of the Canon, but he doesn't define the Canon, and the Canon will not wait for him to join it. He is just one of many pulp heroes, significant as a missing link between the ones that actually matter, and nothing more. Self-proclaiming as the last of the greats, instead of just being one of the greats or the next step of the greats - of course he wants to be the last of the great Gentlemen Vigilantes so that no others can come after him and overshadow him - ultimately a historical curiosity rather than a true step in the genre.

There is indeed real pity, even sympathy, for this contemptible schlub. There is an acknowledgment that his past deeds indeed mattered, and that it's his failure to move past them and grapple with his true present obligations that damns him more so than anything else. A lesser story absolutely would have cared about giving this guy some due, some respect or acknowledgment, but The Chimera Brigade is unflinching and the Nyctalope is not spared. He is laid out in clear terms as a colossal fuck-up loser too obsessed with his own myth to be of any help, and why would he be depicted otherwise? What does it actually mean to be The Nyctalope? What does he want to be remembered for? What does he HAVE to be remembered for?

For his great past deeds that nobody really saw? For his great magnetic personality? For the promise that he never kept, for the city that he doesn't protect, for the country he's failed, for the allies he's pushed away and the enemies he enables? For all these great adventures and accomplishments boiled down to nothing anyone really cares about, penned in cheap disposable pulp magazines? He desperately wants you to overlook everything else that surrounds him and listen to his assertions that he is one of The Guys, because his legend doesn't speak for itself, so he has to babble for it instead. And that's the note he ends on - finally realizing that there truly is nothing left for him, and that he failed on the most profound level possible. That even his tragic realization of failure is accompanied by a hilariously pathetic reveal - that all this time, in his most private quarters, he has all of his supposed "peers" framed in posters looming above him, and he was waiting to put himself next to them.

Holmes, Lupin, Fantomas, they were seismic shifts, they were major notable steps in their genre, they changed the world as a result of them, they were The Guys - and The Nyctalope wasn't. He was noteworthy, respectable, but just that, and he couldn't deal with that - that his legend will fade instead of endure. Ultimately, all he wanted was a spot on the wall next to them, and he's at last acknowledging that not only he will never have it, but that he never deserved it.

Whether you knew all this context about him or not going into this story, all along, deep down he knew the same thing that you did.

[lol-jackles]

Looking at the trial(see # Rust tag on twit for sourcing) I see there were bullets obviously left lying around, the safety on set was a total failure, the producers hired someone for two jobs who wasn't experienced enough for one. This was obvious enough that the crew walked off. This was obvious enough that a few days before, Guiterrez was taken to task (and then given "space" when she vented, wtf) The actor before Jensen developed a "conflict." Why would anyone fail to object and shut it down?

And there was a possibility that Hannah was high from cocaine. Any empathy I had for her went out the window when she handed the "set Mom" a bag of cocaine and assumed she would hold on to it without question.

Hannah admitted to loading the gun herself, and failing to properly check the rounds. The evidence points towards her as the source for the live rounds, and that she failed to identify them multiple times throughout production.

That said, Baldwin and the rest of the producers were being cheap when they hired her, made her work a second job as prop master, and now she's being used as a scapegoat. Not to say she's not responsible, she definitely is as she loaded the guns and failed to properly check the rounds as well as the source for the live rounds, but she's certainly not the worst person on that set.

I want to know which producer thought it was a swell idea to hire an inexperienced armorer with no apprenticeship in a job with one credit to her name on a Western film full of guns and gunfights. It’s like hiring a first-year pilot school student to fly a 747 by themselves.  And the pilot is high on cocaine.

This set was a shit show and created a perfect storm for something like this to happen. Many failures in organization and safety. Plus the union and crew issues.

I’ve been a background actor and an extra on several shows and independent movies with a lot of guns, and even where a bullet was meant for me (collateral damage when a hitman missed his target).  In every one of them, the armorer, prop master, and the AD handled the gun in all the scenes to verify it is not loaded.  I’m also a gun owner and permit holder and we’re taught that no one should ever take a gun from someone and assume that it is unloaded.  Always check for yourself.  One very memorable experience on a movie set the armorer handed the gun to several people on set to verify that it was not loaded, including me because he knew I was a permit holder. So as you can see, a gun goes through several hands to verify it is not loaded before given to an actor.   But on the day of the Rust fatality, there was no armorer on site of the scene, and the AD never checked the gun to verify it was not loaded.

Conditions on outdoor standing set ranging from sucky to terrible are expected: the bugs, the weather, the hours, the young angry PAs, and the producers having mental breakdowns.  And yes, shortcuts are constantly taken by disregarding safety protocols, especially on low-budgeted/shoe string-budgeted films. There were a few times I thought I was going to get hurt or maimed in car scenes and it didn’t even involved car chases, just idiots driving and talking at the same time.  But firearm safety protocol were never disregarded, at least from what I’ve witnessed.   

Hundreds of thousands of action and war movies and police procedural tv shows, injuries or death from guns are very rare: 3 total in 37 years, though that is cold comfort for Halyna Hutchin's family.  

[sadhours]

“I look for love in all the wrong places”

prequel to wicked sensations

a/n: this is my present to you all for 300 followers!!!! Thank you so much for enjoying my series. i hope i dont make y'all too sad with this one

word count: 3.7k

warnings: 18+ minors dni, messy Billy, sad billy, abuse mention, addiction, underage drinking, drug use, cocaine, marijuana, brief smut, Neil, homophobic slurs, sexism, angst lots of angst. This was sad to write.

masterlist (i accept requests)

taglist: @blue-eyed-lion @bbyhargrove @sweet-villain @actuallyspencerreid @trapistani @sierrahhh @likeanimagepassingby2

Fingernails stained yellow from nicotine, Billy brings yet another Marlboro Red to his lips while Jennifer pours him another another shot of Jameson. He’s been here every single night for the past three months, the days bleed together but he’s under the impression he’s having a good time. Every evening folds out the same way and Billy likes a rigid routine. The liquor goes down without so much as a wince, the fiery sensation spreading down his throat and over his entire body. A comforting, numb warmth that’s become his most favorite feeling. In fact, Billy couldn’t go a day without it now. There’s a necessity to it, some might call it an addiction, but Billy thought it made the beatings guaranteed to him more bearable, therefore it’s a form of protection. Getting sucker punched by his dad didn’t hurt as much when he couldn’t feel anything.

The next bit of routine was also made certain by a woman double his age cornering him every night. Not usually the same woman, but always one old enough to be his mother. They’d all kind of bled together, dyed hair, heavy makeup and the same pickup lines. Are you old enough to be in here? or What’s a young handsome man like you doing alone in a place like this? And Billy would accept their advances every time, looking for attention anyway he could get it. Sometimes he wished he didn’t like compliments. The way these broads looked at him and talked to him made Billy feel powerful.

Tonight was no different, a woman he pegs to be roughly 40 situating herself between him and the jukebox as he’s flipping through songs.

Turning on the charm, Billy smirks, “Well, hi. Just what I was looking for.”

It’s a lie, he likes getting off and these women provide an escape but he always feels disgusting afterwards, so he drinks more to bring the numbness back. Regardless, he continues repeating the cycle.

“Does your mother know you’re here?” the woman teases and luckily Billy’s buzzed enough for it not to sting and spiral him into another episode. She never knows where she is. And he wonders where she is all the time.

“I’m a big boy,” he retorts, leaning closer to the woman.

She gives him what he thinks was supposed to be seductive laugh but it’s a little too deep and it brings him out of the moment, panic rising through his throat while he realizes this bar is dark and he can’t really be sure if he’s attracted to her.

Then she lifts up a tiny baggie filled halfway with an off white substance he’s beginning to indulge in most nights, “Want some?”

Billy knows he shouldn’t, he knows he’ll wake up tomorrow with the emptiest feeling in his chest that’ll drive him to chase after good feelings but no matter what, he won’t be able to get his serotonin back up for days. Nevertheless, he nods and follows the woman to the dingy, sticky men’s bathroom. She locks the door behind her and dumps a bit of the baggie out onto the toilet paper holder. Billy begins to think about what other disgusting substances have been on it as she cuts them each a line and pulls out a rolled dollar bill. He goes first, needing the courage from the drug to follow through with what this woman really wants. He snorts the cocaine, standing and hands her the dollar bill while he rubs his nostril with the back of his hand. He tastes the drip immediately as the warm numbness begins to wash over his mouth and descend down the rest of him. Then the excitement comes, his heart pounding out of his chest while he’s filled with a newfound confidence that was languidly slipping away minutes before. He watches as she snorts her line and when she’s finished, he hitches her foot up onto the toilet and undoes his pants. He fucks her quick and hard, glancing away when she turns her head to look at him. He doesn’t give a shit if it hurts her feelings. Billy pulls out and cums on her thighs.

He tucks himself in his jeans and tells her, “Thanks, sweetheart.”

However that’s not their only interaction of the night, like a fiend, Billy keeps returning to snort all the blow she has and let’s her buy him drinks all night. She gives him a crumpled napkin with her number on it and he purposefully misses his pocket, dropping it on the dirty bar floor.

As per his routine, he doesn’t stumble out of the bar until it’s closed and he drunkenly attempts to help Jennifer close it up. He drops a barstool on the bar only for it to come tumbling back down on his face, pushing him to the floor with it.

“Alright, Billy…” Jennifer sighs, “I think I can manage it myself. Get home safe, kid.”

He does, though he won’t remember the drive in the morning. His body crashes through his window, face planting on the hardwood floor and from where he lies, he can see a light flicking on from the crack under the door.

“Shit,” he mumbles, grappling to his knees and pressing his palms into his thighs.

He’s pleasantly surprised when a small redhead opens his bedroom door with wide eyes. His intoxicated smile falters when he hears Susan’s voice calling out for her.

“Sorry!” Max calls out, “Bumped into something. It was dark.”

“Go to bed!” his Dad yells and Max turns off the hall light after glaring at her drunken step brother. She closes his door and retreats back to her room.

She was a little shit but she was a really good sister, covering for Billy whenever she could. He stands to his feet and turns on his lamp, looking in the mirror to see his lip and nose are bloodied from either the barstool or the face plant, he’s not sure. He sighs, wiping his face with his sleeve before collapsing in his bed, succumbing to a hard sleep.

He’s not sure how long he’s been out when he wakes up, having no idea what time he even got home. But his heads killing him and the post cocaine blues hits hard, flashes of the older woman piercing his brain. He groans, reaching under his bed for a warm can of beer and sits up. He cracks the beer open and gulps it down, reaching for his pack of Marlboros to discover he smoked every single one last night. He winces as he stands up from bed, dropping the empty beer can to the collection strewn across his floor. He peeks out the window to see his Camaro parked halfway on the lawn and he cringes.

Billy strides to the bathroom, keeping the light off as he reaches for the rinsing cup and fills it with tap water. He drinks it and fills it again, repeating the process until his stomach churns and empties into the toilet. Over and over. Billy’s not a quiet puker either. He knows whoever is home can hear it but it’s common, they’ve got to be used to it. After collecting himself, he stares at his reflection in the dirty mirror and dim lighting seeping in from the tiny vent window. His lip is swollen, he’s got dried blood under his nose and massive bags under his eyes.

“God,” he groans before splashing water into his face. He braces himself as he exits, glancing up and down the hall before strolling back to his room. Before he can get there, he hears Susan’s hushed voice and he freezes.

“He’s a problem, Neil. Stumbling in at ungodly hours and he always reeks of alcohol,” she whispers.

“I know,” Neil responds, “I don’t know what else I can do.”

Billy shuts his bedroom door quietly, not wanting to hear the rest of the conversation. He digs through the pile of dirty clothes on the floor for a pair of jeans, pulling them over his legs and hopping into the rest them. He grabs a white muscle shirt, bringing it to his nose and wincing at the stench. He keeps digging through the pile until he settles on a black muscle tank instead. Then his phone rings, the shrill pitch of it sending a shockwave of sharp pain through his head.

“Jesus Christ,” he mumbles, lifting it off the hook to be greeted by his girlfriend. Oh, shit, he’d forgotten he had one.

“Veronica, calm down,” he groans, slipping his Converse on. “Yeah, yeah, I know. I was busy.”

“Busy?!” she yells, “We had a fucking date, William.”

“Ugh, don’t fucking call me that,” he looks in the mirror, fixing his hair with what little energy he has. “Listen, I’ll be at your house in twenty. Bring weed.”

“You’re gonna make this up to me, Billy. I’m so sick of you leaving me high and dry.”

“Whatever you want, baby,” he quips sarcastically before hanging up, hopping out his window and stealthily strutting to his car. He speeds off down the street before Neil and Susan can run outside to stop him. He takes a detour, stopping at a gas station to fill up his car and retrieve the ever needed pack of Marlboro Reds. “Ya know what, give me a shooter of Jack,” he adds, handing a wad of cash to the clerk who despite his disheveled appearance gives him fluttery eyelashes and blushed cheeks.

“Thanks, sweetheart,” he winks to the girl as he shoves his change in his pocket. When he’s back in his car, he downs the shot and lights a cigarette before filling up his tank.

-

“You said twenty minutes,” Veronica scolds as she gets in the front seat, her blonde hair pristinely styled in big curls.

Billy snorts, “Hey, I showed up.”

“Yeah and you fucking reek of booze,” she complains. Billy shrugs, speeding off down the street. He whips through the neighborhoods, ignoring Veronica’s incessant yelling to slow down. He wonders why she even likes him, all she ever does is complain. He arrives to their usual spot, a parking lot a ways out that faces the ocean, no shore beneath it.

“Where were you last night?” she demands, sounding like a parent. She’s always like this. Well, she wasn’t at first. She liked Billy’s danger at the beginning, she used to call him wild child. She used to laugh hard at all his jokes and sing at the top of her lungs with him to his cassettes. She used to look at him with stars in her eyes. She used to love him.

“I was hanging out with Jennifer,” he deflects, not mentioning the coke or the middle aged woman he’d fucked without a second thought.

“You know she thinks you’re a loser, right?” Veronica reveals and Billy doesn’t doubt it. He knows he’s been going a little overboard since Susan and Max moved in. He know his dad grew to truly despise his mom over the years but he never dated another woman until he met Susan. Billy didn’t want to subject his mom to more abuse but he selfishly wished she’d come back, that they’d get back together.

“You are a loser, Billy,” Veronica seethes, “You’re turning into a total fucking burn out. We don’t even surf anymore.”

Billy takes the verbal censure. He always does, he’s heard the words so much they don’t even sting anymore. He no longer cares that he’s a huge wasting, disappointment to everyone around him.

“Did you bring the weed?” he asks, unbothered by the dumbfounded look on his girlfriends face.

She heaves a sigh and digs through her purse, imparting the bag of weed to Billy. He takes it, opening up his glovebox to grab his rolling papers. He grinds the weed between his fingers, hovering above the open paper, using his pinky to disperse the broken up buds. He rolls it expertly, eying his blonde counterpart as he licks up the side of the paper before sealing it up.

“Voila,” he sings, proudly holding up the joint to admire his handiwork. He brings it to his lips, flicking his zippo up to light it. He takes a deep hit, choking lightly as it stings his throat before offering it to Veronica. “I didn’t put any tobacco in it, just for you.”

“Oh, you’re so kind,” she sneers, her expression frozen in indignation. God, she’s such a bitch, Billy thinks.

He won’t let her ruin his high, he needs this. He’s gotta charge up before he can head back over to the bar.

“Do you even have a job anymore?” she wonders, venom lacing the question.

Billy snatches the joint from her lips before she can take a second hit, “I do. I work tomorrow.”

He dreads to think about doing any strenuous labor with a hangover. Maybe he’ll claim window washing and tire pressure duty when he arrives. His boss is getting suspicious of him, though. The other day, he made a snide comment about Billy having a long night when he locked himself in the bathroom to spew for thirty minutes.

“Good. Our anniversary is coming up,” she reminds Billy, “I expect jewelry.”

He bogarts the joint, not passing it when he’s supposed to. He sucks more than half of it down before she notices.

“Hey! Give it here, it’s mine anyhow.”

Billy obliges, turning the stereo out and shoving a Metallica cassette into it and turning the dial to tune out any more of her whining.

Luckily, the joint seems to get to Veronica and she’s quiet for a while. Billy gets to admire the waves, the vastness of the ocean as the blue of it fades into the sky. It always calms him, helps him forget about Neil, Susan and Veronica. He can stare at it and even forget he exists.

Alright, he’s pretty stoned.

All part of his rigid routine, Veronica moves to the backseat and pulls him with her. He lays her down and hovers above her, his head fuzzy while they awkwardly situate themselves. It’s rushed, quick and to the point. Like it always is. She’s a means to an end and he is to her.

When they’re done, she tells him he needs to get a grip before Senior year starts in two weeks. He ignores it, Billy thinks he’s doing just fine. He wouldn’t have his life any other way.

-

He takes it easy that night. Which means he still stumbles through his window drunkenly but he’s not blackout drunk. He remembers the panic of the drive home, constantly checking his rearview mirror but blue and red lights. He showers after his morning hurl. Standing under the hot water a moment too long, making him late for his shift.

He grabs his work shirt from his backseat and begrudgingly makes his way into the garage, clocking in under the judgmental eyes of his boss.

“I know,” he mutters before he can be ridiculed, “I slept through my alarm. Won’t happen again.”

Unfortunately, Drew beats him to calling window washing and tire pressure checks. Billy’s stuck downstairs draining oil. It’s so hot down there, he yaks a few more times during the day. On his drive home, he’s particularly introspective. Finding he’s actually disappointed in himself for the heavy drinking and late nights.

When he walks into the door, he’s met with his dad, Susan, Max and his grandparents sitting around the table. An intervention? Seriously?

Billy groans, barreling through them to his room. Neil’s quick to follow, pounding on the door when it’s slammed in his face.

“William Ocean Hargrove, get your ass out here now!” Neil bellows behind the think particle board. Billy revels in his mom giving him that middle name, forcing his dad to say it whenever he was pissed and no doubt bringing Billy’s wild-spirited mother to his mind.

Billy opens the door. “I’m covered in oil. Let me change,” he spits at his dad before slamming the door again.

“Neil,” Susan says pointedly.

He hears his dads footsteps walking away and he glances to his window, debating if he should run away again. He’s embarrassed with his grandparents sitting there and he’s sure Neil won’t hit him in front of them. Not until they leave.

He changes into a clean pair of clothes before making his entrance out, standing in front of five pairs of concerned eyes. He heaves a sigh and motions to them, “Go ahead. Tell me how my life’s going down the shitter and I’m a huge fucking disappointment to all of you.”

He thinks it’s unfair Max and Susan are here. They’ve known Billy all of six months. They don’t fucking know him yet they’re trying to be family. Well, as far as Billy was concerned he had no fucking family. This house, these people, they had no warmth. They didn’t truly give a shit about him, they just wanted to control him, didn’t want people to look at them differently because he was an embarrassment.

“Billy…” Susan starts and he laughs.

“Listen, I barely fucking know you. You can’t waltz into my life and expect to be my fucking mother. You aren’t and you’ll never be,” he spits.

“Maybe I should start…” his grandmother says and it breaks his heart. She was the tiniest bit of solace in his life. She was the escape when things had gotten too bad. When Neil couldn’t even fathom looking at Billy, he would ship him off to his parents. He spent every summer there until he was fourteen. Then Neil wanted him working.

Billy sits down at his grandmothers request, his breathing labored as he’s stricken with guilt.

“Honey… we’re all so worried about you. Your dad tells me you’re never home, you’re drinking all night and,” she can’t finish, choking out a sob as she looks to her disheveled grandson.

Billy feels tears threatening his eyes but he’s quickly reminded about all the times Neil bullied him for crying. Calling him a faggot, a fairy, a pansy, every name in the book. He told him men don’t cry. Last I checked you didn’t have a vagina, he’d said. Billy steadies his breathing. He won’t cry, he can’t cry.

“Your behavior is unacceptable, son,” Neil chimes in and Billy keeps his face stoic, doesn’t want anyone to know how deeply he’s hurting inside.

“You’re a bad influence on Max,” Susan says quietly and Billy feels his blood boil. He never agreed to being any kind of influence on her. He never agreed to having them forced into his life.

Billy doesn’t speak, he stares at four consecutive holes in the table and remembers how they got there, his dad stabbing his fork into the table during a heated argument at dinner when Susan and Max had first moved in. He wonders if they’ve even considered why Billy is acting out. He assumes not, his feelings never a concern of theirs.

“This has to change,” Susan pleads.

Neil puffs his chest out, “William.”

Billy knows what his dad is getting at, looking up at him and holding his domineering stare.

“We’ve got a solution. We’re moving,” Neil informs him, “I’ve already got a job lined up.”

“What?” Billy asks, hurt present on his voice and then panic, “Where?”

“Indiana,” Susan states.

Indiana? No ocean. No waves. No calmness. No one he knows. He’ll be even more alone. Billy’s stomach churns, the emptiness of it of no concern to the bile rising in his throat. He abruptly moves up from the table, stomping to the bathroom where he collapses in front of toilet, and he heaves. The fluorescent yellow fluid forcing its way up his throat, burning his eyes and tearing up his airways.

He rests his cheek against the seat, unmoving as he realizes his life is over. Neil can control him better so far away. He’ll be so isolated from everything he knows and loves so well.

-

Billy stares at his Camaro packed to the brim with his belongings. It’s so wrong. The October breeze chills him as his eyes fall on the scratch along the side of the midnight blue finish. Veronica keyed his car and he’d attempted his best to buff it out but it was still faintly there. A reminder that he’d lived up to her shitty expectations of him.

Neil pats his shoulder, “We’ll get that fixed in Hawkins.”

He was annoyingly chipper since the intervention, clearly excited at the prospect of a completely isolated Billy.

“Max is riding with you,” he shoots his soon a pointed look. “Can’t have you running off.”

Billy sighs, realizing just how trapped he is.

This is it. He gazes back to the house he’d grown up in, his chest stinging at how unalive it looks. He stands outside of his car and looks around while Max sits in his front seat. His feet are stuck. He can’t possibly move them.

“Billy! Let’s get a move on! We’re on a schedule!” his dad calls from his truck and Susan honks from the U-Haul.

Fucking bitch.

Billy cries quietly as he drives away from home, not caring that Max can see it. He fucking loathed her and her mother for doing this to him. He doesn’t say a single word to her the entire drive. He doesn’t speak to any of them when they sleep in motels where Billy’s given a pillow and small throw blanket to sleep on the floor in each one. He’s disassociated the entire three days it takes to drive there.

He thinks Indiana is ugly and he’s unbelievably distraught when he sees the size of Hawkins. A town like this, everyone knows each other which means higher expectations from Neil. They drive past the school, Max commenting about how that’s where they’ll go, and Billy remains silent. The only bright side is no one will know who he is so he can be anyone he wants. And he’ll be damned if he’s not worshipped in this town by the end of his first week here.

a/n: thank you so much for reading. i really appreciate all the love i'm getting for the series. i hope you enjoyed this lil look into billy's life before the move

[chromations]

"Four of them, hands trying to keep him contained as he fought against them, the cuffs snapped around his wrists and the towel holder. He looked over to Jimmy, who was just standing there. Robert’s eyes widened, brow furrowed, trying to get him to say something."

Title: Titans, Crawling

Rating: Mature

Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply

Category: Gen

Fandom: Led Zeppelin

Characters: Robert Plant, Jimmy Page

Additional Tags: 1970s, Handcuffs, Blood and Injury, Angst, Isolation, Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Heavy Angst, Cocaine, Heroin, Sickfic, Sick Character, Vomiting, Fear, Hurt, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Canon Compliant, He has an accident too :/, Post 1975, Bathing/Washing, Eating Disorders, Implied/Referenced at least, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, No Romance, No Slash

Language: English

Stats: Published: 2024-06-02 Words:2,093 Chapters: 1/1

Summary:

Handcuffed and locked in the hotel bathroom, Robert thrashes against his bonds while his friends have their coke in peace. Issues arrive not only immediately, but further when he's left overnight in isolation, let down by the one person he thought would do something. Notes and tags for more info.

[c0rpseductor]

people are constantly writing emet-selch chuckling darkly and saying “you’re MINE, kitten” but if you pay attention he’s actually combating insane jitters from a type of cocaine only available to ancient wizards and smoking 12 cigarettes at once out of a custom 1920s cigarette holder and asking you “dahling do you have any Fucking Valium perchance?” and you’re like how is he alive

[vivianleighwishesshewasme]

Bought by a Shelby

home sweet home

Don't engage if under 18*

_________________________________________________

Finn brings his wife home

Chapter Text

He’d taken Letitia shopping before going home and showing her their apartment. Grateful he’d brought his own car for their shopping trip. She was more talkative with just the two of them.

He was pretty sure she now knew all of Birmingham since she pointed to everything and patiently waited for him to tell her what it was and how people were.

She had been so overwhelmed by the stores. An open market would be better and he’d found a few. She’d purchased some wool and knitting supplies. He’d helped her pick out linens for their bed and bought her clothes.

He felt proud when she asked him for his opinion on literally everything. She bounced around unbothered by the fog, smog and large masses of people. She only had eyes on him. He loved the feeling. He felt powerful, seen and important being around her.

“What do you like to eat, what do you think of this color? Would this look okay on me standing next to you?” His head was almost spinning but he’d never had this much fun shopping with a girl, ever. She drugged him to every stall ohhing and ahhing like a child. He loved seeing the world through her eyes.

It wasn’t harsh, violent or cruel. Just new, exciting and sweet.

He had however been unpleasantly surprised to find out she couldn’t read or write. He loved music, to be read to and he now knew she wasn’t coming to work with him.

He’d drug her into a book store and was reading titles and covers to her. She seemed interested until he was flipping through the black and white pages.

His soul had been crushed when she told him she didn’t understand how he could see these things, they were just scribbles to her.

He found it really tragic. She had a beautiful voice and he’d caught her humming in the car. Everyone, even Ada, had smiled on the way back to civilization.

He wanted to hear her sing and read to him. He was considering a tutor or figuring out a way to teach her letters and numbers, how to write, It was overwhelming.

He could hear Ada's voice in his head.” It doesn't have to be done all in one day Finn.” He knew that. It was just something to figure out sooner rather than later.

“It’s getting dark Love. Let's head back yeah. We can make a list together and figure stuff out later, yes.” She jumped towards him and hugged him tight. He found himself melting into her and squeezing her back. He hoped it stayed this easy between them At least for a while.

************************************************************************

She walks around the house several times. He felt so overwhelmed by how underwhelming everything was. He really didn’t have much furniture or anything nice. He spent most of his money on Myra and stuff for her or cocaine. Letitia had come with nothing and he enjoyed spoiling her today.

She placed a green cloth on the table with some candles. In the dining room. She’d bought a plant but the Chinese lady assured him it had no toxic qualities. So now when you walked in there were two small little pops of color.

They had a small living room next to the bedroom and bath. She’d bought a little cream throw and placed it over his chair. He felt bad for a moment only having one place to sit until he’d realized she could sit on his lap while he read the paper or listened to music on the gramophone.

He had a red rug from Polly, chair, fireplace and one old mirror above the mantle from Polly's house. He couldn’t take much when Tommy was clearing it out after she’d passed. It hadn’t felt right to pick apart the bones of her home just because she’d died. He also had a lamp and a wooden magazine holder. Out of all the rooms this was the one he spent his time in other than the bed.

She’d put a vase with red roses on the mantle. He grinned. He’d told her he liked blues, greens and reds. She seemed to pick those out even in garments for her to wear.

She had a small bottle of oil for her hair. That's all she wanted toiletry wise. He’d try again to buy her perfume around Christmas. She didn’t smell like much of anything but wood smoke at the moment from the campfires they lit to cook and keep warm.

He’d been pleased by the bedroom. She bought all manner of bedding. Apparently she had a canopy at home which kept the bugs out in the summer and heat in the winter. She’d layer and add a few candles and roses. Layers of whites, creams, laces and pillows. It looked like Heaven.

Myra had never once suggested this. It was warm, inviting and cozy against the dark brown woods in the room.

______ (*Finn’s thought and 1920’s attitude/ not authors) __________

She stood back and waited for him to inspect it. Her hands were clasp up by her face, she was so excited. God, she was cute.

“It's an amazing luvie, honestly. Feels like a home now. One day soon I will get some pictures and art for the walls, yes.” She preened and bounced at his praises. He couldn’t stop smiling, his cheeks were starting to hurt. If this is what John felt after he married Esme, then he understood the concept of love at first sight.

“Come er.” He swept her up into his arms and kissed her lips. He wanted a deeper kiss, she smacked him when he nibbled on her lower lip. Her eyes were wide and she covered her mouth with her hands.

“What the fuck was that for?” They both stood stunned. He could tell her heart was thundering in her chest. He’d kissed her at the altar but she’d turned her head blushing furiously. It dawned on him that she’d never been kissed.

He shook his head. Mountain gypsies were definitely their own people.

“It was just to deepen the kiss luv, Jesus.” he touched his cheek. She’d gotten him good. No doubt it would be red for a few hours. Her eyes were on her feet.

He hugged her tightly again and lifted her chin up, her brown eyes glistened with tears.

“It’s okay Lettie, you just scared me was all. I was just trying to slip my tongue in. Give you a proper kiss.” He almost wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it all. He’d seen so much before he was eleven, even walked in on his brothers a few times and their whores. John was especially bad at locking his bedroom door.

“A proper kiss?” Her large doe eyes blinked up at him.

“Yeah, When I kiss you, on the lips, open your mouth a bit and let my tongue in. put your lips over mine. Follow my lead, yeah.” He grinned. He’d never had to tell anyone how to kiss before.

She was a quick under study even if she was still a bit stiff. He placed his hands on her waist and explored her a bit with his hands. She pushed away against his chest rearing back when he grabbed her firm ass.

“God, you're so beautiful Lettie. You look like a fairy princess that I stole from the woods.” Finn bent down and kissed her neck and face. She leaned into him but woodenly.

“Did they tell you what happened on your wedding night?” He felt like an ass asking. Sheepish and young but he knew more about sex out of them both, he had the most experience.

“Yes, a bit.” She blushed her cheeks going crimson flushing out against her ivory skin.

“Just trust me and listen eh. I’ll go slow and try to be gentle, yes.” She nodded as he pulled back.

“ I’m going to get you out of this dress, then you can help me out of my clothes.” He was amazed at how confident he felt and sounded. Most of the time girls made him feel silly or would ruin the moment. She was so innocent and unsure she just stayed quiet and trusted him. There really was a person for everyone.

He untied her sash on her dress, mindful that her hands almost came out to stop him. He had to go slower than he'd even thought he wasn't sure if he had the patience. He didn’t want to fuck this up. Slow was worth it in the end for someone like her.

He gasped when he slid the dress off her shoulders and it pooled on the floor. She was stunning and well proportioned for such a thin girl. Her waist was more defined than he’d realized. Being buried under blankets and layers did her no favor. He loved her small pert little breasts and her ass, God, it was perfect.

He leaned in kissing her, feeling her melt into him this time. He was now warmer than her and very aware from her little goose bumps forming on her pale creamy skin that he needed to get her under the covers soon. It was much warmer here then the mountain but it was a different, more vulnerable type of cold in their bedroom.

He pulled back giving them both time to catch their breath. He pulled the chains off his arms and started unbuttoning his shirt. He was pleasantly surprised when she helped him with the buttons undressing him faster.

She wanted him too.

After she’d stripped him of his shirt and he’d tossed it she started kissing his neck and running her soft long fingers up and down his chest, waist and back just taking him all in.

He ran his fingers through her hair encouraging her to keep exploring. He’d never had someone worship him like this. He could wait to touch her back.

She got to the band of his pants and her head went down. She was faltering now.

“It’s okay. Go lay down in the middle of our bed, I'll be right there.” She bit her lip, that drove him crazy, he was already hard for her. Now he was severely uncomfortable. When she turned her back he dropped his trousers and boxers. The air didn’t discourage his raging erection at all. He was happy about that.

He walked around the bedpost and smiled down at her. She reached out and stroked him. He moaned and she pulled her hand back.

“Put your hand back right now Lettie!�� He sounded firm even to himself but that had felt amazing. She hadn't pumped him just to get him to get off like other girls. She had a light touch and a long soft stroke.

She was pink all over from embarrassment.

“It’s okay, it felt amazing luvie. Really really good.” He sat down next to her pulling the covers down further. “I’m going to stroke you too, don’t be embarrassed okay. We're married now, there's nothing dirty between us.” She nodded weakly with her head against the pillows. He was thrilled she wasn’t trembling. He’d slept with the grocers girl several months back, she acted like a little rabbit. He pulled out half way and had refused to be with her. She made him nervous and upset, Lottie was just waiting for him obediently. He stroked her gently until she sighed and relaxed. He planted kisses on her stomach, thighs and legs.

Her hands roamed around his shoulders, arms and into his thick hair. She was affectionate and attentive.

“Alright, try not to clench, I’ll move when you nod okay. I’ll go slow but Lettie, I mean it, try to relax.” She nodded and he slowly pushed, watching her face never taking his eyes off her. She was listening beautifully.

“Okay, I'm in luv. Try to match my thrust a bit, lift your hips yeah.” Finn buried his face in her neck as he stroked gently in and out.

Her pace wasn’t perfect at first, he hadn’t expected it to be. However as pressure and pleasure mounted for them both of them were in sync.

“God, I’m so glad I married you. I promise you’ll never be hungry again, I'll take good care of you princess.” She came just before him, arching off the bed and then wrapping her legs tightly around him holding him in her deeply as the aftershocks elicited little sighs and moans of approval from her.

“Oh, good girl. Good girl.” He panted into her hair as his releases spilled over him as well. ______________________________________________________________

[thicctails]

The Baker's Daughter and her Evil Butterfly Future Father-In-Law

A potential ML AU is bubbling around inside my brain like the DVD logo. It wouldn't really be feasible in canon probably (then again, the writing for Miraculous could be done better by cocaine snorting gorillas, so...) and doesn't work with the current state of Hawkmoth, what with him being an almost comically abusive/evil parent instead of the "abusive via negligence but still loves his son" dad that i always saw him as in the earlier seasons, but I guess since this is an AU it's fine if we ignore canon somewhat.

Anyways, in this AU, Gabriel realizes that, despite being a fashion designer, over half of his Akuma designs are coming out really fucking ugly. Not willing to have this be his legacy, he manages to actually remember Adrien mentioning that his classmate, Marinette, has some real fashion talent. So, he reveals his supervillain identity to her (not knowing that she's Ladybug) and basically bribes/threatens her into helping him design better Akumas.

Marinette is, of course, freaking out over being trapped in a situation where Gabriel can not only make or break her future in fashion, but also has the power to ruin her or her family/friend's lives via his influence or by making them into Akumas or victims of Akumas. However, she realizes that her problem has a silver lining, which is that if she is the one designing Akumas, then she'll already know where the akumatized object is, plus she'll have opportunities to try and reclaim the Butterfly Miraculous. So, she agrees, and becomes Hawkmoth's partner in fashionable crime.

As the two spend more time together, Gabriel realizes that, huh, this girl really is talented, and she reminds him of his wife in both her genuine kindness and her ferocity whenever he threatens to make good on his threats. This tiny little baker is not taking his shit, and will gladly go toe to toe with him, even when she's not Ladybug.

This leads to him subtly manipulating her into opening up about her personal life, which isn't too hard because Marinette really doesn't have a lot of people who will actually listen to her problems and believe her at this point, and he learns about just how much drama goes on at her school. It's like a soap opera, and Akuma attacks go down simply because Gabriel's too invested in whatever bullshit Lila has concocted this time, or because Marinette lets him see some of her regular fashion concepts. This is also how he learns that Marinette has a crush on Adrien. (she doesn't tell him out right, he just picks up on it bc girly is not subtle)

All of this leads to Gabriel deciding that Marinette would make the perfect daughter-in-law, and a potential Butterfly/Peacock Miraculous holder, should something happen and he needs to prove he's not Hawkmoth/ he needs help pulling off a plan. After all, she already likes Adrien, she's actually talented in something that's relevant to his corporate empire, and although she usually appears meek, he knows she's willing to toughen up when she needs to!

Now all he needs to do is convince her...

[mariana-oconnor]

The Beryl Coronet pt 3

Come on, Mary! I believe in you.

Weird, how it's this one and The Naval Treaty that I had such strong ideas about whodunnit from the first introduction of the character and they're both about people making poor security decisions that could lead to national disaster. But on this one I'm supporting (one part of) the criminal duo, and in The Naval Treaty, I particularly disliked the culprit.

Mary is kind of horrible for not saving her cousin, though. He's willing to go to jail for her (if I'm right) and she's just telling everyone 'oh, he couldn't have done it!' and not actually coming up with a good reason. She didn't even get interviewed immediately because she 'fainted'. She had plenty of time to come up with a story. Maybe being woken up by a loud snap and then hearing Arthur moving around. But no, she's instead trying to get her maid framed for it all.

You can really go off a girl.

“I think that this should do,” said he, glancing into the glass above the fireplace. “I only wish that you could come with me, Watson, but I fear that it won't do. I may be on the trail in this matter, or I may be following a will-o'-the-wisp, but I shall soon know which it is. I hope that I may be back in a few hours.”

Oh yeah, Holmes is in disguise in some attempt to win back the beryls.

I like how he says 'I wish you could come with me, Watson' but is vague on the why not. 'It won't do' - translation: you are a terrible actor and no one alive would ever be fooled by you, also you'd blurt something out right at an important moment and ruin everything.' Let's be real. We all know.

Watson is not made for undercover work. I love him, but he would be about as useful a spy as a giant panda in an aquarium.

Or Captain America in a trenchcoat. (I love this picture).

I waited until midnight, but there was no sign of his return, so I retired to my room. It was no uncommon thing for him to be away for days and nights on end when he was hot upon a scent, so that his lateness caused me no surprise.

Firstly, Watson is definitely living in Baker St atm. Either his wife is visiting her 'mother' again, or she's thrown him out. Also, him staying up until midnight although he knows that sometimes Sherlock doesn't come home for days is sort of nice, sort of a bit excessive.

Apparently Holmes does not need sleep. This is probably because he lives on tobacco, caffeine and cocaine. The fact he isn't constantly bouncing off the walls is impressive.

It was, indeed, our friend the financier. I was shocked by the change which had come over him, for his face which was naturally of a broad and massive mould, was now pinched and fallen in, while his hair seemed to me at least a shade whiter.

That's not how white hair works, Watson. It's not that all of your hair gets lighter... that's not... Fine. I guess you're the doctor.

This is quite a transformation overnight, though. I'd suspect poison if it wasn't fairly common in these stories for people to suffer massive and immediate health conditions from sudden shock.

“I do not know what I have done to be so severely tried,” said he. “Only two days ago I was a happy and prosperous man, without a care in the world. Now I am left to a lonely and dishonoured age. One sorrow comes close upon the heels of another. My niece, Mary, has deserted me.”

What you have done is be a massive idiot who doesn't understand the meanings of the words 'secure' or 'discreet'.

I'm still kind of mad at Mary for trying to pin her crime on someone else while simultaneously not offering her cousin who saved her ass any real help. BUT, having said that...

"I had said to her last night, in sorrow and not in anger, that if she had married my boy all might have been well with him."

Wow, dick move. Blaming her. Yes, I literally believe she is guilty and it is her fault entirely but Mr Holder here still believes her a perfect little angel woman, so going 'if you'd have married him, none of this would have happened'.

My dude. I had no sympathy for you. I am now in negative sympathy for you. All my care for the victims of this situation is going to Lucy, because all Arthur has to do to give himself a chance is tell the truth. Mary, if she hadn't tried to throw Lucy under the bus, I would be supporting completely.

I'm still supporting her, like 75%. I'm glad she's out of there. I hope this is one of the stories where the culprits never get caught and she and Sir George Burnwell (who maybe is not such a cad as I presumed) go on to steal many more priceless artefacts from rich people who don't take care of them.

Her letter is so fucking funny when read from the POV of someone who thinks she's guilty.

“‘My dearest Uncle: “‘I feel that I have brought trouble upon you, and that if I had acted differently this terrible misfortune might never have occurred. I cannot, with this thought in my mind, ever again be happy under your roof, and I feel that I must leave you forever. Do not worry about my future, for that is provided for; and, above all, do not search for me, for it will be fruitless labour and an ill-service to me. In life or in death, I am ever “‘Your loving “‘Mary.’"

"Hey Unc, Whoops, my bad! If I hadn't stolen the jewels with my lover then my cousin wouldn't have been arrested for stealing the crown jewels and you wouldn't be in trouble for having lost them. I feel so guilty that I'm running off with my lover, but it's okay because we've sold the jewels so we're rich! Gonna change my name and live a life of luxury in another country. Thanks for making this so easy for me. Love, Mary xxx'

Or... at least... that's how I read it.

“No, no, nothing of the kind. It is perhaps the best possible solution."

Holmes is with me on this. Mary needed to get out of that house.

“That would be unnecessary. Three thousand will cover the matter. And there is a little reward, I fancy."

A reward for finding the beryls. Is Holmes asking for the reward here or saying that Mr Holder will get the reward? Because Mr Holder deserves 0 rewards. No rewards for him.

"Have you your check-book? Here is a pen. Better make it out for £4000.”

Ah, no. Sherlock is getting the reward. Lolol. Well yeah, you deserve that.

£4000 is the equivalent of about £414,000 today. Which is an insane amount of money to write a cheque for. And it means that Burnwell and Mary (or whoever it was...) got away with the equivalent of over £300,000 which is a nice little amount. Holmes got the equivalent of £100,000 for a few days' work. Nice.

“You have it!” he gasped. “I am saved! I am saved!”

I mean... the coronet is still damaged. The police still had to get involved. I'm pretty sure the bank knows, and HRH Bertie knows and his mum the queen knows so... are you saved? Are you really? There's no way you can get your job back after you showed how utterly terrible you are at it. You clearly cannot keep a secret to save your literal life. The heir to the throne knows exactly how incompetent you are. This feels like 'I'm probably not going to be hanged for treason' not 'everything will be sunshine and kittens'.

“No, the debt is not to me. You owe a very humble apology to that noble lad, your son, who has carried himself in this matter as I should be proud to see my own son do, should I ever chance to have one.”

Substitute 'idiot' for 'lad' please. Very noble, sure. But don't get yourself thrown in jail for something that could genuinely be considered treason just because you want to protect a girl who doesn't love you back. Don't do it. It all sounds super romantic, but it's actually just dumb.

“You are sure of it! Then let us hurry to him at once to let him know that the truth is known.” “He knows it already."

Holmes, telling people in the right order. Yeah, he went to talk to the man who was falsely imprisoned before the idiot who was sort of responsible for him being there.

"...that which it is hardest for me to say and for you to hear: there has been an understanding between Sir George Burnwell and your niece Mary. They have now fled together.”

I'm glad Sir George turned out to be a good sort in the end. I was pretty sure he'd just done a runner and left her, but no. The couple who steals together stays together, and I think that's beautiful.

"Neither you nor your son knew the true character of this man when you admitted him into your family circle. He is one of the most dangerous men in England—a ruined gambler, an absolutely desperate villain, a man without heart or conscience. Your niece knew nothing of such men. When he breathed his vows to her, as he had done to a hundred before her, she flattered herself that she alone had touched his heart. The devil knows best what he said, but at least she became his tool and was in the habit of seeing him nearly every evening."

I mean, he could have just left her behind. Could absolutely be worse. Also, way to take away Mary's agency in the matter. She absolutely knew that stealing the crown jewels was against the law. That's not exactly a difficult one to work out. She made her choices. I support them fully (apart from Lucy). She's 24 years old. Earlier you called her old and now she's too young and naive to know what was going on? A four year old knows stealing is wrong. She conspired to steal (part of) the crown jewels and run off with them. She let her cousin take the fall for her and pointed suspicion at two other innocent people. The girl was not just a victim in this mess. Don't pretend like she didn't know what she was doing or getting into. She absolutely knew it. And she did it anyway. Get your heads out of the misogyny juice and just accept a woman can commit a crime.

Honestly, men get the credit for all female accomplishments. Lolol.

"His footmarks had pressed right through the snow, so long had he stood there. She told him of the coronet. His wicked lust for gold kindled at the news, and he bent her to his will."

Did you hear this conversation? Were you there? Was it recorded? How tf do you know that it was his idea and not hers? Maybe they planned it together. Maybe she was like 'hey, my uncle's an idiot who brought a 10 million dollar crown home and stuck it in his old desk that opens if you hit it in the right place, want to do a heist?' You weren't there. You've got no clue how it went.

I want to think you're saying all of this just to make Mr Holder feel less bad about it all. Just making stuff up and making Mary seem like an innocent victim in order to soothe him a little. Because you've got no evidence she wasn't just as culpable as Sir George.

"...walking very stealthily along the passage until she disappeared into your dressing-room. [...] Presently she emerged from the room again, and in the light of the passage-lamp your son saw that she carried the precious coronet in her hands. She passed down the stairs, [...] He saw her stealthily open the window, hand out the coronet to someone in the gloom, and then closing it once more hurry back to her room..."

Yup, you're telling me she was practically blameless and only did it because she was manipulated by the terrible, evil man, and she did the actual deed single-handedly and with no sign of doubt or hesitation? The equivalent of £10 million in her hands and she just walks to the window and passes it out? Yeah, she's absolutely a helpless naive victim. I totally buy that.

Or... y'know, Sir George actually is an archfey and he enchanted her to do it.

“As long as she was on the scene he could not take any action without a horrible exposure of the woman whom he loved."

I mean... I feel like he could have revealed himself and whispered 'Hey, Mary, what are you doing with that very valuable coronet?' and made her put it back by interrupting the whole affair. Rather than, you know... just standing back and watching.

“He could not explain the true state of affairs without betraying one who certainly deserved little enough consideration at his hands. He took the more chivalrous view, however, and preserved her secret.”

"He took the more chivalrous foolish view..." <- fixed it for you.

“It is an old maxim of mine that when you have excluded the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth."

Drink!

"But if it were the maids, why should your son allow himself to be accused in their place? There could be no possible reason."

"I went in the shape of a loafer to Sir George's house, managed to pick up an acquaintance with his valet, learned that his master had cut his head the night before, and, finally, at the expense of six shillings, made all sure by buying a pair of his cast-off shoes."

Who had 'to buy shoes' as the reason for the disguise? Because I definitely did not have that one. Oh, the good old days when people would turn up at your door to chat up your servants and buy your old shoes.

"It was a delicate part which I had to play then, for I saw that a prosecution must be avoided to avert scandal, and I knew that so astute a villain would see that our hands were tied in the matter."

But also, getting rid of something that identifiable would be a tricky business. They needed a buyer, you needed a secret. Mutually beneficial arrangement.

Holmes pointing guns at people off screen, why do you so rarely show us the action, ACD?

"‘Why, dash it all!’ said he, ‘I've let them go at six hundred for the three!’"

Omg. LOL. Nooooo. George. You were doing so well. You only got 600 for them? A fifth of what you could have got. My dude, my dude.

Mary, get a better guy. This one done fucked up. 600 might seem a lot for now, but it's going to disappear super quickly.

“A day which has saved England from a great public scandal,” said the banker, rising.

How? Like I said before. The police were involved. The coronet is still broken. How is this all being covered up so easily? A man has been arrested.

“I think that we may safely say,” returned Holmes, “that she is wherever Sir George Burnwell is. It is equally certain, too, that whatever her sins are, they will soon receive a more than sufficient punishment.”

...

Is this like 'she will be a ruined woman' kind of punishment, because...? Yeah, no. 'She's going to receive her karma because the guy will leave her and society is broken and punishes women for not being pure, virginal angels?' I do not like.

I reject your conjectured ending and substitute my own in which she and George (although he needs to get better at haggling, yikes) travel the continent and steal priceless artefacts together and she's the brains of the operation.

We're not going to leave it with 'despite the fact I have described this entire story as though she is the blameless, brainless puppet of an evil man, she will receive punishment for her naivete in the form of being "ruined" and all that comes with it.'

Fuck that shit. Mary has to bear some responsibility for her actions, and there's a decidedly creepy rapey sort of undertone to the implications here. Much ick. Do not like. Badass crime couple for the win.

Oh, next one is The Final Problem. I mean, of course I remember that one.

[mostlysignssomeportents]

This day in history

This is the final weekend to back the Kickstarter campaign for the audiobook of my next novel, The Lost Cause. These kickstarters are how I pay my bills, which lets me publish my free essays nearly every day. If you enjoy my work, please consider backing!

#20yrsago Life Hacks: Tech Secrets of Overprolific Alpha Geeks https://www.oblomovka.com/wp/2003/10/22/

#15yrsago New US RFID passports manufactured offshore at a huge profit, transported by unsecured couriers https://www.washingtontimes.com/news/2008/mar/26/outsourced-passports-netting-govt-profit-56284974/

#15yrsago HOWTO read the secret forensic dots in your laser-printer output https://www.instructables.com/Yellow-Dots-of-Mystery-Is-Your-Printer-Spying-on-/

#10yrsago Fox News’s astroturfers who defend the network online with armies of fake identities https://www.mediamatters.org/fake-news/fox-news-reportedly-used-fake-commenter-accounts-rebut-critical-blog-posts

#10yrsago DEA instructions for testing bills for cocaine https://www.muckrock.com/news/archives/2013/oct/21/there-bump-your-bill-heres-how-dea-tested-money-co/

#10yrsago Huawei: unlike western companies, we’ve never been told to weaken our security https://www.theguardian.com/technology/2013/oct/21/huawei-denies-spy-customers-chinese

#10yrsago UK rightsholders use secret censorship orders to block legit sites https://web.archive.org/web/20130816160817/http://www.pcpro.co.uk/news/broadband/383614/rights-holders-taking-down-legitimate-sites-in-piracy-crackdown

#5yrsago Youtube CEO: EU Copyright Directive means that only large corporations will be able to upload videos https://blog.youtube/inside-youtube/a-final-update-on-our-priorities-for/

#5yrsago Britain’s “nasty party” condemns its MPs’ nastiness https://www.bbc.com/news/uk-politics-45938754

My next novel is The Lost Cause, a hopeful novel of the climate emergency. Amazon won't sell the audiobook, so I made my own and I'm pre-selling it on Kickstarter!

[bangtanintotheroom]

COCAINE

YOU WOULD, YOU FIEND

*whispers* Cocaine is not in my drafts, but coke is, so we’ll go with that.

Felix rolled his eyes while he shook the white powder out onto the toilet paper holder (he made sure to wipe it the fuck down with a wet and soapy paper towel first). He had brought you straight to the familiar stall in the mens’ bathroom to share his coke with you, paying no mind to some of the perturbed looks a couple of people gave as the two of you walked in. You didn’t seem to care either, not even blinking at the one guy taking a piss at a urinal.

The sad power of drugs.

Send me a word and I'll answer with a snippet from a WIP!

[henrys-wee-hen]

No-one Fucks With The Lobos - Chapter 18

This is getting out of hand but fuuuuuuck me. We're at 48,069 words with this one, friends.

AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/48070186/chapters/122487352

Under the cut!

The first time in months since I’d been out alone. I couldn’t remember what it felt like to do something outside of that apartment without Teddy by my side. The last time I’d been in that car, Teddy had been there, scared. But, at least that presence was bolstering for me.

I turned on the engine, my hands shaking as I pulled out of the bay and left via the same gate. I took my time through the city, ignoring the looks from people at stoplights and just in the street in general, but by the time I arrived at the Lobo mansion, I was almost a shaking wreck. Gone was the bravado I’d had when Teddy had been beside me. But then, Bellafrancesca hadn’t had any real reason to hate me back then.

Now, she had every reason to have me shot on sight.

I threw the car into a space out front and cut the engine, forcing myself to get out. I then locked the car, and jogged up the stairs to the mansion.

Inside, there was a hive of activity. Men bustling around, a party atmosphere rather than the sullen atmosphere there had been the last time we’d gone around. But then, last time had been in the night. This time was still fairly early... I swallowed.

First things first: sweet talk Brice. Maybe I wouldn’t even need to speak to Bellafrancesca...

“(Y/N).” A gruff voice cut through the crowd, and I froze. Brice was staring straight at me, along with a few other men who all held huge fucking guns. I pressed my lips together, held my hands up, and made straight for Brice. “What are you doing here? You know we have orders to take you out.”

“I’m not here to cause trouble, Brice,” I said softly. “I need cocaine. For Teddy. He’s been stuck in a depressive funk since he’s coming off it, and -”

“Woah, woah, woah. I'm not giving you anything. You want that, you gotta speak to the boss.” He grabbed a hold of my arm, and I yelped. “Come on. She’ll be happy to see you.”

Brice and the others surrounded me and led me upstairs, and I felt the fear strike me. I was grateful my knees didn’t buckle as I was taken down that long corridor, past the living room where Teddy and I had sat a few weeks before, and to a spacious area with a waiting-room-type space. I swallowed, my entire mouth dry. Teddy wouldn’t know what had happened. They stopped me, and gave me a very thorough, very rough patting-down. I felt a little violated, at one point, but I took it because there were so many of them, and I was completely unarmed.

Brice knocked on a large door, and the soft shout of Bellafrancesca came shortly after.

“Yes?”

He opened the door. The other men held me in place.

“Boss,” Brice said. “(Y/N) (Y/L/N) is here to see you. Alone.”

“My, my. Alright. Come on in.” The men marched me in, still holding me fast. Bellafrancesca was sitting behind a huge desk, minimally-furnished with a pen holder, a computer, and the peripherals. A notepad sat to the side, too. A few notes on there, in very elegant script. Bellafrancesca looked me up and down, not standing. “I have to admit, if I didn’t hate everything you are, my dear, I would admire your courage to come back here and face me again.” I licked my teeth, trying to get some moisture back.

“I’m here for Teddy,” I said softly. God, my fucking voice sounded so weak. “I haven’t come as a threat.”

“Regardless, you have come here,” Bellafrancesca purred. I pressed my lips together. “After taking my son away from me, you have come here.”

“A lot has happened since,” I whispered, struggling a little against the grip of the guys. Bellafrancesca stood, moving to a small table, on which sat a beautiful flick-knife, with an ivory handle. She moved to me, fingering the blade. Everything about her screamed snake, a snake with prey in its trance. She moved slowly, sensually. I swallowed.

“You took my son away from me.” That knife was suddenly against my throat. I tried to move away, but the guys held me fast. “My sweet, beautiful boy... and I hear you have turned him into a shell of himself. Which begs me the question... whichh of the five families you work for?”

“I d-don't work for the five families -”

“Ah-ah-ah, dear (Y/N),” she murmured, shaking her head. “Don’t think I am stupid, my dear. I am not.” She showed me the knife again. “I recommend you tell me the truth.”

“I am telling you the truth,” I whispered. “I don’t work for any of them. I want to work with Teddy – I – I understand how it all works -”

“You understand nothing, my dear.” The knife against my throat again. “You have ruined everything! The five families are circling my empire like sharks because Teddy is nowhere to be seen. Where is he now? Why is he not here with you?”

“Sleeping.” It was all I could manage, while that lethally sharp blade was pressed against my skin. One move, and Bellafrancesca would open my carotid. “He - he’s c-coming off the cocaine... and... it’s... n-not going well...”

“You stink of fear.” Bellafrancesca smirked at me. “You have ruined my son’s life, and now his health... and you want my help.”

“I... I just need a little cocaine. T-to microdose him... bring him up a t-tiny bit -” Bellafrancesca’s throaty laugh cut me off.

“Did you hear this, Brice?! (Y/N) needs cocaine! For Teddy!” Brice started to laugh obediently, as did the guys holding me. “For Teddy… but if he is coming off it, why would you need to have him take more?”

“Microdosing,” I said softly. “I’ve been weaning him off it bit by bit… but I just need a little more… not even fifty grams.” I was thinking in months, here. But it was apparently hilarious.

Bellafrancesca dissolved into mocking laughter again. She shook her head at me.

“My dear, I don’t think you could afford such an amount. Since you have no job, and no money…”

“It’s for Teddy,” I tried.

“And? Even Teddy worked for his perks.” I stared at her. “Let me see… you want fifty grams. Our street price is ninety-three dollars per gram… that’s four thousand, six hundred and fifty dollars.” Bellafrancesca smiled at me, twirling the knife about. “But since I now know you only want enough for one person, over months, which means we will lose out on additional business from that fifty grams… let’s call it an even six thousand.” She faced me, a one hand on her hip, the other holding the knife. “Do you have six thousand dollars, my dear?” I swallowed.

“Do you want your son to be able to come back to work without wanting to kill himself?” I asked softly.

“I want my son back to the way he was,” Bellafrancesca growled. “And I am not above taking away the thing that is ruining his life faster than any little bit of drug could. I believe he nearly threw himself from the balcony of his apartment! You come along and he does this kind of thing! You are the problem in this equation, (Y/N), not the drugs!” Her words were a hiss. “Before you, Teddy was fine –“

“You never told him any of that!”

“I didn’t need to! He wasn’t causing trouble!”

“Please, Bellafrance-“ The look she shot me silenced me. She made a small gesture with her hand, and the guys forced me to my knees. “Mrs… Lobo…”

“I should have had you killed when I saw what had happened in the hospital to you, (Y/N),” she breathed, the tip of the knife pressed against my throat. She pushed a little, and I felt it go into the fleshy part. “But for Teddy telling me you’d eventually one day join us… I decided to leave you alive. What a shame to see you’re still so desperate to take Teddy away from us completely.”

“If you’d let me speak,” I gasped, trying to move away from the knife’s bite. One of the guys holding me forced my head up. I could feel the blood trickling down my collarbone. Teddy had never ever even tried to cut my throat.

“No.” Bellafrancesca rolled the word around her tongue. “You don’t have the right to speak. Not here. Not unless I invite you.” I swallowed. The knife was really biting into my skin. I felt sick. “You take my son away from me. You cost us millions in medical bills. You reduce my son to a shell of his former self… and then you come and ask me for drugs, after you throw a bag of them at my feet, the equivalent of spitting in my face…” I looked down. “And then, I get word that my son tried to throw himself from the balcony of his apartment. And has tried repeatedly to harm himself – hanging himself, drowning himself, cutting himself! You want me to give you something now, (Y/N), knowing you are the cause of all of this?!”

I felt sick. I felt so, so sick. The thought of Teddy in that apartment on his own right then, curled up beneath the blankets, sleeping off the shit I was doing to him… but I knew if he didn’t get clean, he’d never be able to amount to the shit his father had. It had been a running joke in the city that Ritchie Lobo didn’t take a single hit of his own drugs. Getting Teddy clean would also give me more time with him, too. But those thoughts didn’t do shit aside from push thick, ugly tears down my cheeks as I thought of never seeing Teddy again. Of Teddy being back in the clawed clutches of Bellafrancesca. Mother of the fucking century.

Bellafrancesca pulled the knife up, cutting a line along my neck vertically. I yelped, panicking. She laughed at me, crouching down as blood soaked into my shirt. She took my jaw in a delicate hand, but her grip was like a fucking vice.

“Consider this a warning, you vile little snake,” she murmured, her eyes hard. “If you come through these doors again, especially if you come here alone, I will not hesitate to take you downstairs and show you what happens to those who cross the head of the Lobo empire. Do you understand me?” I nodded. “Words!”

“Y-yes, Mrs Lobo,” I breathed, tears still dripping. She threw me back, and the guys let me fall.

“Get out,” she snapped, and I scrambled to my feet, clutching at my throat. I ran through the door that Brice held open for me, and staggered down the corridor, eyes huge. I stumbled down the stairs, aware that the eyes of every single person in there were on me. And none of them helped me. I tried to calm myself down, but I could barely breathe in. I got to the bottom of the stairs. Brice was watching me from the mezzanine.

And then, as I was about to leave… I saw it. A neat little stack of 8 balls. A neat little fucking pyramid of 8 balls of cocaine, little wrapped three-and-a-half-ounce balls ready to go to the streets. Without thinking, I lunged for them and grabbed as many as I could, stuffing them into my pocket before I ran from the place, heart thundering in my chest.

I fell down the stairs outside, clattering to the foot of them on the concrete. It took far too much time for me to get to my feet, scramble to get the car keys from my pocket, and get into what I hoped was safety of the Dodge. I turned the engine on, shaking far too much. And then, I drove away like I’d never driven before, burning off, grateful this time for the cars that got the fuck out of the way.

In the rearview, I saw men spill out. They fired at the car, but none of them hit. I shot off. I had to. I knew they’d come after me and I knew they’d come right to Teddy’s place… but at least he might protect me.

I burst into the penthouse corridor, running on jelly legs for the front door. LOCKED! I hammered on it for dear life.

“LET ME IN! TEDDY! MATTHIAS! LET ME IN!” I screamed. Footsteps on the other side came running, and the door opened. Poor Matthias didn’t stand a chance as I fell in, scrambling to shut it.

“(Y/N)?! What’s happe – FUCK! What happened to you?!”

I lay on the floor, the enormity of the situation catching me now I was ‘safe’. Teddy stumbled into the room too. He looked a little better, his eyes a little brighter. Obviously the sleeping had helped him out.

“(Y/N)?!” he ran to my side, frowning.

“I stole – drugs -from your mom –“ I gasped. “I went – I asked for – Teddy, I’m sorry!”

“You did what?!” I fished a violently shaking hand into my pocket and drew out the six 8 balls I’d swiped. Teddy burst out laughing. “Oh, fuck, (Y/N)… is that for me? Are those – fuck! Are those for me?” He inspected the cut on my throat.

“She’s killed me, hasn’t she?!” I gasped. Teddy shook his head.

“Nah. She’s scared you, that’s all. This is a fucking warning cut, (Y/N), nothing deadly.” He gestured to Matthias, who fetched over a pretty packed-out first aid kit. “Do you think you can walk to the bathroom, or no?” I nodded, taking Teddy’s outstretched hand. He led me into the bathroom and sat me down. “Be a little easier if you got in the shower, (Y/N). Wash the blood off completely.”

“Alright,” I breathed. I knew it’d sting, but I trusted Teddy. He knew enough about cutting people open to know what was a deadly cut, and what wasn’t. I stripped down when Matthias left, and climbed under lukewarm water. “Owwwww!” I cried. Teddy turned the water off, wrapping a towel around me quickly.

“You’re alright, you’re alright,” Teddy said softly, holding me. “Mom can be pretty fucking brutal, huh?” He dried my throat off and stuck a couple little butterfly stitches along the length of the cut. “Why’d you fucking go without me?”

“Because you were sleeping,” I said softly, as Teddy wrapped a length of bandage around my throat lightly, just tight enough to keep the stitches covered. And then...

BANG BANG BANG!

The door was almost kicked in. Teddy’s head snapped around.

“Oh... yeah... and her guys came after me.”

“For fuck’s sake, (Y/N),” Teddy growled. He abandoned me and stood, leaving me to scuttle to the bedroom to go get dressed. I felt about close to shitting myself.

Teddy

Teddy scratched the back of his head as he moved through to the hallway, where Matthias, James, and three others who’d come over to see him were stood.

“Gentlemen, this might get a little fucking messy, alright? But I don’t wanna give my mom -” Teddy was cut off by more banging. “- my mom... reason to start a fucking gang war with me, alright?” Nods all around. Teddy opened the door.

And almost immediately, Brice’s fist hit him squarely in the face, sending him backwards.

“WHAT THE FUCK?!” Teddy yelled.

“Where’s your little fuckbuddy, Teddy?” Brice asked. He’d never liked Teddy. So getting to deck the little shit-for-brains in the face felt real good.

“You’re not laying a FUCKING FINGER ON (Y/N), BRICE!” Teddy yelled, climbing to his feet. Brice towered over him. “Any fucking problem you got, you got it with me.”

“(Y/N) stole drugs. I just wanna chat about how we don’t steal from the Lobos.”

“(Y/N) practically IS a fucking Lobo.”

“What, you guys get fucking married or some shit?” Brice asked softly.

“No. But shit’s been happening here that my fucking mom hasn’t been privy to. I asked (Y/N) to go get me drugs. I’m coming off that shit. Gotta clean my fucking shit up if I’m gonna prove to my mom that I can take over her work.”

Brice regarded him for a second.

“That’s not the story we were given. (Y/N) said you needed microdosing, and that you were out of it. And...” Brice crouched down. “(Y/N) had come alone.” Teddy rolled his eyes.

“Sure. I asked. What, does my mom not wanna give me drugs any fucking more?” Brice shook his head. “Why the fuck not?!”

“Because you’re not working, Teddy.”

“I’M ON A FUCKING COME DOWN!” If Teddy’s irritation had ever been useful, those mood swings from his rollercoaster withdrawal... it was right then. Teddy swung a fist at Brice and hit the man cleanly on the temple, sending him crumpling to the floor. He turned to the others who’d arrived, too. “Tell my fucking mom if she wants her drugs back, she can come fucking get them herself. FUCK!”

The guys, confused and a little afraid, lifted Brice up and carried him out of the hallway. Teddy clutched his head and let out a scream of frustration. But, (Y/N) had brought those little 8 balls... a microdose did seem like a good idea. He moved to the kitchen, where they were stacked already in a neat little pile. After blowing his nose of the blood that had congealed from Brice’s punch (but thankfully, his nose wasn’t broken), he unwrapped one, placing a tiny, barely there amount on the countertop.

You

I came out of the bedroom once I was sure the coast was clear, and made my way to the kitchen. Teddy was stood there, an 8 ball unwrapped and open on the countertop. A very small amount lay in a thin line, and Teddy bent over it. Something in me… shifted.

“Fuck,” I breathed. The look in his eyes – anger, frustration, wanting, doubt – coupled with the blood that still glistened around his mouth, did something within me. I bit my lip hard, but I couldn’t look away. Almost like Teddy was daring me to do it, daring me to stop him. “Do it. You need it.”

Watching him snort it shouldn’t have been sexy. It should have been repulsive, but it wasn’t. It should have been a lot of things that were bad, but it wasn’t. Something was fucking wrong with me, because when he stood up straight and hissed with the sting of the drug in his nose, I nearly fucking buckled.

“FuuuuuuUUUCK,” Teddy groaned, massaging the side of his nose. “Fuck me…”

“Fucking gladly,” I growled, striding forwards. I grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him through to the bedroom.

“Matthias – lads – you can go home!” Teddy yelled, kicking the door shut. “The fuck’s brought this on, baby?” he purred, as I threw him onto the bed.

“Maybe nearly losing my life,” I purred, shuffling down so I was sitting on his thighs, so I could tug his sweats down. “Maybe you covered in fucking blood…” I freed him and started stroking him, barely looking down as he grew hard. He propped himself up on his elbows, looking at me. “Maybe…”

“Maybe?” Teddy shook his head, groaning and bucking his hips lightly. “C’mere, baby, you’re overdressed.” Teddy pulled my waistband, and I shimmied them off. As soon as I was stood naked in front of him… well, let’s just say I lost control of the entire situation, and Teddy showed me exactly what his extra-curricular skills were…

[xumoonhao]

british columbia is such a province. really and truly. theres a company here that wanted to commercialize cocaine since it (and a few other drugs) were decriminalized the end of january and they said they had gotten a new licence that said they could do it, only for health canada to be like 'no thats. that not what your new licence MEANS' - they said they were going to make and sell cocaine to the open market, when in actuality they can only produce it to sell to other license holders, not the general public - and also for the prime minister of canada and the premier of bc to literally have, in their words, have no idea that was happening. which is just...so fucking funny to me. literally....how could they not have known.

[mightyflamethrower]

They are rubbing our noses in their filth

What is the latest miscarriage of justice in America? Were more protesters inside the Capitol stripped of their citizenship by branding them insurrectionists? Was Donald Trump raided again? Was another acquaintance SWAT teamed at 5 AM in front of CNN for a parking ticket?

The abuse of power by DC is ubiquitous. The constant barrage of injustice by the federal government and its homely cheerleaders in the press is meant to fatigue those of us with a conscience. The perversion of police authority to enforce political policy is a reminder that they are in power and their power is unchecked.

Under their command, America has become Rome but without the beautiful architecture and literature. I pity the future archaeologist who uncovers Gender Queer and has to endure the sketches depicting child sex. He will think it a secret piece of pornography for elitist perverts instead of the schoolbook it has become, replacing Alice and Jerry.

The false investigations, and fake indictments of Donald Trump are ridiculous and aimed at showing his supporters and his distractors alike that no one can escape them. Cooperate, comrade, or die.

The deep state stole the 2020 election right from under us. Biden was chosen because everyone in DC knew he was dumb and corrupt, which made him the perfect figurehead for a government out of control. Our DC overlords made no attempt to mask their election theft because they wanted to extinguish dissent. Like the Borg in some Star Trek series, their message is resistance is futile.

Biden stayed in the basement cutting deals while the vote rigging took place elsewhere. A press that set up cameras in the lobby to document every visitor to Trump Tower after the 2016 election has never bothered to check the records at Wilmington Airport to see whose private jets landed in Delaware to pay tribute to the next president.

President Trump never really was in charge. Obama led the resistance — an act of sedition — that thwarted Trump at every turn. McConnell and the rest of the gullible guinea pigs in DC who call themselves conservatives aided and abetted Obama. Trump’s inability to govern properly is one of the reasons some commentators want to abandon him. It is like telling a rape victim she should have fought harder.

We now live in a country where burning down cities, ambushing little old ladies, and looting high-priced stores is honored but singing a song that says that is wrong will get you banned from TV.

This regime has no shame.

Those stories about the discovery of a bag of cocaine in the White House were not an accidental leak of the truth. The leak was psyops meant to destroy the morale of their enemy, which is the American people.

The discovery was meant to show that Biden and his crooks will do anything they want and get away with it, and they do. Law enforcement did nothing — and what will Republicans do about it? Cry?

Biden’s crew ignores congressional subpoenas without consequence, just as Eric Holder did when he was Obama’s AG. In January, Speaker McCarthy promised to make the videos of the January 6 protest public. Six months later, the videos remain under lock and key — right next to Epstein’s client list. We can guess at some of the names on the list just by looking at the celebrities who hit Trump hardest. The deep state is better at blackmail than the Mafia.

But this is nothing new. Under Obama, the deep state openly did his political bidding, including spying on Donald Trump, who had dared question whether Obama was born in America. Where did he get that idea? From Obama who in 1991 claimed he was born in Kenya. The press now wants you to believe that an unnamed PR writer made a mistake, which Obama failed to correct — for 17 years.

The FBI works for the government, not the people. The FBI decides who gets away with selling out the nation and who gets framed for a nonexistent insurrection.

A day after the 240th anniversary of the birth of America, Jimmy Comey — Obama’s FBI director — announced that even though she sent 33,000 emails to a Chinese email account, Missus Clinton would not be prosecuted. They had her dead to rights — and Comey let her live.

He told the press, “Although there is evidence of potential violations of the statutes regarding the handling of classified information, our judgment is that no reasonable prosecutor would bring such a case. Prosecutors necessarily weigh a number of factors before bringing charges. There are obvious considerations, like the strength of the evidence, especially regarding intent. Responsible decisions also consider the context of a person’s actions, and how similar situations have been handled in the past.

“In looking back at our investigations into mishandling or removal of classified information, we cannot find a case that would support bringing criminal charges on these facts. All the cases prosecuted involved some combination of: clearly intentional and willful mishandling of classified information; or vast quantities of materials exposed in such a way as to support an inference of intentional misconduct; or indications of disloyalty to the United States; or efforts to obstruct justice. We do not see those things here.

“To be clear, this is not to suggest that in similar circumstances, a person who engaged in this activity would face no consequences. To the contrary, those individuals are often subject to security or administrative sanctions. But that is not what we are deciding now.”

Shorter Comey: She did it and we don’t care.

The fix was in and they were blatant about it with Bill Clinton openly meeting with Comey’s boss — AG Loretta Lynch — on the tarmac at Sky Harbor International Airport in Phoenix in 110-degree heat. They wanted the world to see that the fix was in.

Four years later, the FBI had so much evidence on Biden’s corruption that even broad bottomed Billy Barr could not sit on all of it. When the story leaked, the intelligence community immediately labeled it Russian disinformation and paid Facebook and Twitter to censor the story.

No one had to tell the Secret Service to ignore this cocaine story. They may be Civil Service but they are not idiots.

Meanwhile, Hunter Biden lives high off the hog because a lawyer friend is generous enough to pay all his bills. What a nice guy, huh?

And when I say high, I really mean it.

The New York Post reported, “Hunter Biden’s so-called ‘sugar brother,’ lawyer Kevin Morris, was spotted smoking from a bong outside his Los Angeles home Thursday as the first son — a recovering drug addict — paid him a visit.

“Morris, a successful Hollywood-based lawyer and major Democrat Party supporter, had no shame as he stood on the balcony of his posh Pacific Palisades digs to expertly inhale from the glass water pipe, according to photos obtained by The Post.

“Donning a purple patterned short-sleeved shirt, Morris carried out the smoke session in full view of the public street outside his house.”

Pot may be legal in California but this shows Hunter is far from clean and sober. Law enforcement will not investigate Hunter’s obvious continued drug abuse and it ignores his acceptance of bribes on behalf of his father.

The New York Post reported, “First son Hunter Biden’s novice artwork has raked in at least $1.3 million — with buyers including a Democratic donor friend who his dad named to a prestigious commission, a report said Monday.

“Elizabeth Hirsh Naftali, a Los Angeles real-estate investor and philanthropist, bought one of Hunter’s works, according to Business Insider, which cited sales records kept by his art dealer, the Georges Bergès Gallery of Manhattan.

“Naftali was appointed by President Biden to the Commission for the Preservation of America’s Heritage Abroad in July 2022 — about eight months after Hunter’s first art show, which took place in Hollywood. It is unclear when Naftali bought her Hunter artwork or how much she paid for it.”

As long as President Trump is out of office, it is felonious business as usual in Corruption City. There is no incentive for the crooked Republicans in Congress to help Trump, which explains why John Fetterman is in the Senate and not Dr. Oz.

But that is not the narrative fake conservatives feed us.

Over at Paul Ryan’s Express — a clever name for Fox News — Newt Gingrich is saying the dam is going to break and the bribery scandals are going to bring Biden down.

Sure they are, right after Republicans repeal Obamacare. But the Bud Light of cable news believes false hope will appease and entice enough conservatives so it can go back to beating MSNBC and CNN in the fake ratings war.

While Democrats and RINOs get away with murder and mayhem, Donald Trump faces trial after trial by kangaroo courts in New York and elsewhere. If found innocent, it will not matter as Democrats set him up for show trial after show trial.

The abuse of the judiciary begins on October 2 with a fake civil fraud trial in New York followed by another E. Jean Carroll civil defamation trial beginning on January 15 in New York, followed by a third trial in Manhattan beginning on March 25, followed by the Mar-a-Lago trial on May 20 with Democrats rigging two more sets of indictments.

This is all meant to prevent his campaigning for the nation’s highest office, which he has won twice now only to be denied his second term by a Congress unwilling to send results back to the states and a judiciary unwilling to examine evidence of election irregularities. This tells me we have been living in a totalitarian state longer than we realize.

Don Surber