#fictional violence

[mrdrhenwardhykle]

Pom Pom Vol 3 now on RedBubble Products!!!

[nubsoftherat]

Barry Allen I will put you in Bat-Jail swear to fucking GOD , mother fucker.

If you change the timeline. Ever again. I will destroy you. I will sacrifice you to the Marvel No-Returns hole. And you will be replaced by Wally.

Ps. Say hi to Sherloque for me.

~ Regards, B.

[leolovesthings]

[meowbiit]

LIFES A PARTY! (Gore warning)

All done on Microsoft Paint! ^_^

[f2ucharacters]

[thishasgonehorribly]

Creatures!

(I feel like throwin' in a quick disclaimer that the game Dwarf Fortress randomly generates words and titles, and I think it's successfully made fantasy nonsense, but y'know, any resemblance to words that mean things is accidental)

Had what I thought were some very close calls with the cave trolls that are wandering around,

but the wiki tells me they currently don't attack dwarfs.

I did get to see one attack a cave crocodile

Then the crocodile found a giant mole to fight with

One of my military dwarfs killed the crocodile, and the mole and troll both wound up in cage traps.

The mole is tamed and just wandering around. I still don't know what to do with a caged troll.

Then some slightly higher drama.

(Then we didn't fight a weremouse, and then we also didn't get kind of weird battle messages about the cyclops getting thrashed to pieces by a weremammoth that wasn't showing up on the list of creatures)

It turns out cyclopses aren't the worst.

Even though I've been struggling to get equipment on my military squads

We did have a dwarven convoy visiting the trade depot at the time, and one of their mercenaries got her teeth knocked out.

(I don't know that much about the other civilizations in The Past Universe, except the Brass Decisions, which are dwarven civilization led by a necromancer, who are conquering everyone. )

This fight was more challenging.

Four people got significantly injured.

The starter dwarf I nicknamed Cranky, a human citizen named Udi, a goblin citizen named Cadem, and Ingiz, another dwarf got "bruised".

I built a little hang out for the ones bleeding injuries

It turns out Udi just got punched with a sock hard enough to bust up his leg, and wasn't infected.

Cadem and Cranky transformed, and gotta hang out in the Ape Corner once a month. I tried to make it nice, but it's a little rough being isolated.

It turns out wild rutherers are harmless

But the caverns aren't short on dangers.

[eyndr-stories]

Across The World C1 - The Beginning

Summary:

The gods of this world are ancient, most of them forgotten, or nearly so. Nomen has been taught not to make deals with any old gods, should they be unlucky enough to come across one. However, when their little brother Maribus stumbles into mortal peril, they find they have no real choice but to accept the trials of one such god in order to save him.

This is an original story written by yours truly! I started writing this back at the very start of 2021 when I had a particularly wild and extremely vivid dream. This story is heavily based on said dream! This dream is also why I strongly distrust bunny mascots / anthro rabbits lmao but anyhoo, I think i've improved as a writer since this so the quality may or may not be quite on par with my other stories. I also had some help from my cool aunt Kerry with editing this, so if there's anything amiss here we can totally blame her lmao

That all being said, I do still like this story, and I hope you will too!! Enjoy <3

Things To Know:

major character death (its okay though, they live lol)

blood and violence

happy ending

protag (Noman) is nonbinary and referred to with they / them pronouns

first person POV

8 chapters in total, about 13,000 words in total. So roughly 1600 words a chapter. Lil bite sized chappys!

No swear words used, somehow

(lmk if i should add anything, i can't think of anything else)

Ao3 link here

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2

C1 - The Beginning

     Perched precariously at the end of the world, my home was a very cold place to those who don't live there. It featured a steep staircase that spiraled down beside the face of a jagged cliff to an endless expanse of ice. To me any my neighbors, it was warm, made so by the people who lived there. We were always celebrating or giving a lending hand when needed. We learned long ago the need to keep each other warm.

     My brother was like our home; cold on the outside, but kind within. Maribus was achingly shy, never speaking unless spoken to and always keeping a wide distance from the people around him. But beneath his cold exterior was an eager mind and a gentle heart, especially with our mother, who had a way of melting his anxieties.

     Today was no exception as we happily sat with her at the front of the crowd, watching the parade. It was a celebration, of course. Every sturdy storefront had been painted a rainbow of colors. Flags and streamers fluttered everywhere and marvelous floats moved through the streets while performers ran into the crowds with bags of candy and small toys for everyone to share. Everyone was bundled up in colorful scarves and blankets, sipping big mugs of hot cocoa to keep warm.

     A flock of well-trained birds swooped into the crowd, their feathers a deep dazzling blue. My brother grabbed my arm, pointing excitedly at the birds. "Look Nomen! Those are dirodopafowel! They're very rare. Aren't they cool??"

     They were certainly very cool looking, even if I'd immediately forgotten their name. I snapped a picture with my camera just as Maribus leaned into the frame, making a silly face. I laughed and moved to show my brother the picture, but his attention was already elsewhere because at that moment, the star of the parade was making his way down the street on a float shaped like pillars of ice. It glittered in the setting sun, constellation patterns etched in lights along the sides.

     “It’s him!! I can’t believe it’s really him!!” Maribus yelled excitedly.

     “Easy, love,” Our mother smiled and patted his shoulder.

     I studied the man. He was the reason for this whole parade. I'd been told he had crafted a suit that allowed him to survive on the ice. He was here to explore the unknown, to chart past the edge of the world. As the float moved past us, I got a great look at what I realized was one of the most awkward men I'd ever seen in my life. This was the person that would transcend the limits of all people?

     "Make sure you take his picture, okay?" Maribus commanded.

     I tried to be more enthusiastic as my brother jumped up and down and waved at his hero. The man looked uncomfortable as he nodded and waved back, then stared straight ahead as though he'd rather be anywhere else.

     The float stopped in front of town hall. This was the building everyone had to go through to get to the ice. The man looked relieved as he climbed off the float and greeted our mayor, a tall, confidant woman. She turned to the crowd and gave a short speech, something about history being made, but I'd already zoned out. The adventurer smiled briefly before heading inside the building to suit up. We cheered, though I wasn't sure why since we wouldn't be able to see him actually step out onto the ice.

     My brother, with a huge grin and pleading eyes, turned to me and asked, "You got the picture, right??"

     Ah, shoot. Like our mother always said, I'm great to trust with secrets because I can't ever remember anything anyone says to me. While others saw this forgetfulness as the bane of my existence, I liked to see it as a good thing. I had cultivated a boldness, as though my poor memory was part of the plan all along. So technically, I did forget to take a picture of the adventurer for my brother, however, I had a better idea.

     "Not yet my man, because you're getting a picture with him."

     And sure, while my brother looked terrified of having a human interaction, I knew in the long run he would thank me. See what I mean? A good thing after all. I grabbed his hand and we snuck behind town hall, climbing through a not-so-secret hole in the otherwise solid barrier. For a moment, we clung to the wall and each other at the dizzying sight of a white sky and a steep drop into a foggy abyss below. We took a deep, cold breath and followed the long, winding staircase. Down, down, down, away from the sky, then through the thick fog until, with a thud, our feet landed on a heated pier.

   The fog was still thick as we walked the length of the pier and only thinned once we made it to the gate at the end of things. At least that's what it felt like as we stood and stared, our breath puffing into the air. We were at the end of the world. Neither of us had ever been this close to the ice that had defined our entire lives in this small town. The ice almost seemed to have its own language as it crackled and shifted, the sound of it made large and deep as it echoed unimpeded for great lengths. The expanse of ice was so large and infinite, it was like looking at a desert or an ocean. To my brain, it was impossible and beautiful. It was also cold as all f-

     “Excuse me, I need to get by.”

    We spun around, jumping at the voice of the very man we were waiting on. I admit, the suit was pretty impressive and complicated up close, intimidating even.

     "Brother. I mean... sorry, my brother, Maribus, would like to get a picture with you. He's a big admirer of yours, would you mind? We'll be quick."

     “Fine, fine, but hurry." The man spoke impatiently. "I need to be out there before it turns dark.”

     I looked down at my brother, who stood speechless and unmoving. He couldn’t take his eyes off the suit. I gently pushed him toward the man. "Go on, it'll be alright."

     My poor brother looked liked the chill had gotten to him. He stared at me numbly.

     “He’s just shy and such a huge fan,” I explained as I focused the camera on the two of them. “He wants to explore just like you, when he gets older.”

     “Is that right?” The man looked down at him, not unkindly. I capture my brother staring open-mouthed at the adventurer as he said, “Perhaps we'll meet again... on the other side.”

     Then he moved passed us, pushing the gate open and climbing down the ladder, landing with a clunky jump to the crackling ice. He held up a hand in farewell, then turned and disappeared into the fog that was quickly rolling back in. It was much thicker than before, and I worried we wouldn't be able to see the steps leading us back to civilization.

     I took my brother's hand. "Come on, let's get out of here before mom realizes something's up."

     My brother jerked his hand away and covered his face. "Why couldn't I talk to him? What's wrong with me??"

     "Aw, Mar…" I had never seen him this mortified or angry with himself. It felt like my heart was cracking the way the ice was.

     “Hey.” I pulled his hands away from his face and squeezed them in mine. “Nothing is wrong with you, got that? You were just nervous. It's a really big deal meeting someone you look up to. Anyway would feel that way.”

     We climbed the staircase in silence. These were the times I wished I could be as soothing as our mother. I never knew the right things to say or do to ease the coldness that could sometimes grip Maribus so tight that he closed himself off until no one could reach him.

     When we got home, he ran to our shared room and slammed the door. My mother glanced over, a question in her eyes, but I shook my head. It wasn't until later that night when I was helping her with the chores that we talked.

     “Your brother hardly touched his dinner. I even made his favorite soup.”

     I sighed. “Well... we sort of snuck over the wall behind town hall to take a picture with the explorer on the pier.”

     “WHAT?!” Mother nearly knocked over the mop bucket.

      I strategically moved out of her reach. “We made it back didn't we? It’s fine. But he got tongue-tied as usual and is super embarrassed and maybe feels like he messed up his one chance to talk with his hero.”

     “Never again. Do you understand me Nomen??" Mother's voice was low and hard. "Never again do you go out there. Especially not with your little brother.”

     I tried for nonchalance, even though inside I was shaken by how angry she sounded. “Okay, okay, never again.”

     When I finally turned in for the night, my brother was already in his bed with the covers pulled over his head. I hoped he was sleeping and not reliving his lost chance. I climbed as quietly as I could into my own bed and, exhausted, fell into a deep sleep.

     My dreams were troubling. My brother was curled up, frozen on the ice and I couldn't reach him no matter how desperately I tried. A full moon hung over him and when I focused on it, I realized it wasn't actually a moon at all, but an eye staring back at me. I stumbled backwards when the eye spoke. “Go to the pier if you wish to save him.”

     As the eye closed, my world went dark.

     My own eyes flew open as I sat up in bed, panicked and sweaty. The dream felt so real, and I shivered when I noticed how quiet the house was. A sheet had tangled around my legs and I kicked at it as I stumbled from my bed, crossing the room to where my brother was sleeping. I just needed to see for myself that he was okay. With a shaky hand I drew his blanket down to find only his pillow.

     My brother was gone.

[swagbrouni]

Sparklecare but Jay has a gun

@sparklecarehospital

Jay dreamt of war. It wasn't something Spinch had experienced at large. The foreign concept seemed to be an unnecessarily cruel dance of bloodshed and lives cut short. Much like the environment they woke to every day.

The fighters Jay observed stood tall and walked upright, but they weren't anthries. There was furless, featherless exposed skin where their helmets and clothes didn't cover. They varied much less in size and body characteristics.

Many of them had machines clutched tightly in their hands. They were incredibly powerful weapons. The noise they made was overwhelming. They ejected small things at a speed the brain couldn't begin to comprehend. And those projectiles were... devastating. Some of the injuries were beyond words.

It was a hideous scene. The fear, death, and desperation Jay witnessed threatened to bring tears to their eyes.

With a particularly close gunshot, Jay startled awake.

They'd been drawing in Uni's room and must've dozed off. A sketchbook and crayons were littered across his bed. The dog-unicorn's ears perked up at the noise of Jay shifting. He had his back to the bed, painting at an easel. His head turned and Jay met his eyes behind orange glasses. Uni smiled. "You fell asleep for a minute there, bro. I didn't want to wake you. You seemed pretty tired," He said before his focus returned to his artistic pursuits.

Jay sat up. They noticed something digging into one of their thighs. Looking down, they paled. It was the grip of one of the weapons they saw in the dream. Or nightmare, rather.

They picked it up with shaking hands and jumped down from the bed, landing on the cold tile floor with a thud. Jay skittered towards the door, abandoning their things and rushing past Barry scribbling in a notebook.

"I'm gonna head back to my room, see you later, guys!" Jay called abruptly without waiting for a response. They opened the door and threw it closed behind them with more force than they anticipated.

Doctor Cuddles was a ways down the hall and looked up at Jay at the sound of the slamming door. An ugly, angry expression crossed his face. "What are you doing outside of your room?" He snarled as he began to down the hall in Jay's direction.

Unknown to Jay, there was a single bullet in the chamber. When you have incredible luck, maybe there's a bit of intuition on how to use a machine you only saw for a moment in a dream. When you have incredible luck, no matter how hard your hands shake, when you point that machine between the eyes of your captor and pull the trigger, it's just about impossible to miss.

And the only impossible thing to have happened today was the machine appearing in the first place.

[heartsburstintofire13ghosts]

Samara’s Death Outfit and Extra Info

Usually, my characters wear dresses, so this was a change for me. But I enjoyed it. Since the shooting my OC dies in takes place in 2014, I incorporated a small piece of technology from that year. She has multiple piercings in her right ear and a singular black diamond stud in her left. I swear by Converse and as such, she wears them. I also wanted a touch of simplicity for her outfit. Her shirt is the One of The Girls Baby Tee from Free People. Her underwear are from Fredericks of Hollywood. I don’t remember where I found the distressed shorts. And her jacket is the Abbey Dawn Pyramid Stud Black Denim Jacket. 

Sam - even though she is seventeen - has ten tattoos in total. (The model I use for her has one, on her lower abdomen. But I elected to just write that one out of the story. No offense to Lauren Robson) As the state Samara lives in is Ohio, I consulted the law which states that no person shall perform a tattooing procedure, body piercing procedure, or ear piercing procedure with an ear piercing gun on an individual who is under eighteen years of age unless consent has been given by the individual's parent, guardian, or custodian. So, essentially, all Ellie has to do is say, “Yes. I am alright with you doing this artistic procedure.” And they can. I would assume that the parent has to give in-person consent with proof of identification to keep from a legal repercussion if it turns out that a kid forged a signature or had one of their older friends pretend to be there parent, guardian, or custodian. 

In scientific studies, it’s been concluded that there are numerous benefits to getting a tattoo. Especially great health benefits! Tattoos can be much more than just a form of body modification.

Research has proven that multiple tattoos boosts the immune system. When the tattoo ink enters the body, the immune system attacks the ink. Each time that person goes for a new tattoo, the more their body undergoes that same process again and again, improving the immune system each time.

Getting a tattoo reduces cortisol levels, (a stress hormone) which also helps improve the immune system but even reduces stress! Tattoos can be painful. However, the body battles the pain by releasing adrenaline and endorphins which leads to the person getting tattooed feeling elated.

Tattoos are symbolic for some. Whether it symbolizes an event from their past, an experience or emotion, or a motivational message, it makes them feel hope, inspiration and motivation. Others like tattooing their body because it boots their body confidence, and they are less critical of themselves. Studies have shown that tattoos undoubtably increase self-confidence, especially in women that have multiple tattoos.

People are surprised to hear that some jobs are looking for individuals with tattoos. Some jobs look for an employee with a spunky, energetic and self-expressive way of life, and can see that with their tattoos. These jobs tend to be jobs in the beauty industry such as a cosmetologist, a make-up artist, or a hair stylist. Especially if your tattoo could somehow represent the company you wish to work at.

The reducing cortisol levels effect from tattoos is also helpful to those that participate in athletic activities regularly. It has various physical benefits because cortisol decreases your ability to heal. So, every time you get a tattoo, you are decreasing your cortisol levels. Every time you do so makes your muscles repair faster, essentially growing your muscles.

Sorry. I have no idea how that turned into an educational and informational essay about tattoos and their benefits. 

TRIGGER WARNING FOR MENTIONS OF A SCHOOL SHOOTING

This diagram is a visual aid for where the bullets hit her when Markus shot her. Unlike the others, Markus Sullivan used a handgun on her and shot her at close range from behind. The police implied that her death (out of 32) seemed personal. 

[hussyknee]

Vajra Chandrasekera is a Locus and Nebula award-winner and has been short-listed for a Hugo Award this year. You can find his Tumblr here: @adamantine and his twitter here: @_vajra

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Predicting the present

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/12/09/radicalized/#deny-defend-depose

Back in 2018, around the time I emailed my immigration lawyer about applying for US citizenship, I started work on a short story called "Radicalized," which eventually became the title story of a collection that came out in 2019:

https://us.macmillan.com/books/9781250228598/radicalized/

"Radicalized" is a story about America, and about guns, and about health care, and about violence. I live in Burbank, which is ranks second in gun-stores-per-capita in the USA, a dubious honor that represents a kind of regulatory arbitrage with our neighboring goliath, the City of Los Angeles, where gun store licensing is extremely tight. If you're an Angeleno in search of a firearm, you're almost certainly coming to Burbank to buy it.

Walking, cycling and driving past more gun stores than I'd ever seen in my Canadian life got me thinking about Americans and guns, a subject that many Canadians have passed comment upon. Americans kill each other, and especially themselves, at rates that baffle everyone else in the world, and they do it with guns. When we moved here, my UK born-and-raised daughter came home from her first elementary school lockdown drill perplexed and worried. Knowing what I did about US gun violence, I understood that while school shootings and other spree killings happened with dismal and terrifying regularity, they only accounted for a small percentage of the gun deaths here. If you die with a bullet in you, the chances are that the finger on the trigger was your own. The next most likely suspect is someone you know. After that, a cop. Getting shot by a stranger out of uniform is something of a rarity here – albeit a spectacular one that captures our imaginations in ways that deliberate or accidental self-slayings and related-party shootings do not.

So I told her, "Look, you can basically ignore everything they tell you during those lockdown drills, because they almost certainly have nothing to do with your future. But if a friend ever says to you, 'Hey, wanna see my dad's gun?' I want you to turn around and leave and get in touch with me right away, that instant."

Guns turn the murderous impulse – which, let's be honest, we've all felt at some time or another – into a murderous act. Same goes for suicide, which explains the high levels of non-accidental self-shootings in the USA: when you've got a gun, the distance between suicidal ideation and your death is the ten feet from the sofa to the gun in the closet.

Americans get angry at people and then, if they have a gun to hand, sometimes they shoot them. In a thread /r/Burbank about how people at our local cinemas are rude and use their phones in which someone posted, "Well, you should just ask them to stop." The reply: "That's a great way to get shot." No one chimed in to say, "Don't be ridiculous, no one would shoot you for asking them to put away their phone during a movie." Same goes for "road rage."

And while Americans shoot people they've only just gotten angry at, they also sometimes plan shooting sprees and kill a bunch of people because they're just generically angry. Being angry about the state of the world is a completely relatable emotion, of course, but the targets of these shootings are arbitrary. Sure sometimes these killings have clear, bigoted targets – mass shootings at Black supermarkets or mosques or synagogues or gay bars – more often the people who get sprayed with bullets (at country and western concerts or elementary schools or movie theaters) are almost certainly not the people the gunman (almost always a man) is angry at.

This line of thought kept surfacing as I went through the immigration process, but not just when I was dealing with immigration paperwork. I was also spending an incredible amount of time dealing with our health insurer, Cigna, who kept refusing treatments my pain doctor – one of the most-cited pain researchers in the country – thought I would benefit from. I've had chronic pain since I was a teenager, and it's only ever gotten worse. I've had decades of pain care in Canada and the UK, and while the treatments never worked for very long, it was never compounded by the kinds of bureaucratic stuff I went through with my US insurer.

The multi-hour phone calls with Cigna that went nowhere would often have me seeing red – literally, a red tinge closing in around my vision – and usually my hands would be shaking by the time I got off the call.

And I had it easy! I wasn't terminally ill, and I certainly wasn't calling in on behalf of a child or a spouse or parent who was seriously ill or dying, whose care was being denied by their insurer. Bernie's 2016 Medicare For All campaign promise had filled the air with statistics (Americans pay more for care and get worse outcomes than anyone else in the rich world), and stories. So many stories – stories that just tore your heart out, about parents who literally had to watch their children die because the insurance they paid for refused to treat their kids. As a dad, I literally couldn't imagine how I'd cope in that situation. Just thinking about it filled me with rage.

One day, as I was swimming in the community pool across the street – a critical part of my pain management strategy – I was struck with a thought: "Why don't these people murder health insurance executives?" Not that I wanted them to. I don't want anyone to kill anyone. But why do American men who murder their wives and the people who cut them off in traffic and random classrooms full of children leave the health insurance industry alone? This is an industry that is practically designed to fill the people who interact with it with uncontrollable rage. I mean, if you're watching your wife or your kid die before your eyes because some millionaire CEO decided to aim for a $10 billion stock buyback this year instead of his customary $9 billion target, wouldn't you feel that kind of murderous rage?

Around this time, my parents came out for a visit from Canada. It was a great trip, until one night, my mom woke me up after midnight: "We have to take your father to the ER. He's really sick." He was: shaking, nauseated, feverish. We raced down the street to the local hospital, part of a gigantic chain that has swallowed nearly all the doctors' practices, labs and hospitals within an hour's drive of here.

Dad had kidney stones, and they'd gone septic. When the ER docs removed the stones, all the septic gunk in his kidneys was flushed into his bloodstream, and he crashed. If he hadn't been in an ER recovery room at the time, he would have died. As it was, he was in a coma for three days and it was touch and go. My brother flew down from Toronto, not sure if this was his last chance to see our dad alive. The nurses and doctors took great care of my dad, though, and three days later, he emerged from his coma, and today, he's better than ever.

But on day two, when we thought he was probably at the end of his life, as my mother sat at his side, holding the hand of her husband of fifty years, someone from the hospital billing department came to her side and said, "Mrs Doctorow, I know this is a difficult time, but I'd like to discuss the matter of your husband's bill with you."

The bill was $176,000. Thankfully, the travel medical insurance plan offered by the Ontario Teachers' Union pension covered it all (I don't suppose anyone gets very angry with them).

How do people tolerate this? Again, not in the sense of "people should commit violent acts in the face of these provocations," but rather, "How is it that in a country filled with both assault rifles and unimaginable acts of murderous cruelty committed by fantastically wealthy corporations, people don't leap from their murderous impulses to their murderous weapons to commit murderous acts?

For me, writing fiction is an accretive process. I can tell that a story is brewing when thoughts start rattling around in my mind, resurfacing at odd times. I think of them as stray atoms, seeking molecules with available docking sites to glom onto. I process all my emotions – but especially my negative ones – through this process, by writing stories and novels. I could tell that something was cooking, but it was missing an ingredient.

Then I found it: an interview with the woman who coined the term "incel." It was on the Reply All podcast, and Alana, a queer Canadian woman explained that she had struggled all her life to find romantic and sexual partnership, and jokingly started referring to herself as "involuntarily celibate," and then, as an "incel":

https://gimletmedia.com/shows/reply-all/76h59o

Alana started a message board where other "incels" could offer each other support, and it was remarkably successful. The incels on Alana's message board helped each other work through the problems that stood between them and love, and when they did, they drifted away from the board to pursue a happier life.

That was the problem, Alana explained. If you're in a support group for people with a drinking problem, the group elders, the ones who've been around forever, are the people who've figured it out and gotten sober. When life seems impossible, those elders step in to tell you, I know it's terrible right now, but it'll get better. I was where you are and I got through it. You will, too. I'm here for you. We all are.

But on Alana's incel board, the old timers were the people who couldn't figure it out. They were the ones for whom mutual support and advice didn't help them figure out what they needed to do in order to find the love they sought. The longer the message board ran, the more it became dominated by people who were convinced that it was hopeless, that love was impossible for the likes of them. When newbies posted in rage and despair, these Great Old Ones were there to feed it: You're right. It will never get better. It only gets worse. There is no hope.

That was the missing piece. My short story Radicalized was born. It's a story about men on a message board called Fuck Cancer Right In the Fucking Face (FCKRFF, or "Fuckriff"), who are watching the people they love the most in the world be murdered by their insurance companies, who egg each other on to spectacular acts of mass violence against health insurance company employees, hospital billing offices, and other targets of their rage. As of today, anyone can read this story for free, courtesy of my publishers at Macmillan, who gave permission for the good folks at The American Prospect to post it:

https://prospect.org/culture/books/2024-12-09-radicalized-cory-doctorow-story-health-care/

I often hear from people about this story, even before an unknown (at the time of writing) man assassinated Brian Thompson, CEO of Unitedhealthcare, the murderous health insurance monopoly that is the largest medical insurer in the USA. Since then, hundreds of people have gotten in touch with me to ask me how I feel about this turn of events, how it feels to have "predicted" this.

I've been thinking about it for a few days now, and I gotta tell you, I have complicated feelings.

You've doubtless seen the outpourings of sarcastic graveyard humor about Thompson's murder. People hate Unitedhealthcare, for good reason, because he personally decided – or approved – countless policies that killed people by cheating them until they died.

Nurses and doctors hate Thompson and United. United kills people, for money. During the most acute phase of the pandemic, the company charged the US government $11,000 for each $8 covid test:

https://pluralistic.net/2020/09/06/137300-pct-markup/#137300-pct-markup

UHC leads the nation in claims denials, with a denial rate of 32% (!!). If you want to understand how the US can spend 20% of its GDP and get the worst health outcomes in the world, just connect the dots between those two facts: the largest health insurer in human history charges the government a 183,300% markup on covid tests and also denies a third of its claims.

UHC is a vertically integrated, murdering health profiteer. They bought Optum, the largest pharmacy benefit manager ("A spreadsheet with political power" -Matt Stoller) in the country. Then they starved Optum of IT investment in order to give more money to their shareholders. Then Optum was hacked by ransomware gang and no one could get their prescriptions for weeks. This killed people:

https://www.economicliberties.us/press-release/malicious-threat-actor-accesses-unitedhealth-groups-monopolistic-data-exchange-harming-patients-and-pharmacists/#

The irony is, Optum is terrible even when it's not hacked. The purpose of Optum is to make you pay more for pharmaceuticals. If that's more than you can afford, you die. Optum – that is, UHC – kills people:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/09/23/shield-of-boringness/#some-men-rob-you-with-a-fountain-pen

Optum isn't the only murderous UHC division. Take Navihealth, an algorithm that United uses to kick people out of their hospital beds even if they're so frail, sick or injured they can't stand or walk. Doctors and nurses routinely watch their gravely ill patients get thrown out of their hospitals. Many die. UHC kills them, for money:

https://prospect.org/health/2024-08-16-steward-bankruptcy-physicians-private-equity/

The patients murdered by Navihealth are on Medicare Advantage. Medicare is the public health care system the USA extends to old people. Medicare Advantage is a privatized system you can swap your Medicare coverage for, and UHC leads the country in Medicare Advantage, blitzing seniors with deceptive ads that trick them into signing up for UHC Medicare Advantage. Seniors who do this lose access to their doctors and specialists, have to pay hundreds or thousands of dollars for their medication, and get hit with $400 surprise bills to use the "free" ambulance service:

https://prospect.org/health/2024-12-05-manhattan-medicare-murder-mystery/

No wonder the public spends 22% more subsidizing Medicare Advantage than they spend on the care for seniors who stick with actual Medicare:

https://theconversation.com/taxpayers-spend-22-more-per-patient-to-support-medicare-advantage-the-private-alternative-to-medicare-that-promised-to-cost-less-241997

It's not just the elderly, it's also the addicted and mentally ill. UHC illegally denies coverage for mental health and substance abuse treatment. Imagine watching a family member spiral out of control, ODing, or ending up on the streets with hallucinations, and knowing that the health insurance company that takes thousands of dollars out of your paycheck refused to treat them:

https://www.startribune.com/unitedhealthcare-will-pay-15-7m-in-settlement-of-denial-of-care-charges/600087607

Unsurprising, the internal culture at UHC is callous beyond belief. How could it not be? How could you go to work at UHC and know you were killing people and not dehumanize those victims? A lawsuit by chronically ill patient whom UHC had denied care for surfaced recorded phone calls in which UHC employees laughed long and hard about the denied claims, dismissing the patient's desperate, tearful pleas as "tantrums" :

https://www.propublica.org/article/unitedhealth-healthcare-insurance-denial-ulcerative-colitis

Those UHC workers are just trying to get by, of course, and the callouses they develop so they can bear to go to work were ripped off by last week's murder. UHC's executive team knows this, and has gone on a rampage to stop employees from leaking their own horror stories, or even mentioning that the internal company announcement of Thompson's death was seen by 16,000 employees, of whom only 28 left a comment:

https://www.kenklippenstein.com/p/unitedhealthcare-tells-employees

Doctors and nurses hate UHC on behalf of their patients, but it's also personal. UHC screws doctor's practices by refusing to pay them, making them chase payments for months or even years, and then it offers them a payday lending service that helps them keep the lights on while they wait to get paid:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=frr4wuvAB6U

Is it any surprise that Reddit's nursing forums are full of nurses making grim, satisfied jokes about the assassination of the $10m/year CEO who ran the $400b/year corporation that does all this?

https://www.thedailybeast.com/leading-medical-subreddit-deletes-thread-on-unitedhealthcare-ceos-murder-after-users-slam-his-record/

We're not supposed to experience – much less express – schadenfreude when someone is murdered in the street, no matter who they are. We're meant to express horror at the idea of political violence, even when that violence only claims a single life, a fraction of the body count UCH produced under Thompson's direction. As Malcolm Harris put it, "'Every life is precious' stuff about a healthcare CEO whose company is noted for denying coverage is pretty silly":

https://twitter.com/BigMeanInternet/status/1864471932386623753

As Woody Guthrie wrote, "Some will rob you with a six-gun/And some with a fountain pen." The weapon is lethal when it's a pistol and when it's an insurance company. The insurance company merely serves as an accountability sink, a layer of indirection that lets a murder happen without any person being the technical murderer:

https://profilebooks.com/work/the-unaccountability-machine/

I don't want people to kill insurance executives, and I don't want insurance executives to kill people. But I am unsurprised that this happened. Indeed, I'm surprised that it took so long. It should not be controversial to note that if you run an institution that makes people furious, they will eventually become furious with you. This is the entire pitch of Thomas Piketty's Capital in the 21st Century: that wealth concentration leads to corruption, which is destabilizing, and in the long run it's cheaper to run a fair society than it is to pay for the guards you'll need to keep the guillotines off your lawn:

https://memex.craphound.com/2014/06/24/thomas-pikettys-capital-in-the-21st-century/

But we've spent the past 40 years running in the other direction, maximizing monopolies, inequality and corruption, and gaslighting the public when they insist that this is monstrous and unfair. Back in 2022, when UHC was buying Change Healthcare – the dominant payment network for hospitals, which would allow UHC to surveil all its competitors' payments – the DOJ sued to block the merger. The Trump-appointed judge in the case, Carl Nichols – who owned tens of thousands of dollars in UHC bonds – ruled against the DOJ, saying that it would all be fine thanks to United's "culture of trust and integrity":

https://www.thebignewsletter.com/p/the-antitrust-shooting-war-has-started

We don't know much about Thompson's killer yet, but he's already becoming a folk hero, with lookalike contests in NYC:

https://twitter.com/CollinRugg/status/1865472577478553976

And gigantic graffiti murals praising him and reproducing the words he wrote on the shell casings of the bullets he used to kill Thompson, "delay, deny, depose":

https://www.tumblr.com/radicalgraff/769193188403675136/killin-fuckin-ceos-freight-graff-in-the-bay

I get why this is distasteful. Thompson is said to have been a "family man" who loved his kids, and I have no reason to disbelieve this. I can only imagine that his wife and kids are shattered by this. Every living person is the apex of a massive project involving dozens, hundreds of people who personally worked to raise, nurture and love them. I wrote about this in my novel Walkaway, as the characters consider whether to execute a mercenary sent to kill them, whom they have taken hostage:

She had parents. People who loved her. Every human was a hyper-dense node of intense emotional and material investment. Speaking meant someone had spent thousands of hours cooing to you. Those lean muscles, the ringing tone of command — their inputs were from all over the world, carefully administered. The merc was more than a person: like a spaceship launch, her existence implied thousands of skilled people, generations of experts, wars, treaties, scholarship and supply-chain management. Every one of them was all that.

But so often, the formula for "folk hero" is "killing + time." The person who terrorizes the people who terrorize you is your hero, and eventually we sanitize the deaths, and just remember them as fighters for justice. If you doubt it, consider the legend of Robin Hood:

https://twitter.com/mcmansionhell/status/1865554985842352501

The health industry is trying to put a lid on this, palpably afraid that – as in my story "Radicalized" – this one murderer will become a folk hero who inspires others to acts of spectacular violence. They're insisting that it's unseemly to gloat about Thompson's death. They're right, but this is an obvious loser strategy. The health industry is full of people whose deaths would be deplorable, but not unsurprising. As Clarence Darrow had it:

I’ve never wished a man dead, but I have read some obituaries with great pleasure.

Murder is never the answer. Murder is not a healthy response to corruption. But it is healthy for people to fear that if they kill people for greed, they will be unsafe. On December 5 – the day after Thompson's killing – the health insurer Anthem announced that it would not pay for anesthesia for medical procedures that ran long. The next day, they retracted the policy, citing "outrage":

https://www.cnn.com/2024/12/05/health/anthem-blue-cross-blue-shield-anesthesia-claim-limits/index.html

Sure, maybe it was their fear of reputation damage that got them to decide to reverse this inhumane, disgusting, murderous policy. But maybe it was also someone in the C-suite thinking about what share of the profits from this policy would have to be spent on additional bodyguards for every Anthem exec if it went into effect, and decided that it was a money-loser after all.

Think about hospital exec Ralph de la Torre, who cheerfully testified to Congress that he'd killed patients in pursuit of profit. De la Torre clearly doesn't fear any kind of consequences for his actions. He owns hospitals that are filled with tens of thousands of bats (he stiffed the exterminators), where none of the elevators work (he stiffed the repair techs), where there's no medicine or blood (he stiffed the suppliers) and where the doctors and nurses can't make rent (he stiffed them too). De La Torre doesn't just own hospitals – he also owns a pair of superyachts:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/02/28/5000-bats/#charnel-house

It is a miracle that so many people have lost their mothers, sons, wives and husbands so Ralph de la Torre could buy himself another superyacht, and that those people live in a country where you can buy an assault rifle, and that Ralph de la Torre isn't forced to live in a bunker and travel in a tank.

It's a rather beautiful sort of miracle, to be honest. I like to think that it comes from a widespread belief by the people of this country I have since become a citizen of, that we should solve our problems politically, rather than with bullets.

But the assassination of Brian Thompson is a wake-up call, a warning that if we don't solve this problem politically, we may not have a choice about whether it's solved with violence. As a character in "Radicalized" says, "They say violence never solves anything, but to quote The Onion: that's only true so long as you ignore all of human history":

https://prospect.org/culture/books/2024-12-09-radicalized-cory-doctorow-story-health-care/

[prokopetz]

In recent posts I've complained that a lot of tabletop RPGs which toss around the term "fiction first" don't actually understand what it means, and I've been asked to expand on that complaint. So:

In my experience, there are two ways that game texts which want to position themselves as "fiction first" trip themselves up, one obvious and one subtle.

The first and more obvious pitfall is treating "fiction first" as an abstract ideology. They're using "fiction first" as a synonym for "story over rules" in a way that calls back to the role-playing-versus-roll-playing discourse of the early 2000s. The trouble is, now as then, nobody can usefully explain what "story over rules" actually entails. At best, they land on a definition of "fiction first" that talks about the GM's right to ignore the rules to better serve the story, which is no kind of definition at all – it's just putting a funny hat on the Rule Zero fallacy and trying to pass it off as some sort of totalising ideology of play.

A more useful way of defining "fiction first" play is to think of it not in terms of whether you engage with the rules at all, but in terms of when they're invoked: specifically, as a question of order of operations.

Suppose, for example, that you're playing Dungeons & Dragons, and you pick up the dice and say "I attack the dragon". Some critics would claim that no actual narrative has been established – that this is simply a bare invocation of game mechanics – but in fact we can infer a great deal: your character is going to approach the dragon, navigating any inclement terrain which lies between them, and attempt to kill the dragon using the weapon they're holding in their hand. The rules are so tightly bound to a particular set of narrative circumstances that simply invoking those rules lets us work backwards to determine what the context and stakes must be for that invocation of the rules to be sensical; this, broadly speaking, is what "rules first" looks like.

Conversely, let's say that your game of Dungeons & Dragons has confronted you with a pit blocking your path, and you want to make an Athletics check to cross it. At this point the GM is probably going to stop you and say, hold up, tell us what that looks like. Are you trying to jump across it? Are you trying to climb down one wall of the pit and up the other? Are you trying to tie a rope to the halfling and toss them to the other side? In other words, before you can pick up the dice, you need to have a little sidebar with the GM to hash out what the narrative context is, and to negotiate what can be achieved and what's at stake if you mess it up; this, broadly, is what "fiction first" looks like.

At this point I know some people are thinking "wait, hold on – both of those examples were from Dungeons & Dragons; are you saying that Dungeons & Dragons is both a rules-first game and a fiction-first game?" And yeah, I am. That's the second, more subtle place where game texts that talk about "fiction first" go astray: they talk about it as though being "fiction first" or "rules first" is something which is inherent to game systems as a whole.

This is not in fact true: being "fiction first" or "rules first" is something which describes particular invocations of the rules. In practice, only very simple games spend all of their time in one mode or the other; most will switch back and forth at need. Generally, most "traditional" RPGs (i.e., the direct descendants of Dungeons & Dragons and its various imitators) tend to operate in rules-first mode in combat and fiction-first mode out of it, though this is a simplification – when and how such mode-switching occurs can be quite complex.

Like any other design pattern, "fiction first" mechanics are a tool that's well suited for some jobs, and ill suited for others. Sometimes your rules are fine-grained enough that having an explicit negotiation and stakes-setting phase would just be adding extra steps. Sometimes you're using the outputs of the rules a narrative prompt, and having to pin the context down ahead of time would defeat the purpose. Fortunately, you don't have to commit yourself to one approach or the other; as long as your text is clear about how you're assuming a given set of rules toys will be used, you can switch modes as need dictates. However, you're not going to be capable of that kind of transparency if you're thinking in terms of "this a Fiction First™ game".

(Incidentally, this is why it can be hard to talk about "fiction first" with OSR fans if you're being dogmatic about fiction-first framing being an immutable feature of particular games. Since traditional RPGs tend to observe the above-described rules-first-in-combat, fiction-first-out-of-combat division, and OSR games tend to treat actually getting into a fight as a strategic failure state, a lot of OSR games spend most of their time in fiction-first mode. If you go up to an OSR fan and insist that D&D-style games can never be fiction-first, then attempt to define "fiction first" for them and proceed to describe how they usually play, they'll quite justifiably conclude that you have your head up your ass!)

[dead-air-radio]

Men who are cut up <33

[orange-coloredsky-archive]

a development team that looks like this could not possibly have any preconceived biases against Black people. noooo way. its just a mistake that all of the Black people in fo4 are slaves or named after fascist colonizers or murdered or stereotypical conspiracy freaks. there is no way that the reality of this team is reflected in the art they create over and over and over and over and over and over and

[ID 1: A photo of the Fallout 4 development team taken from above and forward, showing a large crowd smiling at the camera, made up apparently entirely by white people, and almost entirely by white men. End ID.]

[saigoat]

Being tortured to the point of passing out cold, then in a haze as they regain consciousness, see they are cradled in the lap of their tormentor. Skin clammy and crawling as a bloody hand cards through greasy, limp hair. The unwanted tender touch would be etched in their memory for the rest of their life. In months of agony, it was the one solitary moment of softness. Some part of them wants more, some part loathes themselves for it.

[varpusvaras]

It does not matter if Jason was a bad kid. It does not matter if he was reckless. It does not matter if he had a "mean-streak". It does not matter if he had a temper. It does not matter if he didn't follow orders.

None of that matters. He was a child. A child who was violently tortured and murdered.

Nothing could've made a child deserve that.