#for the uninitiated: Billy is not short.

[tarraxahum]

I've decided that y'all need to meet Billy's wife. 'Cause I said so.

Don't let the outfit fool you - Martha might've chilled off on clothes and poofy hair, but she's still a Hyena. Retired - but there's no such thing as a former fighter. Or a former Alpha.

(Billy reliably will talk your ear off about her at any given moment, you just need to ask. And it's been that way for decades at this point.)

[shieldofiron]

As a celebration for unshadowban- trans alpha Billy?

Background on this AU here, for the uninitiated. Basically it's omegaverse, but you can be trans-designation as well as transgender. So Billy is Cis, but he's trans omega to alpha. And Steve is an omega, but transitioning FTM, pretending to be an alpha. There’s a whole munver side to this that of course I’m obsessed with, but let’s stick to the ask. Rated M but no doing it! For now...

Billy swipes at the sweat on his forehead, shuffling down to flop to the floor under the bleachers. He hadn’t wanted to shower after gym, because hormones cost money and it’s not like he’s swimming in it. The Alpha gel mixes with the sweat on his neck and makes him feel grosser than gross, but there’s only one period left before the end of the way.

He digs through his shorts packets for a cigarette when he hears a whimper to his left.

It’s pretty dark under here, just tiny slats of light creating stripes in the darkness. Billy squints anyway, like that might help.

“Hello?” He calls out softly, “Who’s back here?”

Hopefully it’s not Carol and Tommy. Once he walked in on them at a party, and the whiny, needy way Tommy called Carol ‘Alpha’ would haunt Billy’s nightmares forevermore.

The whimpers don’t stop, and if anything when Billy stands and moves towards the sound, they get worse.

“Is someone hurt?” Billy whispers, “Hello?”

His foot brushes up against something soft and he kneels down and touches something soft. Gym towels, it feels like.

“Hello?” Billy reaches forward in the darkness, “Are you okay?”

There’s some shuffling, and then big brown eyes come into view through one of the ribbons of lights, blinking back at him. He’d know them anywhere, though the smell that Billy doesn’t recognize. It tickles at his senses, a strange smell so unlike Harrington that he immediately backs away.

“S-sorry, couldn’t see that you were back here with someone,” Billy mumbles.

“Alpha,” Harrington says, in a strange, cracked voice.

“Uh, yeah man,” Billy turns away swiftly, “Said I was sorry.”

“Alpha, stay,” Harrington whispers.

Billy’s brow furrows, but he keeps walking away, still trying not to make too much noise.

“Billy,” Harrington moans, and the sound seems to echo in his chest.

“Uh,” Billy freezes, “You... hurt or something? You have your rut?”

Billy would help him through it, if it wouldn’t make him feel sick to do it. Billy’s still in the early days of his transition, or at least it feels that way. Hormones swim through his blood in a strange way, half heat, half rut, and he’s horny as hell most of the time. But being Harrington’s omega for now would actually be too much, too much of a funhouse mirror held up to his desires.

And Harrington really was too beautiful for Billy’s own good. Too beautiful to look at head on, he had to stick to glances from across a room. He didn’t know if he wanted the other alpha or if he wanted to be him. Either way, it was too much, overwhelming.

“Please,” Harrington whispers, “Help-”

“I can find a teacher, we can get you home-”

“Need you, alpha. Billy, I need you,” Harrington groans, “Please, stay, please, please.”

Being called alpha sets a warm fire in Billy’s chest that burns so brightly he exhales a little sigh. He’s so elated it takes him a moment to really hear the other words.

“Harrington,” Billy steps forward and nearly jumps when Harrington reaches out and grasps his wrist.

“Heat,” Harrington gasps, “Need you.”

His hand really is burning up. Billy reached out with his other hand, dropping his forgotten cigarettes somewhere in the darkness. He’s drawn to Harrington’s forehead, somewhere above those pleading eyes. Harrington’s on fire, damp with sweat, his hormones are pulsing in the air.

Billy’s body responds so swiftly, almost violently. He cramps low in his stomach, and begins to fill out his shorts, exhaling softly.

“You’re an...”

Harrington shakes his head, “You can’t tell anyone. Please.”

“Are you... transalpha?” Billy whispers. He almost says, ‘like me’ before he remembers himself. His dad would shit himself if the word got out that his kid was transalpha. Male omegas were valuable, and sometimes it was the only thing that ever seemed to bring Billy value to his father. Billy’s walking on a tightrope too, he would understand if Harrington did the same.

Harrington shakes himself again, “Omega. I’m just... trans.”

Billy’s eyes widen. He’s heard of this though. Transgender Men or Women who wear scent patches to pass as alpha, because it’s safer than being a beta or omega. No one would dare fuck with King Steve unless he fucked with them first. It was part of the whole bitchy, alpha package. And Billy’d bought it hook line and sinker.

“I won’t tell,” Billy whispers, “Who can I get to help you? The nurse?”

Someone must know in this godforsaken town.

“Stay with me,” Harrington begs, his scent slamming into Billy’s senses again, and nearly sending him to his knees.

“I... I...” Billy whispers, “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“I do,” Harrington whines, “I do. Really... I... I want you. Please, help me, and I’ll show you.”

“Harrington-” Billy whispers.

Harrington leans up, tugging on Billy’s arm at the same time, and even though Billy’s mind is filled with anxiety, his body goes easily into the arms of his crush. Harrington throws his arms around Billy’s shoulders, heat enveloping them both like a blanket and Billy’s hips jerk of their own volition.

“Please,” Harrington whispers, “I like you, Billy.”

“Me?”

“Yeah,” Harrington tugs and Billy kneels in the makeshift nest, drawn by instinct and those brown eyes, the warmth of Harrington, hidden here in the dark.

“But I’m not...” Billy swallows, “Not a real alpha yet.”

Harrington leans in, smells at the juncture of Billy’s neck, presses a tiny kiss against Billy’s skin, and it feels like a burn.

“Yes, you are,” Harrington groans, “Fuck, Billy... I like you so much.”

Billy could blame it on the heat. But his resolve crumbles so easily, in his heart of hearts he knows that isn’t true. It’s fucking Harrington, and those pretty brown eyes, and the softness of the way he’s speaking.

“I like you too,” Billy admits, so quietly.

“Then show me, alpha,” Harrington whispers, before he finally presses his lips to Billy’s.

They’re both on fire, bodies twining together, writhing with desire. But the kiss is so soft, tender. It’s like a cool drink of water in the desert, and Billy would drink in every drop Harrington will allow him.

---

@intothedysphoria I hope you like it! Yay unshadowbanned!

[geekade]

The ABCs of the Stanley Cup Finals, 2017 Style

The ABCs of the Stanley Cup Finals, 2017 Style

Hi there, fellow Geekade enthusiasts. I know you’ve gotten used to seeing me share my opinions about the latest in film and television, but this month, with apologies to my good friend and fellow Geekade writer Dave Diorio, I’m taking a break to write about the greatest sports events on earth. No, not March Madness, the NBA Finals, The Super Bowl, The Masters, The Triple Crown, The World Cup, The Olympics or even the World Series. Those are all worthy events, but they cannot match the absolute excitement and nail biting grind that takes place on a frozen stretch of ice in April and May every year. Without a doubt, the greatest sport tournament is the Stanley Cup Playoffs.

This year has been no exception. While the NBA playoffs have literally felt like a two-month slog in the muck that lead to a championship series that every single basketball fan on Earth KNEW would happen, this year’s Stanley Cup playoffs have been absolutely thrilling. The number of games that were either won in overtime or by one goal has been astounding. And for our dessert in the Stanley Cup Finals? We have a potential repeat champion, the dynasty-in-the-making Pittsburgh Penguins facing off against what has to be the feel good story in all of hockey, the Nashville Predators and their city’s explosion as a honkey-tonk, hockey-loving town.

So, dear reader, to help you fully embrace the excitement and immerse yourself in the Cup-Craziness to unfold, here are the ABCs of the 2017 Stanley Cup Playoffs.

A is for… Advantage, as in a man advantage. Hockey is the only sport that routinely has one of the players sit in a penalty box if they commit a penalty on the ice. (Alright, settle down soccer fans. Yes, your sport can lose a man too, but it’s not a routine function of the game. It only happens when a guy gets tossed. And besides, I included the World Cup up above. Take a seat and sing your team’s drinking song.) Watch this final series for man advantages. At the time of this writing, we’ve already had a controversial 5 on 3, which turned the tide of Game 1.

B is for… Beards, as in the playoff beard. Hockey players are notoriously tough athletes. It is not uncommon for a player to get cut or lose teeth by a stray stick in a collision, get stitched up in the locker room, and then come back out to get back into the game. As a point of reference, in my beloved Philadelphia, we have two star basketball players who sat out for a year (or two) with injuries that should have healed in far less time. For lack of a better term, hockey players are lunatics. So is it any wonder that there’s a tradition of growing beards for the playoffs? As if we need another reminder that these guys are burly he-men? By the time the Stanly Cup is awarded, it’s like looking at a team full of the Brawny Towel guys.

C is for… Crosby, as in Sid the Kid, a.k.a. Sidney Crosby. Point of disclosure. I am a Philadelphia fan. (Ok, you can stop laughing now. I mean it.) And it is a tradition that Philadelphia fans absolutely abhor the players on the opposing teams who have talent. And who whine. Players like Larry Bird. Michael Irvin. Kobe Bryant. Bryce Harper. And Sid Crosby. To keep my Philly cred, I have to say that Sid is a crybaby. Truth be told? He’s also one of the best, if not THE best player in the world. He is a force on the ice, and the bigger the game, the more likely it is that he will be a huge part of it. The Penguins are not THE PENGUINS without him. Count on Crosby scoring a huge goal in an important game in this series.

D is for… Day with the Cup. In what is one of the greatest traditions in all of sports, every player on the Stanley Cup winning team is given a chance to take the Cup for 24 hours and do whatever they please with it (short of melting it down) under the watchful eye of a chaperone with the greatest job ever (more on him later). There are amazing stories of players who have take the cup to their hometown where they grew up, players who have their children baptized in the cup, players who take the cup fishing, sailing, swimming, skydiving and, in one famous case (by a player who’s name rhymes with Lark Lessier) to a strip club where the dancer on stage worked the cup into her routine.

E is for… Emrick, as in Mike “Doc” Emrick, the primary NHL play by play man. For the uninitiated, listening to Doc Emrick call a playoff game is like listening to Verne Lundquist call an SEC overtime game between Alabama and Auburn or Gus Johnson call Duke versus North Carolina. You know how fans from around the country universally seem to dislike Joe Buck when he calls the NFL or the World Series? Yeah, that doesn’t happen with Doc Emrick. Coming back to hockey after a bout with cancer, Doc is now a hero to so many and is famous for his list of verbs to use to explain the different ways a puck can be moved up and down the ice.

F is for… Fish, as in Catfish. Hockey is a sport with some strange traditions. When a player scores three goals in a game, it’s called a hat trick. Why? In 1940, a haberdasher in Toronto offered free hats to players who scored three goals in a game. And so a legend was born. Today, when a player scores three in a game, fans litter the ice with hats. In Detroit, it’s been a long-standing tradition for the fans to throw an octopi on the ice in the playoffs. In 1996, the Florida Panthers got to the Stanley Cup Finals where at least once per game, fans would litter the ice with rubber toy rats when the Panthers scored. This year, we can add a whole new take on the “throwing stuff on the ice” thing. Nashville fans are now throwing catfish on the ice. Why is this perfect? For one, it absolutely trolls the Detroit tradition – Detroit has long been a tormentor of Predator fans. Second, is there any more perfect aquatic creature than a catfish to represent a team in the heart of the south? Third and last, a fan from Nashville got a ticket to see Game One in Pittsburgh, drove the 560 or so miles to Pittsburgh, vacuum-packed a dead catfish doused in Old Spice so it wouldn’t smell, taped it to his leg under his pants, took it out of his pants and threw it out onto the ice during the game, much to the dismay of the Penguin faithful. Love this game.

G is for… Goalie. Quarterback. Closer. Goalie. The three most pressure packed positions in all of sports. Stanley Cups have been won by teams with inferior talent simply because they had a goalie playing at the top of his game, or to use a hockey euphemism, “standing on his head.” In May of 1974, my Philadelphia Flyers beat the Boston Bruins in six games in what was considered to be one of the greatest upsets in all of hockey history. Why? Because we had the best goalie in the world at that moment – a lovable French Canadian named Bernie Parent. To this day, 43 years later, I doubt highly that Bernie Parent has ever had to buy a drink in the City of Brotherly Love. The goalie makes or breaks your team. And the Stanley Cup finals are a pressure cooker for goalies. Grab your popcorn!

H is for… Hockeytown, a name sports writers gave Detroit at the height of their greatness in the 1950s. When Detroit returned to hockey prominence and won the Stanley Cup in 1997 (against my Flyers…) the name was reborn as the team won a series of cups after that. Why is that significant to these finals? I would argue that both of these teams could contend for the title of Hockeytown right now. Pittsburgh has a chance to be the first team to repeat as Stanley Cup champions since the Red Wings did it 1997 and 1998. They are, for all practical intentions, a dynasty. And in a city where the Steelers are like a religion, the Penguins have become the biggest story in the city of three rivers. And if Nashville wins? Well, that city is off the hook for this team. More on that later.

I is for… Icing. When a team dumps the puck all the way down the ice to escape intense pressure, icing is called. It’s significant because the team that dumps the puck has to now survive a face-off in their own zone and they’re not allowed to send in any new players to replace the tired skaters on the ice. In the old days, players would race down the ice to decide whether icing would be called; if the team that dumped the puck touched it first, the icing would be waived off. That rule was changed because…well…hockey players would beat the hell out of each other to race to the puck. Maybe they needed to save it for another part of the game. But they’re hockey players. You know…lunatics.

J is for… Jinx. Professional athletes are notorious for being superstitious. An interesting superstition in hockey is that players who have not won the cup can’t EVER touch the cup. Even when NHL players are in the presence of the Cup, they dare not touch it. When the Staal brothers (Marc, Jordan and Jared) were celebrating with their brother Eric who had just won the Cup in 2006 with the Hurricanes, none of them would lay a finger on the Cup - even though it was right in front of them. If you play in the NHL, you just don’t touch the Cup until it’s yours. Another famous jinx followed the New York Rangers. In 1940, when they won the Stanley Cup, one of the players on the team…relieved himself, so to speak…in the cup. The Rangers would not win another Stanley Cup until 1994. Baseball had the curse of the Great Bambino and the Billy Goat. Hockey has the piss cup. (Bah dum bum.)

K is for… the Keeper of the Cup. When players get their Day with the Cup, one man goes from town to town and place to place with the cup. His name is Phillip Pritchard, and he stays with the cup at all times. So, when players travel to the tops of mountains to have their picture taken with the cup, he goes along. When players take the cup to their hometowns or high schools or to pediatric cancer wards, he goes along. When players have their children baptized in the cup, he attends the service. And when Mark Messier, or rather Lark Lessier, takes it to Scores in Manhattan, he goes along. Phillip Pritchard: The luckiest guy with white gloves and a dust rag you’ve ever met.

L is for… Lord Stanley, a.k.a. Frederick Arthur Stanley, the 16th Earl of Darby, was the governor general of Canada in the late 1800s. Because his sons were hockey players, he donated a cup to be competed for by all of the amateur teams in Canada in 1892. Soon after, the cup became the trophy sought by professional teams, and in 1926, the Stanley Cup became the official championship trophy for the National Hockey League.

M is for… Montreal, the home of the Les Habitants, the Bleu-Blanc-Rouge, a.k.a. the Montreal Canadiens. The Montreal Canadiens have won the Stanley Cup more than any other team, a record 24 times. Interestingly enough, Montreal is also the last Canadian team to win the Stanley Cup since 1993, which is a sore spot for anyone who comes from Canada. (Trust me, eh.)

N is for… Nashville, the newest team to the Stanley Cup finals party. Let’s see. A game adored by Canadians. Played on ice. What city in the lower 48 would be a great host? Well, if you thought anyone would have chosen Nashville, you probably would have laughed. But who’s laughing now? The Nashville Predators have become the city’s greatest draw; packing in fans in what is the greatest party on ice. The Predators have a house band. They have a crazy tradition of throwing catfish on the ice. They have a bonkers mascot who rides an ATV on the ice. And in the heart of the deep south, in SEC and NASCAR territory, the Predators now boast a legion of stars who cheer on the Preds. Vince Gill, Amy Grant, Keith Urban, Trisha Yearwood, Kelly Clarkson, Paramore, Marcus Mariota, Kings of Leon, Lady Antebellum and Carrie Underwood are all fanatical followers. Besides the Grand Ole Opry, and the clubs on Broadway, Bridgestone Arena is the place to be.

O is for the Ottawa Canal. Remember that “day with the cup” thing? After a night of celebrating their Stanley Cup victory in 1905, members of the Ottawa Silver Seven felt it necessary to see if one of them could kick the Cup into the Ottawa Canal. One of the players actually connected and the cup was sent to the bottom of the canal, where it stayed until the next day when the players, having sobered up, realized where they had left it.

P is for… Pittsburgh, the home of the Penguins and what is now hockey’s reigning dynasty. If you think Pittsburgh is the “Steel City” with a working class population, you would be right. If you think of Pittsburgh as a city in decline with closed steel mills, you would be dead wrong. Pittsburgh has reinvented itself over the past 20 years and turned itself into a leading city in technology, business and medicine. And Pittsburgh is now as strongly identified with the Penguins as they are with the Steelers.

Q is for… Quick Whistle. The most dangerous places in sports have to be the opening turn of the Indianapolis 500, the starting gate of a triple-crown race, a goal line stand in the fourth quarter and in hockey, the front of the net in the last five minutes of a close game. It is not for the faint of heart. Sticks flying. Players punching. And a rule that says as long as the referee can see the puck, the game is still live. Watch for quick whistles by the referees when the action seems about to boil over into actual violence.

R is for… Rinne, a.k.a. Pekka Rinne, the extraordinary goalie for the Nashville Predators. He has been stealing games throughout the playoffs (standing on his head). His goals against average is under 2, which is outstanding, and he has two playoff shutouts so far. His success will determine whether Nashville can challenge the mighty Penguins.

S is for Subban, a.k.a. P.K. Subban, defenseman extraordinaire. Subban was a stalwart defender with a cannon slapshot who was traded to the Predators this year and has been a steady leader for this up and coming team.

T is for… Trapezoid. Hey, wait a minute. I didn’t know there was going to be any math on this thing. Well, if you look closely at the ice behind the net, you will see a red outlined trapezoid. It’s there because it’s the only place where a goalie can go behind the net to control the puck.

U is for… Underwood, as in Carrie Underwood. The singing of the national anthems of both Canada and the United States is a truly emotional moment. In one memorable game, the PA system broke down in Edmonton and the fans sang the AMERICAN National Anthem, a.k.a. NOT their own anthem, perfectly word for word. Try to catch Lauren Hart sing God Bless America before Flyers’ games, or the anthem before games in Chicago and Boston. But topping them all right now is country music superstar Carrie Underwood who has upped the ante of memorable anthems in Nashville.

V is for… Video Goal Judge. Hockey has turned to technology to make sure goals that are scored are legitimate. Quick story. In 1980, my Flyers lost the final game of a hotly contested Stanley Cup final to the New York Islanders. There were two separate goals scored in that final game which would have been disallowed if we had a video goal judge then. (Curse you, Leon Stickle…) Should I mention the final goal scored by the Blackhawks against my same Flyers team in 2010 from a seemingly impossible angle (which may or may not have gone through the side of the goal and not the front)? Let’s move on and hope that the Video Goal Judge doesn’t play too large a part in determining the outcome of a game. (Although for game one, that wish has already been broken.)

W is for… Wraparound. In hockey terms, when a player flies around the net with the puck and tries to tuck it into the other side of the goal. See: Sidney Crosby.

X is for… Extra Time, a.k.a. Overtime. During the regular season, hockey games are settled with a brief overtime period with three players going against three for five minutes, followed by a soccer style shootout if there isn’t a winner. It’s not the greatest way to settle a game. But in the playoffs, they play until there is a winner. Period. My Flyers beat the Penguins in 2000 in a game that went 5 overtime periods after the regular three. And what’s even better, there aren’t may breaks in the action. In the first three periods, there are planned “TV” timeouts. In overtime, they don’t follow that pattern. The game flies by. Playoff overtime hockey is as good as it gets for excitement and heart-stopping action.

Y is for… Yinzers, a term of endearment for anyone who hails from Pittsburgh. It comes from the “Pittsburghese” accent. If you’re lucky enough to attend the finals in person in Pittsburgh (hopefully with OUT a catfish doused in Old Spice strapped to your leg), you might hear people use this term. Yinzer seems to be a term Pittsburgh residents like to call each other, but they might not like it so much if an outsider calls them the same. Use at your own risk.

Z is for… Zamboni, the name of the machine that “cleans” the ice between periods. It was also the nickname my team gave me when I was playing pick-up hockey when I was a kid. Maybe it was because I spent more time lying on the ice rather than actually skating.

And so, there you have it. Enjoy the Stanley Cup finals. Embrace the craziness of the Predators’ fans. Admire the true talent skating for the Penguins. And remember that you need to shave those playoff beards once the last game is over.

[shirlleycoyle]

Mothers Against Sinister Technology

Today's Terraform speculation is extra super-special: We've got a collaboration with Rose Eveleth, who brings us a story that takes place in the same world of the latest episode of her inimitable Flash Forward podcast—which, to the uninitiated, is a show all about investigating possible futures. This time, she imagines one way the internet as we know it might cease to be—not with a hack, or a crash, but a, well, you'll see. Enjoy. -the ed

Tuesday, September 8th, 2020 // 3:12pm // Morgantown, VA

The news was calling again. Knocking on the front door, interviewing neighbors. How couldn’t you know? Were there any signs? He was a quiet kid. The son of scientists. A nice quiet house. A good street. No warning? Really?

Cindy Williams was standing in the kitchen, holding a cup of coffee that was burning her hands but she didn’t notice. Perhaps if she stood still they will go away. Perhaps if she closed her eyes and stood perfectly motionless they would stop showing footage of her house on TV, stop cycling through the same two photos of her son. Stop knocking on her door. Stop asking her, really? She really didn’t know?

There were flowers on the table. They were at first a welcome surprise. Then she read the card. “For Mrs. Williams. Your son is a hero. All hail the Supreme Gentleman Parker Williams.” She had nothing in her stomach to puke up but coffee, and it burned in her throat.

Even her friends haven’t called. What could they say? What would she say to them. She knew what she wanted to say. It could have been your kid. It could have been yours. Nobody believed her when she said it. Nancy hung up on her when she said it. Nobody wanted to hear it.

The flowers had to go but she didn’t want to touch them. They felt radioactive, like a poison, like she could somehow catch whatever it was had curdled her son.

The walls were still swimming, but that idea was enough for her to open her eyes. To look at the clock. Poison. Her son was poisoned. He caught a sickness. An infection. A horrible disease. Those friends, vectors, and there is no immunization, no retrovirals. A virus. Why not? Things seemed clearer to her now with this thought. Cindy Williams was a scientist. This was a thing to do. Trace the victims to the original well. Find the source of the sickness.

Her cup of coffee was somehow now empty. She opened the side door. It was four steps to the garbage can. The news will replay the footage for weeks. Mother of mass shooter throwing away flowers. Clearly a sign of rot in their house. Perhaps this is where he got it from. Perhaps she did know.

*

Wednesday, September 8th, 2021 // 10:12am // Washington D.C.

"Every mother hopes to see their son’s name in the papers one day. Perhaps as a Nobel Prize winner, or a heroic doctor who cured cancer, or on stage at the opera singing his heart out. We mothers imagine taking the paper around to our neighbors, our sisters, fellow parents at PTA meetings, pointing, saying “look! It’s my boy!” Last week, my son’s name was in the paper. But instead of being my greatest triumph, it was my worst nightmare.

"You likely know my son by now. His face and manifesto have been plastered and dissected by nearly every outlet you can imagine. Last week, he killed thirty two people, barging into a mosque in San Diego, California wielding several semi-automatic weapons, before committing suicide. Like so many other young men these days, he was radicalized online — led down a hellish rabbit hole that warped his mind and slowly eroded his connections to the real world until nothing was left but a lava-like rage just waiting to erupt.

"It didn’t have to be this way. Parker was always a quiet kid, introspective and thoughtful. He had sandy brown hair, and glasses that always seemed too big for his face no matter how many times we got them refitted. He cared deeply about fairness. He stood up to bullies. He worked hard and was always looking out for others. He mowed our neighbor Mike’s lawn when he got too old to do it himself, and never asked for money.

"Like so many boys, Parker retreated from us as he became a teenager. He was a sensitive boy, and the injustices of the world wore at him, slowly eroding his faith in humanity. And who can blame him, really? I too have felt that familiar ache reading the news, that feeling like you’re slowly drowning in a sea of unjust decisions you can do nothing to stop. But Parker seemed to feel them all more deeply, more personally. We worried, of course, as parents, but what was there to do? He didn’t seem any more sullen than the neighbor’s boy, so we let his long hours locked in his room go by.

"It was in those long hours that eventually, Billy found a community. We thought that this was a good thing — he was suddenly talking about friends, making jokes, making eye contact with us even. He came to the dinner table energetic, full of ideas and provocations that he wanted to discuss and debate. We often disagreed with him, and wondered where these new opinions had come from, but at least he was speaking to us. We had no idea where these so-called friends might lead him, to gun shops and ammunition stores and ultimately to horrifying, premeditated murder."

*

Monday, November 16th, 2020 // 11:32 am // Morgantown, VA

It was the idea of sickness that got her going. Her son was a normal kid, infected by something sinister. Cindy Williams was a scientist. She started reading papers, gathering statistics. She guessed her way into her sons accounts. She started making maps of his network. She started sending emails.

The other parents were easy to find. Their names were always somewhere — on PDFs for local soccer tryouts, letters to the editor, public comments at town council meetings, or posted plainly on message boards celebrating their sons. Cindy Williams knew how to find them, and more importantly she knew how to reach them.

“I know you might not see this email. I know because I know what your inbox is like right now. I know because I’ve been there. My son and yours are probably in the same cubicle in hell right now. Parker killed eleven people at his high school two months ago. You can google my name to check.

Anyway, I’ll keep the email short. I’d like to talk. I think we can these horrible things into something good. We can stop this sickness. Call me. 722-398-9937.”

The phone calls came surprisingly quickly. Maria from Cincinnati. Samantha from Bend. Patricia from Boise. Their voices were somehow familiar immediately, that slight hesitation when their boys names come out of their mouth. Like they haven’t said it in a long time out loud.

There was always guarded smalltalk at first, but Cindy wasn’t one to beat around the bush. “It could have been anybody’s kid,” she’d say, abruptly. “Anybody’s.” There was always silence at this part — half relieved, half stunned. “Our kids were infected. It can happen to anybody. And it can be stopped. I think I know how. Do you want to help me?”

*

Wednesday, September 8th, 2021 // 10:12am // Washington D.C.

"It’s tempting to cast Parker as an outlier, and aberration, an extreme and rare case of Internet poisoning. But the evidence suggests otherwise. Just last week the New York Times published proof that the five mass shootings carried out in the last few months were all perpetrated by men who had connected with one another online at some point. Parker had texted with John Graham, the Tempeh shooter, about ammunition supplies. He had shared memes and talked politics with Brian Lewis, the Dallas gunman. He had emailed back and forth about a climate denial conference with Mark Adamson, the Memphis sniper. They were friends, palling around, recruiting new members and spreading their sickness to others online.

"And it’s not just extreme acts of violence that the Internet is spreading like a contagion. Racism, sexism, homophobia, abelism, transphobia, it’s all seeping out from our devices and into our brains. Experts estimate that today, over twenty percent of America is unvaccinated thanks to conspiracy theories pushed by anti-vaccine advocates online. The CDC considers drop in vaccine rates is a bonafide public health crisis, and just two months ago a measles outbreak killed thousands in Berkeley, California, where residents no longer have herd immunity. A full fifteen percent of Americans believe that the Earth is flat. Thirty percent reject the scientific consensus that climate change is real, and are blocking any real action on it — a move that will eventually lead to millions of deaths not just here but all around the world. Online bullying has become an epidemic. Just last week researchers at Northwestern University published work suggesting that the suicide rate among teens is ten times higher than it has ever been in human history. Fifty thousand teens every year take their own lives in the US, and the leading risk factor is Internet use — the number of hours spent on this network where they’re bullied, tracked, and fed unrealistic stories of what they should look like and achieve."

*

John’s hands gripped the steering wheel tightly.

“I can’t believe you’re taking this meeting.”

Cindy stayed quiet. No use in having the fight again, for the fourth time. She smoothed her navy skirt in her lap and rehearsed her spiel in her head. It was a four hour drive to the capital. She had note cards. John turned on the radio.

When they finally wound their way into the city, it was nearly noon. The sky was clear and John had forgotten his sunglasses. He squinted and leaned forward, looking for road names. Cindy looked at her cards. John took several wrong turns. Cindy didn’t notice.

Sliding out of the car, Cindy didn’t look back. John managed a tight “good luck,” and watched her go. He had no idea how long she’d be. He was tempted to drive home, and leave her there. Why did she want to continue to relive this? To talk about their worst moment, to put their family in the spotlight again and again. Instead, he drove himself to the National Gallery of art, and wandered, half aware of his surroundings, avoiding every painting of a family.

The floors in the Senate building had just been waxed. Cindy rarely wore heels, but every television show about Congress suggested that she should. In the lobby there was an imposing black sculpture that could look like a bird or a fighter jet or a cloudy mountaintop. The hallway to the office was long and the fluorescent lights were slightly dimmer than she expected them to be. American flags dotted the way, casting weak shadows on the shiny floor. Half way down the long hallways she realized she had left her cards in the car. But by now she knew what to say.

The Senator was running behind, but when they got into the same room, it was easy. They were just as charismatic as everybody said. Cindy made her plea, and the Senator smiled, took notes. She had a son too. A son who liked to spend time online. A son who could be infected too. “It could have been anybody’s kid,” Cindy said, and the Senator didn’t stop her. Instead she nodded in agreement.

*

"We cannot stick our heads in the sand any longer. My quiet, strange, lonely boy is no longer an exception. There is a darkness spreading. A deep, fundamental sickness. The Internet is poisoning us all and it’s time we did something about it. It’s time to admit that it’s too dangerous, too toxic for public use. It’s time to walk away from the Internet.

"I am no Luddite, nor do I desire to go back to the stone age or drive a horse-drawn carriage to work. There are functions of the Internet that can stay: financial transactions, transportation systems, international shipping, power supplies, infrastructure. We need not cut the cables literally. But everyday people like you and me cannot risk being exposed to such a dangerous technology. We don’t let citizens handle nuclear waste, or certain kinds of military grade weapons. We already recognize that some technology is too dangerous for everyday civilian use. It’s time we realize that the Internet is one of those technologies."

*

Wednesday, September 8th, 2021 // 10:12am // Washington D.C.

Cindy asked John to lint roll her suit one more time. The third time. There's no lint on it. But she’s nervous. She gets one chance to testify. This is the big moment.

She practiced her hand gestures, the way she would transition from grieving mother to powerful change-maker as she went. The caveat just before the crescendo. She practiced balling her fist and punching it into her opposite hand. No, too much. She practiced putting her hands down flat on the desk and leaning forward. Yes, that one.

She walked into the chamber, and notices a piece of lint on her skirt.

No time now, just a proposal to make.

She bent the mic to her mouth, and began.

"There was, perhaps, a time when we could have done something less extreme than cut ourselves off completely, cold turkey. There was a time when we could have regulated the Internet in one way or another. Surely you remember the proposals, the laws, the anti-trust lawsuits. Perhaps you also remember that they never went anywhere — technology companies were already too big, too powerful to stop. Driven by greed, chasing engagement and clicks, they inadvertently created the perfect vector for this sickness. They say mosquitos are the deadliest thing on the planet — killing 725,000 people every year by infecting them with malaria, dengue, yellow fever, west nile. They’re no match for the Internet, infecting millions each year with hate, fear, rage and panic.

"But the Internet has given us so much good, you might be thinking. How can we turn our backs on it? It’s true. I met my husband through the Internet. I share cat memes and make dinner reservations and order groceries online, just like you. But this is bigger than us. Bigger than our convenience, our easy access to media or sex.

"Think of it this way: imagine there was a road in your town that snaked along an active volcano. Driving along the road offers some of the most beautiful views in the world. But it’s treacherous — about 25 percent of people who drive down that road are subsumed by lava. Another twenty percent come out the other side alive, but burned, their lungs permanently altered by the smoke and ash. If you were the mayor of your town, you would close that road, wouldn’t you? Even if the road happens to have some of the most scenic views of the city. Even if you had your first kiss at the roadside pull-off, you’d close it. It’s simply not worth the risk.

"We must close this road. If we don’t, we’re putting our children’s future at risk."

*

Thursday, May 10th, 2026 // 8:00 am // Faxed Statement from MAST

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE: Pioneering Anti-Internet Advocate Cindy Williams Passes Away

Cindy Williams (1972-2026) – The charismatic founder of Mothers Against Sinister Technology (MAST), an organization dedicated to pushing for heavy regulation and even destruction of the Internet, died today surrounded by her friends and family. Sparked by her own son’s descent into what MAST later dubbed “Internet Madness,” Williams successfully lobbied Congress to pass several bills heavily restricting access to the Internet in the name of public safety. Reviled by Internet Freedom advocates, Williams held fast to her belief that the Internet was simply too dangerous for the average consumer to navigate.

Thanks to her tireless advocacy, the world is a safer place.

Mothers Against Sinister Technology syndicated from https://triviaqaweb.wordpress.com/feed/