#fuckin' publicans

[questioningespecialy]

...I got curious

Is the South More Racist Than Other Parts of the US? By Michael Harriot, Published December 4, 2017

Education

Numerous studies have shown that—regardless of the tax base—the more black students enrolled in a school, the lower the funding. Economic segregation still exists. But the percentage of black students in the South who attend schools that are 90-100 percent black is lower in the South than in any other region, according to a 2014 study by UCLA’s Civil Rights Project (pdf). The Northeast was the only region where the number of segregated schools has increased since 1968. The data shows that the average K-12 student in the South is more likely to receive an education closer to that of his or her white counterparts than in any other region in the country. It might not be great, but it is equal.

Employment

One part that made no sense to me is below...

White people in the South had a slightly lower unemployment rate of 3.93. Nationally, the black unemployment rate was 8.2, but slightly lower in the South at 7.99. The numbers show that Southern blacks are slightly less likely than their white counterparts to be jobless.

Either I’m misunderstanding how the rates work, or they meant to say “slightly more likely”. 🤔

Criminal Justice

Throughout the country between January 2013 and June 2017, police killed about 3.96 citizens for every million in the population. In Southern states, the average was slightly higher, at 4.02 people per million, but while more than 9.38 out of every million black citizens were killed by police nationwide, blacks were killed more than a third less often by Southern cops (6.65 per 1 million).

Politics

Of the 52 African-American members serving in the 115th Congress, 22 hail from the 12 Southern states. In a 2015 survey by the National Council of State Legislatures (pdf), although most state legislatures nationwide were less than 9 percent black, Southern state legislatures were 17 percent black.

Economics

Furthermore, according to BlackDemographics.com, of the top 10 states with high black homeownership, nine were in the South. In Forbes magazine’s 2015 list of the cities where blacks are doing the best economically, Southern cities made up 13 of the 15 on the list. Based on all of the objective evidence, African Americans in the South are closer to whites economically and politically and in education and employment. The opportunities aren’t equal, but there is less of a measurable racial divide in the Southern states than there is nationwide.

2023/09/30 edit: Should add that the more people you can count on for financial (and child) help the easier it is to "move up" in any aspect. What I'm saying is, mofos in the South got family to get cheap housing from while they save up for a house.

So Why Do People Think the South Is Racist?

There may be a number of reasons. It is possible that many people still think of the South as “country” and ascribe the stereotypes associated with rural areas to the South. But seven of the 10 blackest cities in the U.S. are in the South, and nine of the 20 biggest metropolises in America are Southern cities. More than 68 percent of people who live in the South reside in urban areas, according to 2010 U.S. census data. (...) But those blatant displays of racism sometimes obscure the fact that there are people across the United States who politely tuck their racism in their pockets every morning. They might not yell the n-word, but they discriminate in the hiring process. Maybe they’ve never burned a cross, but they don’t want black children in their schools or neighborhood. Perhaps it depends on how you prefer your racism—Southern-fried or unseasoned. And none of this is to say that the South is a utopia of people united in brotherhood. It simply is not demonstrably more racist than anywhere else in the country. It is not more racist. It is just racist ...

2 Specific Comments

...really curious

Bits from a Relevant Study

Association between an Internet-Based Measure of Area Racism and Black Mortality by David H. Chae et al, PLOS | Published: April 24, 2015

These findings are congruent with studies documenting the deleterious impact of racism on health among Blacks. Our study contributes to evidence that racism shapes patterns in mortality and generates racial disparities in health.

Proportion of Google queries containing the “N-word” (singular or plural) by designated market area, 2004–2007.

More Bits & More Studies

Map of the Location Quotients for Post 2012 Election Racist Tweets, FloatingSheep

The following images are from SPLC's Hate Map filtered by some of the available ideologies. Image Descriptions kept brief.

Did you know they have Hate Group Flyering Maps aswell? 👀

And now...

I go my ass to bed. Do what ya will with this long post. fuck

Edit...

Of course I've returned (the next damn mornin'). Got some anecdotes to add.

Met a Lady in the Mountain West who told me about a brotha she was friends with who said "I can apply to any job [in CO], but I won't get a callback." mood He eventually moved back to the South.

Met a brotha in the Midwest who was from Louisiana that said "They move slow up here. [MO] is less progressive." yep

Heard some brothas in Louisiana talkin'bout Northerners and one said "In the South, Whites don't care if you make more than them. They just don't want you livin' next door. But in the North, they don't care if you live next door to them. They just don't want you makin' more than 'em." This felt fairly accurate after I moved to the Midwest for college.

edit: I may have mixed up North and South here, it's been too long. 🤔

Heard somebody on Reddit explain it as "In the North, they're "cross the street" kinda racists, and they're 1 in every 4. But in the South, they're "drag you behind a truck" kinda racists, and they're 1 in every 8." have i told you about the time i was not so subtly repeatedly called the N-word by 2-4 different White chicks shortly after arriving on campus for move in day? have i told you about how fucking obviously racist Euros are in the Midwest?

And I'mma always say this shit about y'all asses, the North (basically everything above Arkansas) ain't less racist than the damn South. Y'all just better at hidin' it.

You know what? Destroy the "people in rural areas are all ignorant conservatives" stereotype and start mocking the "trad"/anti-feminist/neonazi people that are obsessed with rural areas despite having never been to one

[musouie]

੭ simon loves to play cat-and-mouse with the lovely little publican | suggestive language, 1.0k wc, angst if you squint, fem!reader

It’s at a dingy hole-in-the-wall pub where Simon found he spent most his time. In a dodgy part of the city, one that perpetually smelled of tobacco and car-exhaust; nestled between a boarded-up shopfront and a seedy hotel that any out-of-towner wouldn’t give a second glance.

There was no sign, no windows — just a lone, flickering porchlight glowing above a decrepit old door, looking so worn and dilapidated that it could fall off its hinges at any moment. It all seemed more like the cover to a bando than an actual pub with scarcely decent ale, but he minded that little.

It meant not too many people frequented it — that he saw the same lot everyday — faces so familiar they blurred and meshed together most nights —

— which was just the way that Simon liked it. Inconspicuous. Subdued.

No one here batted an eye at him, the boulder at the end of the bar, who nursed his drink between a huge paw and sat by his lonesome. Who would? No one here was quite the saint. Otherwise, they’d have long left, made for the hills when they heard half the conversations that went on:

Of rogue smuggling. Gun trades. Dirty deals. Attempted hits.

It was only a plus, Simon mused solemnly, eyes lidded and trained on the bird before him, that you were here. The pretty little publican, as sweet as a fig in the midst of summer, plump and dangling from the vine.

(He wanted to sink his teeth into you, peel your flesh back, savour you to your core.)

Your hands were nimble, fingers rolling around bottles and skimming against ice as you poured a golden light ale into a chipped, glass mug. A flick of your hand and a fizz bloomed atop the drink, foam ebbing at the sides, flirting with the rim before settling. A fair pour, he reckoned, no ounce wasted. It was one of your virtues, really. An eye for a measure and a patient pour.

Simon caught you in his periphery, saw your head was tilted to the side and his lips pursed. Had you said something?

He cocked his brows up at you, inquisitive, glancing away from his drink. (It was only you he’d do this for. A sacrifice of the greatest kind, he’d wager.)

“Havin’ a night?” you hummed, leaning against the counter. You were close enough that he could see down your shirt, your dainty, little breasts outlined with the help of your nude brasserie.

No, yes.

Maybe. Could you see the weariness in his eyes? The lilt of the bags underneath them? His posture was slouched, but with an undercurrent of tenseness, the type of rigidity that clung until it was instinct — ran clear down to the sinew, blood…marrow.

You were perceptive. Maybe a bit too much so.

What could you glean from him now?

He shifted in his seat, drumming his thick, misshapen knuckles against the countertop. “Wha’ would make you say tha’, dove?” Simon hummed, low and sonorous.

A pause. Fingertips danced on the glass bar top, tapping in a cadence that suggested you were deep in thought.

“You haven’t flirted with me all night.”

He smiled behind his mask, crow’s feet crinkling as his mouth twisted peculiarly, mirth so foreign his lips couldn’t even lift without a fight.

“Tha’ makes it seem like all I think about is fuckin’ you.”

He ignored how his chest thrummed, pulsated, rumbled, alive and aflame. (A rare occurrence, a rare fusion.)

“Don’t you?” You glanced over, furtive — shy almost, if it weren’t for the coy little smile across your lips. Smug, self-satisfied, beguiling, bewitching; your mouth, your mouth, your mouth.

“May be a lad, but I think ‘bout other things.”

(The odious squelch of blood. Explosions that shook his ribcage and rattled his teeth — strained his maw. Gristle and flesh and innards and brimstone, the stench of them rife when they were raw and unburnt, prodding at his feet.)

“Oh, really?” You leaned further, breasts pressed against the lip of the counter and met his hooded eyes with your sceptical ones. Curiosity danced in your irises, untamed and bursting at the seams. “Like what?”

His gaze briefly flitted down to your cleavage, the supple skin of your breasts plumped between your arms, rising and falling with the jagged rhythm of your breaths. “Brews, birds,” — this, punctuated with a shrug of his broad shoulders — “bike engines. Bein’ of good company.”

“Bloke like you? Company?”

“‘m sure there’s good blokes even in the bowels of hell,” Simon huffs, lightly chagrined.

“Yeah? Like who?”

“Napoleon,” he provided with a crude grin, amused and impious. “Lucky fuck could nab a cunt like Josephine.”

“A dead cunt’s nuthin’, yeah?” Simon snorted; it’s low and gruff, but his eyes gleamed — danced with humour and the unbridled joy of provocation, dark and bottomless, obsidian pits that pulled and pulled and pulled, further and further. “Only you would think he’s good, bein’ a military bloke like yourself.”

Simon smirked, loosened his grip about his glass. “You ask me wha’s wrong just to insult me, dove?”

“But you offer yourself up so willingly, Si.”

He tried not to dwell on how sweet his name sounded tumbling off your tongue, like honey. Sugary sweet nectar that caused a swell in his veins. “Bugger off, bird.” Simon thumbed the edge of his glass. “Shitty service and rude staff. Remind me why I keep comin’ back?”

It was the little quirk of your lips that got him every time.

“‘Cos you love the ale.”

𝐦𝐮𝐬𝐨𝐮𝐢𝐞 © 2024 𝐀𝐥𝐥 𝐑𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬 𝐑𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐝. it is prohibited to reproduce, distribute, or transmit my works in any form or by any means! ﾉ masterlist

[lichqueenlibrarian]

I liked Deep Domain, there were several moments I thought were carried off terribly well, but I think the latter part of the book suffers a bit from So Much happening.

The setup with Captain Kirk feeling worn out and giving serious thought to going home after they finish up with Akkalla I thought was well done. You do get this great sense of tiredness and doubt in himself, carried over from the Motion Picture where he wonders if he’s gone stale, if his reactions aren’t what they would’ve been before he took the promotion to Admiral. Akkalla’s crisis is interesting- they have a guérilla band of activists, a rival planet disregarding the treaty they have and rampantly poaching sea life, and a corrupt government whose ineffective Publican is being manipulated by his closest aide/lover/brigadier. The brigadier is actively plotting the overthrow of the government to put herself at the top.

Midway through the book the brigadier’s plotting feels like it just drops away? The focus shifts to one of the Akkallan scholars, Llissa Kkayn and her estranged father Zzev who happens to be a member of the Cape Alliance (the aforementioned guérilla environmentalist types), and the Enterprise is drawn into solving the mystery of the wwafida, a mythical species of sentient aquatic life whose fossils are strangely similar to the land dwelling Akkallans’ bones.

I think after setting up an ineffectual government head and giving him an evil but sexy brigadier who is manipulating him AND the Akkallan people, dropping that plotline so McCoy can turn a man into a wwafida (conveniently they're revealed to be telepathic so they can communicate with Spock), is a bit strange. I was more invested in the political mess, and how they were going to exonerate the scholars and scientists after all the misinformation from the government.

The threat of the other planet and the brigadier’s scheming are both wrapped up almost as an afterthought? The Enterprise intercepts a harvest team, fires some shots across the mothership’s nose and tells them to quit it. The Publican gets a call from Kirk that’s basically “we have enough evidence of the wwafida to convince the Federation that your planet needs an investigation” and the Publican just… folds. The brigadier who until now has been murdering, manipulating and fucking her way to power (I love her for it honestly) gets a call to stop her military action against the harvest ships/the Enterprise’s shuttle, and NONE OF HER SOLDIERS BACK HER?? They fuckin knock her out and go back to the mainland for trial without batting an eye.

I was expecting a little more drama out of that, if I’m going to be frank. It felt a bit rushed, which is sad because there were so many cool parts. Jim and Llissa explore an underwater cave and find a cache of bones and artefacts implying the existence of the wwafida and that they have some sort of culture. Spock and Chekov are kidnapped and then are held prisoner by the government and used in a trumped up trial to defend the actions taken by the Publican. The brigadier is so delightfully amoral I wanted to see more of her being the villain.

I liked this book, I just feel like it could’ve had less going on and still been good.

[ronmanmob]

[ establish ] Beth knows that Ron isn't one for certain public displays, and for the most part, she's been extremely amenable to keeping up public appearances. But there's something about being in Esmeralda's that she can't quite put her finger on; maybe it's how much of the place seems more Panini than it does her publican. The lads gathered around aren't as familiar to her, except Pat, though there are one or two others she'd put money on would have Ron's back. She doesn't hate the fact that he turns heads ~men and women alike~ because he certainly has that effect on her, too. No, she isn't sure what it is. But unlike some people she knows, she isn't going to raise voice and make a fuss, which will in turn provoke a scene. She has far more respect for Ron than that. So instead, she lets them speak for one another. Broad back and shoulders to a part of the bar where he can survey the domain and not have anyone come up behind him he makes the perfect bulwark against the other patrons. Beth leans into him then, tucking her head under his chin, and pressing every slight curve into his equally broad chest.

Lean Into Me Meme

The automatic six foot berth Esmerelda's High Top clientele gave him almost his comical at this point. Propped up by the bar, quite at ease in the world, Ron watched London's high and mighty breeze by him like he had the plague; their courses bowing out to keep that distance constant every time he so much as shifted position. The impassivity of his mien...well, that heightened the effect he had, but it was serving double duty now. Both deflection and mask, it hid his amusement; derisory and edged with self-deprecation as it was. His condition--

..'Ee's a fuckin' monstah..

Ah yes.......There it was.

His condition made true enjoyment of the moment impossible, but what jollity those fuckers upstairs didn't douse in ice water remained despite the look of a scowl on Ron's face. If you didn't laugh you'd cry as the saying wisely went, much as weeping bought him no relief these days. So it was that he watched with a dispassionate gaze as a thousand elegant chiffons meandered by on the arms of a thousand more tailored hats and tails.

It was a Reginald night here, a Proper High Class Affair with all the attendant glitz and glamour that one of those attracted. Ron was sure a celebrity or five was in attendance, much as he couldn't pick them out the crowd. His disconnect from that strata of society was such that he'd given Reggie a heart murmur by treating such people like people instead of the rarefied things his brother seemed to want them treated as. After the last of those debacles Ron had just pulled back from these nights completely, hence his being a guest this evening instead of working staff or security, and hence as well...God bless her...

His lady Beth was in attendance.

As if called by his thoughts of her his angel emerged from the crowd and came right to him, breaching that six foot berth like it was nothing; like it wasn't between her and the most dangerous man in the room. That to her he couldn't be that, wouldn't ever be that didn't matter to all and sundry passing. More than one wanderer cast glances Beth's way as she tucked herself right into the personal business of The Smiling Man's twin brother who looked, to them, like he was waiting only for a pretext before committing some atrocity or other but to her looked like, and was, home.

The moment her slight weight pressed into him Ron shifted, tucking his arm round her body and resting his chin atop her head. His eyes were on the crowd still, mindful of it always, but his bulwark against the room and its denizens protected Beth now, not just himself. Into her hair then dipped his nose, his lips; a kiss landed, then a second and then, a question rumbled through the room's encompassing din:

"--Can y'take much more'a this?"

He'd lost the cog for it a half hour back, but keeping face was keeping face.

[ronmanmob]

The exchange of cash from punter to gaffer was quick and quiet, as was how the notes moved from gaffer to barman - Ron's ever-ready assistant Jack - who disappeared into the bar's back of house to procure what he knew this one specific client of theirs was after. He had a bat's ears did Jack, and a hawk's eyes to go with 'em. Nothing in his bar got by him, though Mr Trilby's furtiveness he paid no mind. Addicts got like that between doses, but Jack had a fix for that.

Back out front, Ron was all ease and personable affability.

"Promised yah a whiskey, didn't I-" he said, selecting a glass from the neatly organised and lovingly polished panoply on the shelf behind him. He chose a top shelf amber for his returning customer and sat two-fingers-worth near his hand atop the bar as they awaited quick-footed Jack's return. You didn't keep your product up top where raids could find it, did'ja? No. It went elsewhere, where quick-foots and the gaffer knew where it was but no one else.

"M'gettin 'on wiv gettin 'on" Ron said, getting to Eli's question once he'd given his clientele the once over and found everyone in-hand for drinks. "Mum's alrigh', aunt's alrigh', business is tickin' ovvah-" He was talking about the drinks, his above-board work, not the Emotions racket with all its underhanded tendrils. Even in the midst of what amounted to a drug deal, there was an iron door between that action and the man Eli was conversing with as a person.

"Dogs are 'ow they've always been - soppy 'n always up f'fuss. No charge f'tha'-" A gesture indicated the whiskey in its glass; a brief track-skip in mind before Ron got back to the rundown. "-N beyond all'a tha', ain't much doin', Ain't much changed. You been th'same? Al-"

"Boss."

Ron turned at Jack's return, palmed the veil he'd bought with him and turned back to Eli, slipping it in the neat little leather pouch he packaged it in for privacy's sake under his customer's hat. It was as much a species of playfulness, that move, as it was a nod to that self-same privacy and the need for it. Even dealing, Ron was Ron. Friendly in his way, if a little odd round the edges.

"Good lad" the publican-gangster said to Jack, who gave a prideful head tilt and a wink's implication as he got back to keeping their front of house running. Then, Eli was Ron's focus again.

"Room's open f'yah" he said, offering up the establishment's Imbibing Room in case Eli needed his fix now. The room locked from the inside, the only external key living on Ron's belt loop; privacy ensured, but with a mind to emergencies. Ron's goods were as clean as new-made whistles, but the desperate could also be the unbelievably stupid; hoarding doses, bringing them in without a by-your-leave and ODing all over the fuckin' carpet. Not that Ron thought so lowly of Eli, but care was care and carpet was expensive.

"I know, Ron." Eli breathed out a laugh, knowing exactly what the consequences were from taking too much. He had seen multiple users coming through P.A.S.E's makeshift treatment centres, desperately crying out and completely lost. They had no idea where they were, stuck between hallucinations and reality; everything and everybody was a threat. Most of them resorted to violence against others, but their fear often resulted in them attempting to take their own lives; an escape from a suffocating world of their own vivid imagination. It was a terrifying sight that even the hardiest of souls could not shake from their memories. But they were trained to remain composed and focus on keeping them - and others - safe until the worst of it was over. And it was horrendous. Eli had experienced a bad episode before after injecting a toxic batch of Happiness. Instead of pleasant visions, he was plagued by those of the war and forced to continuously watch his fellow men picked off one-by-one. After the effects worn off, there was nobody on the other side to offer comfort. Alone, as usual. He refused to leave the attic for almost two weeks afterwards. But the pull of its properties were too tempting to ignore for long -- he soon relapsed again.

In Ron he could trust, however. He was never sold a false promise. Every dose contained exactly what he needed, and the owner provided a safe space to do it in. It was what made a recent revelation all the more conflicting. Eli never expected to hear Kray mentioned in a morning meeting, but the owner was on their immediate radar. Once P.A.S.E had vital information about how his operation was ran, including any locations or people involved, they were going to deploy a large-scaled raid in a bid to shut everything down. They had successfully prevented the distribution of Emotions multiple times in the past, often driving criminals into wreck and ruin. And all Eli could do was sit there and listen, trying his best to remain stoic as he heard details about a gentleman he regarded favourably. It was his biggest secret. None of them were aware of his Emotion addiction, never mind sourcing it directly from their current target. Elsner - leader and friend - would never forgive him. He quickly left that meeting with an over-whelming sense of paranoia that every single member was staring straight at him.

"Always. I never doubt you to look after me," he responded to the confirmation, placing enough down to cover the cost. It was a huge risk being here, but the exchange of money had already sealed his fate. P.A.S.E had no idea where this place was -- yet. Eli would never tell. But for now, he could indulge for another night. Once that first dose of Happiness hit, the guilt settling heavily in the pit of his stomach would dissolve into care-free giddiness. Nevertheless, as he waited for Ron to provide him with a vial, he found himself glancing around the room for any familiar faces. None. His shoulders automatically relaxed, fingers loosening their tight hold on his trilby placed upon the bar top. With a casual demeanour, he turned back and offered the owner a warm smile.

"How have you been, Ron?"

[kineticpenguin]

So in the US, after about 20 years of GWOT, you best believe “thank you for your service” and the like has worn pretty fucking thin.

And now the same outlets are all about how the Essential Workers are heroes, from the medical personnel to Amazon stockers to the fast food workers. And well.

You ain’t. Fuckin’. Foolin’. Anybody. And this will be remembered. It will reach critical mass.

This is nothing new, really. Even Rudyard Kipling was writing poems about this sort of convenient “you’re the heroes” shit.

I went into a public-'ouse to get a pint o' beer, The publican 'e up an' sez, "We serve no red-coats here." The girls be'ind the bar they laughed an' giggled fit to die, I outs into the street again an' to myself sez I:    O it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, go away";    But it's "Thank you, Mister Atkins", when the band begins to play,    The band begins to play, my boys, the band begins to play,    O it's "Thank you, Mister Atkins", when the band begins to play.

I went into a theatre as sober as could be, They gave a drunk civilian room, but 'adn't none for me; They sent me to the gallery or round the music-'alls, But when it comes to fightin', Lord! they'll shove me in the stalls!    For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, wait outside";    But it's "Special train for Atkins" when the trooper's on the tide,    The troopship's on the tide, my boys, the troopship's on the tide,    O it's "Special train for Atkins" when the trooper's on the tide.

Yes, makin' mock o' uniforms that guard you while you sleep Is cheaper than them uniforms, an' they're starvation cheap; An' hustlin' drunken soldiers when they're goin' large a bit Is five times better business than paradin' in full kit.    Then it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, 'ow's yer soul?"    But it's "Thin red line of 'eroes" when the drums begin to roll,    The drums begin to roll, my boys, the drums begin to roll,    O it's "Thin red line of 'eroes" when the drums begin to roll.

We aren't no thin red 'eroes, nor we aren't no blackguards too, But single men in barricks, most remarkable like you; An' if sometimes our conduck isn't all your fancy paints, Why, single men in barricks don't grow into plaster saints;    While it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, fall be'ind",    But it's "Please to walk in front, sir", when there's trouble in the wind,    There's trouble in the wind, my boys, there's trouble in the wind,    O it's "Please to walk in front, sir", when there's trouble in the wind.

You talk o' better food for us, an' schools, an' fires, an' all: We'll wait for extry rations if you treat us rational. Don't mess about the cook-room slops, but prove it to our face The Widow's Uniform is not the soldier-man's disgrace.    For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Chuck him out, the brute!"    But it's "Saviour of 'is country" when the guns begin to shoot;    An' it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' anything you please;    An' Tommy ain't a bloomin' fool -- you bet that Tommy sees!

[definitely-cursed]

OH MY GOOOOOODDDD I just remembered

I’m working at the local gift shop/pharmacy where my mom works for some extra income around the holidays

And the head pharmacist is a huge tr*mper and r*publican and after a heated discussion with me and my mom about how drumpf isn’t racist she said that she hates how her party is perceived

Like she hates being called racist, ITS A SLUR 😭😭😭😭

And I was like

No

No it isn’t.

You literally work with a black woman, who just heard you say this ignorant ass shit

She could tell you what a fuckin slur is.

You’re racist. You think you aren’t bc your husband is latino, but you were just saying some racist shit about Mexicans crossing the border with kids that aren’t theirs bc it’s human trafficking and the kids are better off in FUCKING CAGES. It’s not a slur, it’s a fact. Fuck off

[licensedlesbian]

If u ever think your parents are kind of conservative, the reason my name is Regan is because of Ronald Reagan, my mom subscribes to a literal alt right propaganda news channel called “One America News” whose content is just a constant loop praising Donald Trump with no commercial breaks but instead breaks where they reiterate they are not fake news and also talk about God and the troops overseas, so in summary: r*publicans are fuckin lunatics

[pleasantandcain]

R*publicans are wild they “value privacy”… but also want to know your fuckin genes and genitals like what the actual fuck

[alleys-mitt-blog]

Closer To God

Some things are better left unexplained. People like to draw their own conclusions, especially about strangers, those who don’t belong. Those who aren’t from around here. The locals had already made up their minds about me before I ever climbed up the stairs to the stage. I noticed their stares as soon as I walked through the front doors. As I perched upon an empty stool and waited to order a drink I could hear their drunken whispers. Who’s this guy? Where’d he come from? What’s he doing here? The barkeep shot me a glance and then went back to drying the glass in his hand, a more important task than serving a stranger. Surely, I was only there to cause trouble. I creased a fresh blue hundred lengthwise and sat it upon the bar top. The tender snarled as he sat down the extremely dry glass, slung his towel over his shoulder and finally approached.

“Bourbon on the rocks, any kind will do.” I never drank bourbon, or any liquor for that matter. Truth was I didn’t drink much at all, and when I did I preferred a cold draught to the burning of a higher proof. But this was a special occasion.

Without saying a word, the dubious publican grabbed a familiar, black-labeled bottle with a large No. 7 printed on the front. Since we were a lot closer to Tennessee than Kentucky I felt it wise to not correct him.

“Ice machine’s down.” The bartender filled a shot glass and sat it down in front of me, careful not to flatten the blue tent. Without touching the money, he asked if there was anything else I needed. I flashed him a peace-sign and he filled 2 more jiggers.

“Where you from, friend?” His sarcasm hung off that last word like clothes on a wire.

“California,” I answered, and he gave me an exaggerated aaahh, as if I had given him a lot more than the state of my origin.  I returned to my booze without any further self-revelations.  Some things are better left unexplained.

. .  .

What if Death held a grudge? What if, upon being summoned, Death would not rest until he had amassed the required allotment of souls? And what if you were able to outrun Death, and in doing so would turn Death loose on your family or friends or loved ones? What if Death behaved like a bookie owed a debt by a would-be cardsharp that found it easier to skip town than pay up, so goons were dispatched to break the arms and legs of brothers and cousins and mothers until the degenerate could be found?

When I awoke in the hospital, there were three doctors standing bedside, all of them peering over a folder in the middle doctor’s hands. Pages were flipped back and forth, beards and heads were scratched, brows furrowed. Once they saw that I had regained consciousness their queries came so quickly I could barely keep track of who was asking which question.  They ultimately attributed my survival to some sort of miracle; surely no human body should retain its functionality after ingesting that many pills. Unbeknownst to them, I attributed it to my previous year of cocaine abuse strengthening my tolerance for all narcotics. All of my tests showed normal brain function and after a few hours I was released.

Two days after my failed attempt my grandmother died. Acute myocardial infarction, my dad had said over the phone, between sobs. Grandma had been a beacon of health. She ran the daily bingo games at her local senior center, still bowled in the same alley my dad grew up in, still waited tables at a local pub not because she needed the money but because she got bored of staying home all day and watching her stories. She didn’t want to be the stereotypical old lady. She didn’t drink, didn’t smoke, she ate all her vegetables. She was as vigorous at 80 as she had been at 40, and I had killed her. My body had consumed the deadly mélange like Children’s Tylenol, so instead, Death took Grandma’s heart as collateral.

It had rained the night of my fruitless felo-de-se and continued to rain throughout the next day, a much needed relief from the drought being suffered all throughout Los Angeles. The cab that picked me up at Cedars-Sinai featured a leaky roof, only above the backseat, and came equipped with manual windshield wipers that were operated by the driver’s pulling and releasing of shoe strings tied to the blades.

The next morning, I was roused from sleep by a woodpecker jackhammering away at the tree just outside my window. Pulling back the curtains I was temporarily blinded by the startling sunshine. It must have been very early in the morning, for my east-facing jalousie revealed the sun barely cresting the horizon. The rainclouds had run away in the middle of the night, and I marveled at the beautiful greenery of the landscape.

I pulled the glass louvers shut and closed the curtains, shutting out the sun’s rays and the bird’s trepanning. My cell phone confirmed the sun’s time-telling, and I noticed I had a missed call from my dad. No voicemail, no text message. I returned the call and was given the grim news. After consoling my dad and offering to help him with my grandmother’s final services, I terminated the call and booked the next flight to Atlanta. Surely Death wouldn’t be so cruel as to take down an entire airbus just to get me.

. .  .

The drive from Atlanta to Helen, GA is about two hours. My grandmother was born and raised in Helen, as was my father. He had gone off to college in Atlanta but moved back home the day he graduated. I was a third-generation Helenite, but I’d left for Hollywood the minute I turned 18 and hadn’t been back to the south since. My hometown now appeared foreign.

The sun had set long before I drove into town. Before going to see my dad, I had planned on visiting Grandma’s favorite places, the spots where she felt most at home. Consequently, Tuesday’s Pub was the only establishment still open for business after midnight. I did not need GPS to find Grandma’s final place of employment. Helen was that small of a town.

“That thing work?” I eventually asked my new friend, downing my fifth whiskey and pointing to the karaoke machine shoved in the corner of the otherwise empty stage.

“It does, but you won’t find anyone in here that knows how to work it.”

“Mind if I give it a shot”? I hopped off my wooden perch and headed for the stage, not waiting for permission. I gave the mouse a wiggle, waking the monitor from its slumber, and fired up the karaoke software, the only icon on the desktop besides defaults. I was amazed at the decent strength of their internet connection, and quickly found the song I wanted to sing. I clicked the right-pointing triangle, the universal symbol for Play, and approached the mic stand.  Two taps from my fingertips reverberated loudly from the subwoofers, echoing throughout the tavern and startling the surly patrons, who all turned their unfriendly gazes towards me.

“This song is for you, Grandma.” I hardly recognized my own voice at that amplification.  After all, I played the drums. I was no singer. But this was a special occasion.

As I sang along with Trent, telling the crowd they let me violate and desecrate and penetrate them, I could feel their anger swell. As I crooned for their help, a beer bottle whizzed by my head and shattered against the wall behind me. By the time I was telling the crowd what I wanted to do like an animal, several large, angry locals were quickly approaching the stage, casting aside tables and stools, leaving splintered wood in their wake.

The insults hit the stage before the mob. This faggot wants to fuck his grandma! You ain’t fuckin my grandma, asshole! He’s lucky Carol’s grandsons ain’t here yet, they’d fuck him up! Before making it out of the first chorus I was being carried and drug towards the entrance, fists and fingernails finding my face, steel-toed and high-heeled boots finding my ribcage.

Some things are better left unexplained.

Helen’s Finest had summed me up well before the first shot I took. There was no changing their minds. They wouldn’t be the least bit moved by me telling them how, after my mom ran off to love some man who wasn’t my dad, how Grandma used to drive me to high school. How she used to let me tune the stereo in her station wagon to an alternative rock station, the only other station besides a gospel one and a country western one that we could get clear reception from.  How she used to love when a single by a band called Nine Inch Nails would come on. How she would hum along, not knowing any of the words and not caring to know them. How the FCC was probably always listening and so the songs were all censored, so even if she was trying to learn the lyrics she’d never hear what Mr. Reznor wanted to do like an animal. Know, they could never understand how that song could be attributed to a grandson’s favorite memories of his recently deceased Grandma Carol. How, with their beating and punching and kicking and insulting, they were bringing me closer to God.

It was the bartender who eventually ended the melee. Casting everyone aside until he was the only one standing over me, hands on his hips, staring into my bloody face and toothless grin, looking for a glimpse of someone recognizable.

“Michael?” My name came from his lips in the form of a question, his hand jutted out towards me, offering to help me to my feet. Without any words I accepted his offer, smiling a big bloody toothless grin at him. Some things are better left unexplained.

I brushed myself off, found my shoes and returned them to my feet. The circle of locals had widened at the bartender’s behest. Pushing through the crowd without any words, I ran back into the tavern, jumped onto the stage from the front, foregoing the stairs. I gave the mouse a wiggle, waking the monitor from its slumber, and clicked to replay the last song. I turned up the volume, both for the microphone and the music track.

“This next song is for my Grandma!”

[ronmanmob]

Continued from (x) with @tarnishedhalo

The only flake Riley's aware of is ~in fact~ his sister, though maybe he should call her granola instead, because she's a little nuts too. He's pretty sure Ron would know nothing about that. Except for the row they got into for reasons he's not to proud to recall, he doesn't really talk about his sister. As if somehow just thinking about her will summon her to his side and then he's playing the how-many-guys-is-he-gonna-have-to-wreck game. But in the fraction of a second it takes for that to go through his mind, the joke falls into place when he sees the silver foil. 

Earns Ron an unfiltered chuckle, that does, and the picks up the single malt first. Lifts it up and breathes in the warmth, honey-like and seductive, the bite of peat smoke on the back of his tongue. That chuckle turns into a smile. Ron's hand being stopped on the bar by one of Riley's own. 

"S' cute, but you know that ain't how this shit works. We're gonna do it proper-like." And maybe there's a bit more whiskey on his breath than anyone might be comfortable with. His other hand comes up and coils long blunt fingers around the back of Ron's neck, and perching himself against the brass rail and bartop so the length of his torso so Ron doesn't have to strain himself. It's a loud smacking sound as he plants a kiss square on the pub owner's lips. Then he pulls back and smiles. 

 "Slainte!"

The amount of self control it took to keep Ron in his skin as that hand trapped his neck and Riley neared him, smacked that kiss home-- The amount it took not to yank back, push or clout the dear but soused and Much Too Close Irishman - for he was one in his marrow, so he’d told Ron and Ron believed him - was more than the publican-gangster could rightly fix a figure to. Rigid still, his teeth clenched, lips pressed closed and breath held ‘til Riley was at range again, it was all Ron could do to keep hold of the other’s arms as he balanced on brass and grinned at him like the Cheshire fucking Cat. A ripple of gleeful surprise went through the crowd around them, the party atmosphere drowning detracting voices so quick none reached Ron’s ear; were there any to drown at all. London had changed since he’d been a pup getting his teeth kicked in for smiling at the wrong chap in the wrong moment. 

None’a that though made the inside noise recede. 

None of it gentled how he needed to scrub at his face.

Graciousness though meant he wouldn’t do that in presence of Riley. The man wouldn’t understand beyond wrong-headed assumptions and Ron...Ron hadn’t the bandwidth just this second to explain it to him. Turning his face aside a mo and huffing out the breath he’d held, Ron took a half step towards the bar parting them and firmed his grip on his mate’s arms. 

“Sit. Your. Arse. Dahn” he said, his voice raised a touch to be clearly heard through the music and the singing and the revelry around them. Gentler then for the span of six words- “Yer fuckin’ lucky I like you. Ain’t no one else in this room’d get away wiv tha’ sort’a bollocks. Now sit-” A nod towards Riley’s stool, Ron’s grip still firm enough to keep him steady.

“-N I’ll fetch yah sumfin’ t’soak tha’ whiskey up aht th’kitchen.” Gentle again, almost coaxing but not quite. “---C’mon. Arse on seat, please.”

[ronmanmob]

"Aside from me," he flashes a grin with just enough confidence to border arrogance, "cause I'm *everyone*'s type. What's your usual? What do you go for, what do you like?"

It was all Ron could do at first to throw his head back and laugh at his companion's opener. 'Aside from you!' the publican-gangster parroted, jokingly waving the request off. 'Well shit man, gimmie an impossible job why don'tcha! S'like ovvahlookin' Laphroaig f'Teacher's whiskey, y'know? Th'difference in quality...' Laughter petered out easily into a rickety chuckle as Ron shook his head fondly at his friend. Along with the rest of him, he did admire the man's confidence.

'Like a man 'oo looks afta 'imself - like th'look 'n feel'a muscles undah firm skin 'n everyfin tha' comes along wiv tha'. Nice arse in 'is trousers, nice thighs, strong back. Add tha' t'a fine sense'a style 'n m'a chat away from fetchin' me coat.' A flicker-smirk came on. 'Prefer a clean shaven face on a man, though stubble ain't deafly. 'N looks...' Ron inclined his head contemplatively.

'Not t'beat rahnd no bushes mate, bu' I've stepped aht wiv chaps 'oo're ruggedly 'andsom, 'n chaps 'oo're th'person equivalent of calligraphy written with th'mos expensive fountain pens on th'market - y'get my drift? Th'most elegant men, refined by life, not made rugged by it. Yes, a strong jaw is nice lookin'; same goes f'lips tha' look t'av been made by God f'kissin', 'n eyes tha' burn wiv intensity - no mattah their colour. Bu' t'me it mattahs 'ow a person wears their face, y'undahstand? 'Ow their smile changes it, 'ow they look when they're speakin' passionately abaht somefin, 'n I know tha' mus' sahnd fluffy as goose feavers bu' I don't mean it tah. Mos' beau'iful man in th'world could lay 'imself dahn f'me, bu' if 'is eyes're dead when 'ee's beckonin' me close I'd run a fuckin' mile.'

A shudder went up Ron's back at the very notion. He busied himself with his cuffs, distracting himself; shaking off the sudden case of the heebie-jeebies he'd managed to bring on without meaning to.

'--Ow's abaht you, lad?' he asked, fixing on Andy in aid of continued distraction. 'Wha's yer usual? Wha'd y'like 'n go for?'