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granddaughterogg · 5 years ago

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How do you think the Horsemen would react to learning that their s/o broke it off only to later learn they were threatened by the Council to do so?

Ah, fam, you’re breaking my heart here, but I’ll try.I suppose that by “learned that they broke it off” you probably meant that the S/O dumped them via a letter or text (shudder…) rather than gathering up the courage to tell them in person? That’s abysmal in and of itself and I can tell you that as different as they are - all the Four would take this really, really, REALLY bad.

Fury: Mad

She would feel as if she’s been slapped in the face. With a loo rag. Her pride cannot comprehend such humiliation. She used to think lowly of your race but learned to leave prejudice behind, open her heart and become more trusting. She really took a liking to you. And this is what she gets for her trouble.

After receiving the message she probably went and massacred something in the most unsightly way just to let off steam. She desperately wanted to hunt you down and demand further explanations, but again, that pride was like a chain that kept her pinned in place. You didn’t want to see her ever again? Fine. You weren’t going to. Even if she had to remain a flaming, festering ball of hurt and rage until the end of her days.

The revelation that it was all the Council’s doing falls on her like a comforting blanket. So it wasn’t you who have been proven untrustworthy - it’s been them and their scheming all this time. Fury feels immensely relieved that she hasn’t been dumped. She’ll go to you right away and act as if this whole faux-breakup was not a big deal at all, assuming a no-nonsense “why didn’t you tell me that they were threatening you, silly?” attitude instead. She wants to put this whole ordeal behind the two of you as fast as possible. And focus on making the responsible party pay.

War: Sad

When War got your message, he needed to sit down, because it felt as if he got clobbered over the head. With a church bell. He’s not that great with introspection, so he wasn’t able to name the feeling that crept on him. All he knew that it was as if all the colours, sounds and flavours have seeped out of his world.

The thought of finding you and asking you questions did cross his mind, but he rejected it. If you didn’t want him around anymore, it would be unhonourable to disrespect your wishes.He spent the next few days (or months) as in a daze, going through the motions of his Horseman work, but not really feeling alive. Even the primal thrill of bloodshed wasn’t there anymore. He ached all over, but couldn’t locate or name that wound. Whoever had the misfortune to cross paths with the Red Rider during this harrowing time, probably noticed how chillingly not-quite-there he seems to be, speaking even less than usual and killing mechanically, without mirth or mercy.

The news about this newest of Council’s betrayals had to be relayed onto him twice because he was too torpid to get what that means. And after the Big Guy finally understood that you didn’t, in fact, abandon him - gods, how he ran.How he made Ruin eat up distance as if he was a comet.How he lounged at you - and closed you in his enormous arms, pressing your tiny body to his chest so hard that you could hardly breathe.

Strife: Hurt

The gunslinger never was one to care much about pride or honour or somesuch. He thinks them to be superficial, fussy constructs. So when he got the message - he went straight to your place and banged on the door until you finally came out.“Babe”, he said, his yellow stare not playfully lewd anymore; now those gleaming eyes of his were big and hurting. “What is this? Is it, like, a joke? Because I ain’t laughing.”You gulped, remembering what the Council’s hellish emissary said to you. The memory of this creature made your skin crawl. So many bug-like eyes and not a mouth in sight. Tell him that you don’t want him around. Only this, and nothing else. If you try something clever, we will have him killed.“I’m sorry, Strife…” you said, your voice thick from tears. “I… am so, so sorry. It is what it is.”“What do you mean?”“I…need you to leave.”“Is that something I said? Something I did? Just tell me, for fuck’s sake! Don’t abandon me like this!”“I…really don’t want you anymore. Please, just go!”You’d remember forever how this seven feet tall hulk of a man clad in spiky armour let you close the door on him without as much as moving a finger. How you crumpled down said door until you were lying on the hardwood, sobbing. How you could tell he did the same from the other side. And he cried, too. Big, ugly tears, his handsome face contorted into an unrecognizable grimace.You can’t tell how long he remained there.

It’s better not to recall how he spent the next few weeks. Let’s just say that he cannot remember either, as he was seldom sober.

And then he crossed paths with that Watcher and squeezed the truth out of them. He snapped the creature’s neck in his fingers as if it was a chicken bone and rushed back to your doorstep.

“Babe!” he shouted. “Princess! Pumpkin! It’s okay now! I got this all fixed! You can come out now, I won’t do anything to you, I swear!..”

You opened the door just a little. Strife barged through, scooped you into his arms and pressed his lips to your forehead, your nose, your half-open mouth, all while heaving for air and crying once again.

“Don’t you ever do this to me again, kid”, he gasped, nosing your collarbone. You could feel the wetness running down your skin. “I might be old and rugged and shit, but my heart seriously won’t take another blow.” “Please forgive me”, you whispered while running your fingers through his hair. “He said they would kill you if - if I said anything…”Small, joyless laughter escaped your Horseman.“Well, I feel as if I’ve been killed once already.”

Death: …

He knew that this was going to happen. Sooner or later.Although he counted on later. He allowed himself to care, he indulged that stupid little flame that crept at the bottom of his age-old, dried up soul. Stupid little hope.

And now he hated himself for it.Of course, you’d come to your senses. You’ve finally seen him for what he was: a greasy, wiry abomination caked in mud and dried entrails of his victims. You were so beautiful, so innocent and full of life. He was a monster.

He didn’t go to confront you upon receiving the breakup message. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t. After ages of avoiding Feelings altogether, Death didn’t know how to deal with them. He wasn’t willing to name all those pesky emotions, but of one thing he was sure. There were so many that if he had to look into your young, bright face once more… he’d probably break, collapse and couldn’t be repaired.

So he didn’t. He sent Dust instead. To watch over you. It didn’t matter if you hated him or not; should anything bad happen to you in his absence, the oldest Horseman would never forgive himself for it.

He isolated himself from his siblings (as in, more than before.) He’d spend a lot of time in some forgotten realms, sitting on the grass and looking at the alien sky, not thinking about anything in particular. Except maybe how tempting the call of the void is. What a relief it would be to cease existing. A small blessing, mercifully granted to any living creature between Heaven and Hell. But not to him.

The pain was always there, dull and throbbing and as faithful as a shadow. This was how it’s probably supposed to be from now on. Oh well, he was used to carrying vicious scars.

Finally, his siblings have found him and brought the news. About this latest fuckery designed by the Council. Death listened to them in silence. War, Strife and Fury were a little put off by him seemingly not caring. Although he did look like shit; his hair was practically dirt dreadlocks and the moldy remains of what used to be a perfectly nice set of clothing blew in the breeze on his giant, hulking, emaciated body.“So, yeah…” Strife finished nervously, feeling out of place while his brother’s stare went right through him as if watching something far away.Finally, Death spoke.

“They made her do this?” His voice was croaky from long lack of use. It was also completely level.“Ayup.”“They threatened her with my death should she say anything? I guess she doesn’t know I cannot be killed?”War shifted from one big leg to another.“Yes, that is unfortunate…”“Nevermind.” Death stood up. “Let’s go.”“But where to, brother? You probably wanna see her first…”“Later. Let’s go kill the Council.”

#darksiders #darksiders death #darksiders war #darksiders strife #darksiders fury #darksiders angst #so much angst #ask answered #ask me anything!

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istheresomebodywhocanimagine · 6 years ago

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Well... All Right

@strawberryfields-forever said: Hello my love, I saw the Beatles post, and I was wondering if I could request a John Lennon imagine? Maybe where the reader and him are out on their first date of sorts and she surprises him with how wild and rebellious she is, cause she doesn’t seem like that normally. Or just something cute and fluffy! Ilyxxxx

(a/n: i didn’t know how many people like queen AND the beatles so if ur on my reg taglist and see this, let me know if you’d like to be tagged in beatles imagines!! i don’t want to clog ur mentions with things u dont want hehe. speaking of clogs i hope brian may has a good night anyways here u go!!! fluffy misbehaving john lennon for ur viewing pleasure)

You hadn’t struck John as the type to say yes to dates with men you hardly knew, especially with such an unruly character like himself. So when he was fooling around in your painting class and started flirting harmlessly with you, he expected nothing out of it. You were usually quiet, kept to yourself, turned in your work on time, and asked no questions. Not exactly the kind of girl that would be climbing out of Liverpool’s waterfront, drenched and tipsy and laughing deliriously as she clutched onto John’s hat, which was also beyond soaked, while a cop yelled at you from afar

But here you were, drenched, tipsy, and clutching onto his hat. And he’d never questioned his personal judgement so much, a queer, amused smile coming to his face as he held out a hand to help you up the ladder.

It had started out innocently enough. The professor had brought in another nude model for you all to paint over the course of the afternoon, and you couldn’t help but smile a bit at the way John groaned loud enough for the class to hear. After the hell he’d raised with the female model last month when he managed to show up for one class, you couldn’t imagine what he had in mind for the male model that now stood before you.

“This is the last time I actually show up for class, I swear,” he mumbled, digging through his bag to pull out his paints as you feigned apathy, already mixing your skin tone for the man that laid on the table in the center of the room. But John had said that many times before – he’d always show up, take the seat nearest you, find out what was happening for the day, and swear that he’d never show face again. And then you’d see him eventually, maybe within days, maybe within weeks.

You tried to focus on the man before you, staring intently at the skin on his cheeks and noting that there was some discoloration, possibly rosacea, so you scraped some of your skin tone off to the side and added just a tick of red, mixing it in. John was watching you out of the corner of his eye, clearly not interested in all at painting what he was supposed to paint as his eyes wandered, the professor getting more irritated by the minute as his canvas remained blank.

“Mr. Lennon, you seem to be coming along well,” the professor remarked on his next round, tapping a bony finger to the empty canvas and sending him a sarcastic smile. John scoffed, looking over in your direction and rolling his eyes as if to say ‘This guy.’ Then, his ever-expressive face was blessed by a wide smile, and he gave the professor a thumbs up paired with a goofy, sweet grin, making you suppress a laugh as you tried to focus on the natural curve of the man’s thighs. The professor eyed you for a moment, then narrowed his eyes as he looked back to John – and with that, he was gone, off to his next victim.

“Geez, wonder if he’s ever heard of breath mints,” John mumbled, and that got a snicker out of you before you quickly pressed the back of your hand to your mouth, barely holding back a grin. Now he was actually looking at you, an ever-present mischievous grin on his face making a blush spread across yours as you sat your paintbrush down in your cup of water. “That was a cute little laugh. Do it again.”

“John,” you admonished softly, nodding towards the male model and stifling another laugh as you bit your lower lip. He only shrugged, appearing indifferent towards the subject at hand when he had you right there to bother. “We’re both going to get poor marks if you start bugging me.”

“You say bugging, I say making conversation. Who will ever win?” he countered, and he noticed that the professor had started to lecture, but didn’t really care much as he continued. “I never caught your name, what is it?”

Looking between him and the professor a bit nervously, you returned your eyes to your painting as you held back a grin, still chewing on your lower lip. “Y/N.”

“Y/N. Pretty name for a pretty girl,” he remarked, flashing you a dazzling smile.

He was a bit of a charming fellow in terms of looks, if not a bit odd for the school scene. He always came in with the most unruly, fluffy hair, shorter on the sides than it was on top, and he wore outfits that stood out among the rest of your peers. While they opted for loose sweaters and blocky trousers that hid any sort of curve whatsoever, John dressed in longer blazers, tight jeans, form-fitting trousers, and the likes, sticking out like a sore thumb. And he was attractive, you had to admit. He was young, just freshly 18, and had the teddy boy look down to an art – the swagger, the hair, the confident smile, the glint in his eyes that was so rebellious, and yet not threatening to you at all. His charming, boyish looks and mussy golden-brown hair were enough to send anyone with eyes crazy, especially in such a strict institute.

“Thank you,” you murmured in response, smiling a bit as you picked up your paintbrush, then dipped it in the paint and ran it along the curve of the painted man’s side. The paint thinly spread out and started breaking up when the product ran out near the end of your swipe. “You always hit on your classmates like this?”

“Nah, just the really cute ones.”

“Mr. Lennon! Something important you’re discussing with Miss Y/N, I presume?” Your professor’s mention of your name set all of your nerve endings on fire and you clammed up, staring straight at your painting and wishing that you could melt into a puddle of nothingness at this exact moment.

But John was unashamed and unafraid, resting his hands on his knees as he sat up on his stool a bit, peeking around the canvas at where the professor was across the room. “Just making conversation, sir. Hard to flirt with all this noise in the background.” He really did not give a shit about this class, did he? You pressed your lips into a thin line as you tried not to blush even more at the fact that John was flirting with you and now the entire class was aware.

The professor looked very much annoyed, but just stared for a moment before continuing his tangent about getting the shading correct, and John gave you a devilish smile when you glanced over at him to shoot daggers at him. “You’re going to get us suspended, you cheeky bastard.”

“Oh, you’re so tame. I like that,” he laughed, starting to dump out some paint that didn’t even closely resemble any of the skin tones on the man before you. He stood, brushing his tight drainpipe trousers off and stretching his legs out so the trousers fell back over the white socks that peeked out of his suede creepers. And then he walked up to the model, crouching down directly in front of his face as you watched, entranced by this enigmatic, lively character that seemed to be studying the model’s … face?

When he came back, you raised an eyebrow in question, resituating yourself on your stool a bit so you could cross your legs. “What was that all about?”

“Give me a date with you and I’ll tell you.” The look in his eyes was challenging, daring you to say yes, although a part of him knew it would probably never happen. You were a straight-A student, and going out with the black-sheep of this college would definitely screw that image right up. So when you responded, a genuine look of shock overtook his features.

“Alright. When and where?”

So you’d decided to meet John the next night outside of a little restaurant in the bohemian district, grab a bite to eat before going out for a few drinks, then ‘see where the night took you,’ according to him. He showed up dressed in his usual tight black trousers, brown suede creepers, and a black shirt layered with a forest green jacket. It was particularly windy, so he’d opted to bring a hat, but it was twirling around on his finger when you saw him, an absentminded time-passer that slowed to a stop when he finally spotted you.

You weren’t in your usual blocky sweater and longer skirt. Now, a short-sleeve sweater of white accentuated all your curves right down to your waist, where the sweater met a relatively formfitting black pencil skirt that didn’t even dare to pass your knees, exposing black tights that slimmed your legs even more. The small tears in the tights led right down to the red heels you’d chosen for yourself, drawing so much attention from older generations as you passed on the sidewalk that you thought they’d drop dead from shock right there. This was rebellion in 1950’s Liverpool. Showcasing your body, accentuating your legs? Scandalous.

Scandalous, and yet you knew John loved it as an appreciative, yet puzzled smile crept onto his face. His jaw was still slightly slack, shocked from the contrast, but he reached out and gave you a polite kiss on the cheek when you finally made it to him, which you reciprocated. And then he offered his arm, walking into the restaurant with you side-by-side.

Conversation remained light during the meal, John footing the bill when it was time to pay and helping you out of your seat when it was time to go to the pub. When you both had a few drinks in you, that’s when things really began to start flowing.

“So what happened to the whole studious library girl look you have going on every day?” he asked, hand firmly wrapped around the mug of beer in front of him on the bar. You grinned fully, not hiding the smile you usually tried to repress in class, and John quirked an eyebrow slightly, noting how astonishingly mischievous the look in your eyes was.

“Every day? I haven’t seen you show up to class consecutively since the beginning of this semester. And here you talk as if you know what I look like every day,” you teased, tracing your finger around the rim of your own beer, John laughing and raising his hands in surrender.

“Okay, you got me. I may or may not skip class a bit. I’m the antichrist, I know. But you didn’t answer my question?” he prodded, leaning forward and resting his elbow on the bar, propping up his head.

“It’s a nice college, John. I’d like to get my degree eventually, but can you imagine what the professors would say if I showed up in what I usually wear?”

“Is this what you usually wear?” he questioned, no hint of malice or teasing in his voice. He was just genuinely curious, leaning forward and hanging on to your every word. He’d never seen someone flip a switch like this, and the ease with which you did it was astounding. It was like he was meeting you all over again, and it fascinated him.

“Yes,” you giggled, taking another drink of your beer before sitting it down and hopping off the stool, holding out a hand. “Any song requests? I’m headed over to the jukebox, the songs are awful right now.

He had to admit, the songs were not the greatest, so he dropped some money into your hand and told you to play whatever you liked before watching you easily slip through the crowd, taking a moment to pick a few songs before returning. And then the sound of Buddy Holly started softly playing as you climbed back onto your stool, crossing a leg and taking another drink of your beer.

John raised an eyebrow, again surprised that you listened to Buddy Holly. Buddy had passed away earlier this year, and you saw quite a few faces sober up, but it was such a good song that people were soon singing along to it. Others, not so much. The rock and roll trend still wasn’t quite a phenomena, and the genre was clearly divisive, but you very much enjoyed the rock and roll sound of Holly, tapping your fingers on the table to the beat and smiling at certain parts of the song.

“You like this kind of music?” John questioned, and you nodded, propping your head up on your hand as your elbow rested on the bar.

“’f course. Shame about what happened to him, really thought he was the best of the best.” John leaned back a bit, nodding slowly and grinning as he listened to you continue on about your preference for rock and roll. A girl talking so openly about such a damning subject was attractive to him, and he found his pulse speeding up when you’d finished talking, asking him what kind of music he liked.

“Same music, really. I actually play in a band, if you’re interested. Well, sort of,” he retracted, pulling a goofy face before pursing his lips and continuing. “We’re just three guys with too many guitars and not enough drums.”

“Sounds like you’re in quite a dilemma,” you observed, finishing off your beer at the same time that he finished off his. The bartender refilled them when he passed by a moment later, John paying and smiling politely at the bartender before they were off again. His focus returned to you, and he took a moment to remember where you were in the conversation as you sipped some of the foam off the top of your lager. When you took quite a big drink of the beer to chase that sip, John raised an eyebrow curiously.

“We are in quite a dilemma. But it looks like you’re going to be in quite a dilemma soon if you keep out-drinking me.” Giggling, you shook your head and took another drink, then propped your head up on your hand and gave him a challenging look.

“If you really want to see me outdrink you, you’d do shots with me.”

“Shots?” he laughed incredulously, his hand still wrapped around the handle of the beer mug. “I take back calling you tame yesterday. Don’t we technically have class tomorrow?”

“At noon, plenty of time to recover. And since when have you ever cared about class? Half of the school has wagers on when you’re going to be expelled, Lennon,” you retorted, raising an eyebrow and giving him a devilishly sweet smile, one that let on to the idea that maybe you were far more feisty than even he knew. “Three shots. That’s all.” Your hand shot out, daring him to take it and accept.

“Three shots?” he considered, mulling over it for a second before he sighed overdramatically and took your hand, shaking it. “You’re a funny girl. A surprise up your sleeve at every turn.”

“Is that such a bad thing?” you asked, flagging down the bartender as you kept your gaze on John expectantly, biting your lower lip to hold back a big grin.

A small smirk toyed at John’s lips as he scanned your face for a second, then shrugged. “We’ll see.”

It was most definitely not a bad thing. You both took the shots, no chaser for you and John looking at you in a disgusted sort of impressed that made you laugh. And when you’d begun to get flushed and overheated from all the alcohol in your system, you leaned on John and requested a walk by the waterfront.

Now here you were, holding on to John’s shoulder as you laughed at another corny joke he’d told in his slurred speech, being just as tipsy as you. His arm was wrapped around your waist, the both of you supporting each other terrible as you teetered and tottered down the sidewalk next to the water, gusts of wind blowing in and stinging your cheeks a deeper red than they already were from a combo of the alcohol and John’s flirting. The sun was getting low, shrouding you both in a semi-darkness that seemed to bring an exclusivity to the pair of you as you strolled down the waterfront.

“This wind is going t’be the death of my hair, I swear,” you complained, trying to push it out of your face to no avail and laughing at yourself when you failed miserably. “I give up. I’m just goin’ to look like a wooly mammoth forever.”

“Aw, I think it’s kind of cute,” he teased gently, squeezing your side, and then he reached up to move his cap from his head to yours, pulling it down over your eyes a bit. “There, is that better?”

“John, I can’t see!” you squealed, John laughing and pulling the cap down over your eyes more as you tried in vain to fight his efforts. “You’re such an arse! Can’t believe I agreed to come on a date with you, you little bastard!”

“Oh, you’re just spouting nonsense now!” he chuckled, letting go of the brim anyways and giving you a mischievous grin when you finally managed to pull the cap up from your eyes. Trying to resituate your hair, you shot him a playfully nasty look before stopping where you were, John’s arm slipping off of your waist for a moment as he slid his hands into his pockets. You used the rail behind you for support, your vision a bit hazy as you pulled your hair up into a ponytail with the hair tie that had been in your pocket, John smiling at the new look and making you blush a bit more. “Are my eyes deceiving me or did you just blush?”

“Definitely your eyes,” you countered, although there wasn’t even a trace of truth in your voice as you blushed even more, John taking the opportunity to lean his side against the rail next to you, taking one hand out of his pocket to lift up a strand of hair you’d forgotten and tuck it into the cap.

It was probably the alcohol, but as you looked up into John’s warm brown eyes, you’d never wanted to kiss someone so bad in your life. His fluffy hair was flying wildly in the wind, making him look even more tousled and adorable than he usually did anyways, and his lips were slightly chapped, but the pout of his lower lip made you graze your teeth over your own, contemplating for a moment. And he was doing the same, suddenly quiet as a mouse as his eyes ran over your own plump, tempting lips before looking back up to meet your slightly glazed eyes.

A mutual exchange must have taken place, but you couldn’t have registered it even if you tried, because the next moment, John was leaning down to kiss you, taking your face in one hand and smiling against your lips when you reciprocated, making a slightly surprised noise. The two of you moved your lips in sync for a minute or two, conveniently forgetting the hat on your head until John went to tilt his head the other way and managed to knock it right into the water.

“Oh, shit,” he muttered as he broke away from the kiss, both of you peering over the railing at the hat that was just lapping up against the concrete barrier below. Laughing a bit, you glanced at John, who had a mournful look on his face. “My favorite hat, too.”

“I’ve got it,” you shrugged, using the railing to lean on shakily as you began to yank off your heels, John looking at you like you were mad. “What? You said it’s your favorite, I don’t personally want to be the reason that John Lennon is without his favorite hat. I’d imagine you’d paint a memorial photo of it in class just to spite me. It’s not like you ever paint the actual subject anyways.”

“Have you gone mental?” he laughed, taking your heels from you and following as you started over to the ladder nearby, nothing but an open padlock to stop you from opening the gate. “It’s probably bloody cold in that water. You’ll freeze.”

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic,” you teased, giving him a gentle nudge before you swung open the gate, starting to climb down to his amazement. The hat wasn’t far from the ladder, but just far enough that you had to get in. When you did get into the water, you cursed lightly at how cold it was despite the fact that you were drunk, John laughing at your language as you swam over to the hat, snatching it up and holding it up in victory.

“You’re crazy!” he called out over the whistling of the wind, making you smile widely as you started to swim back over to the ladder. Grabbing onto the bottom rung, you were starting to pull yourself up when you heard someone down the waterfront start shouting. Both of you looked in the same direction, spotting a cop that was shaking a fist at you and screaming. You couldn’t make out what he was saying, but you assumed it wasn’t nice, and John burst out laughing at the same time as you, holding out a hand and urging you to hurry. “You’re going to get us both arrested!” he yelled, grinning as you laughed deliriously at the angry old cop who was cursing you out.

Scrambling up the ladder while you cackled, John hoisted you to your feet and didn’t waste a moment in taking off running with you, your hands clasped together tightly as you giggled breathlessly and made an escape down the backstreets towards your dorms. You were freezing by the time you’d managed to make it to your dorm, which was empty when you entered, gasping for air in between hysterical laughing bouts. John slumped back against your door and held his hand to his chest while you grabbed a towel, trying to dry yourself the rest of the way off and catch your breath.

“Here you are,” you giggled breathlessly, tossing him his cap and making him go into another round of laughter as it hit his chest, falling to the floor. “Don’t say I never did anything for you!”

“My god, Y/N, you’re mad,�� he gasped, his smile ear to ear as he laughed at the state of you, soaked to the bone and shivering as you searched for dry clothes. When you found them, he covered his eyes graciously and just chuckled, finally catching his breath while he waited patiently for you to change. “I thought we were goners, for sure.”

“You have little faith,” you teased, changing into some pajama pants and a loose shirt before pulling your hair out of the ponytail. “You can open your eyes now, Lennon.”

“I don’t know if I like you calling me Lennon,” he remarked, uncovering his eyes and crawling to his feet after sitting your heels and the hat on the floor. “Reminds me so much of the professor in painting.”

“Would you prefer Johnny Boy?” you asked playfully, helping him out of his jacket and laying it over your arm as he turned to face you, pursing his lips.

“Not exactly.” But he let the subject drop as he tucked some of your still-damp hair behind your ear, grinning softly. “I quite liked it in the soggy ponytail, wild girl.”

“Wild girl?” you asked, briefly interrupted when he leaned in for a quick kiss. You kissed back, pouting a bit when he pulled away so soon, but continued your observation anyways. “I can’t tell if that’s an insult or a compliment.”

He grinned even wider, keeping his hand resting on the nape of your neck while taking his jacket from your arm and dropping it to the floor near his hat. “Definitely a compliment.”

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#john lennon #john lennon imagine #john lennon x reader #the beatles #the beatles imagine #john lennon fic #the beatles fic

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chiseler · 5 years ago

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The Briefly and Occasionally Great Del Tenney

He wasn’t as culturally attuned as Roger Corman. He wasn’t as obsessively prolific as Jess Franco. He wasn’t as personally flamboyant as Ed Wood. Still, writer/producer/director Del Tenney is a legend in the annals of low budget horror. That he’s a legend is in itself legendary, given that he’s remembered for only four films, all of which were made during a two year stretch in the early 1960s. I’m hard-pressed to think of another director with a filmography that brief who earned a legacy like Tenney’s. They weren’t great films, some weren’t even particularly good, but they had a spark to them, and they were undeniably memorable, sometimes for reasons that had nothing to do with the films themselves.

“My friends used to come up to me and ask, ‘How could you do all those terrible films?’’’ Tenney was fond of saying. “And I tell them, ‘I cry all the way to the bank,’”

He was born in Mason City, Iowa, but in the early ‘40s his family moved to Los Angeles. Tenney began studying theater in school, and by age 15 he was already working, both on stage and later as an extra in the likes of The Wild One and Stalag 17. His focus was on theater, though, so in the late ‘50s he moved to New York and found work in summer stock. A number of the young actors he worked with then, like Roy Scheider, Dick Van Patten, and Sylvia Miles, would later appear in Tenney’s films, many making their screen debuts with him.

By the early ‘60s Tenney and his wife, actress Margot Hartman Tenney, had also started directing productions of their own. After a conversation with a friend who was involved in (as it was described in polite company) “the exploitation film business,” Tenney took a job as assistant director on a couple of pictures, including the merely sleazy Satan in High Heels (a nasty little cheapie involving carnival strippers, junkies, robbery, sex, and murder) and nudie cuties like Orgy at Lil’s Place, (which concerned two girls who decide to get into the nude modeling racket). In later years, while Tenney spoke freely about the former, he rarely mentioned the latter. Still, his experience there inspired him to start making films of his own.

While in the theater he preferred to stick with Shakespeare and the classics, when he moved into film it was all about the bottom line. His goal was not to make great art, but to make a few quick bucks, and to do that he knew what audience he had to aim for. He was determined to give them exactly what they wanted.

Seeing potential in a story his wife had told him about a girl she knew in college who was found murdered, in 1962 Tenney sat down and began working on a script he initially called Black Autumn. Later it would be called Violent Midnight. Then shortly before its release the distributor changed the title to Psychomania, thinking it would cash in on Psycho and pull in the kids.

Financed by his father-in-law and filmed (as all his pictures would be) in Stamford, CT, Psychomania focused on a string of brutal sex murders in a small college town. The obvious suspect is that eccentric painter with a family history of mental problems who lives all alone out in the boonies and paints nude models who often end up getting stabbed (Lee Philips). The above-mentioned Dick Van Patten and James Farentino co-star as a couple of suspicious detectives, and Sylvia Miles appears, well, doing that great Sylvia Miles thing.

It’s a sharp and surprisingly stylish little b/w suspense thriller clearly influenced not only by Hitchcock in the camera work, but also by film noir and horror films of the ‘30s and ‘40s in its use of deep shadows. The shadowy murder scenes are especially shocking here. But none of that really mattered. The picture guaranteed its drive-in popularity by including plenty of nudity along the way. In fact prior to its release the same distributor who changed the title also insisted on more boobs, so without any tantrums about “integrity” or “artistic vision,”Tenney went back and shot another ten minutes of skin and mild sex and cut it in.

Although Richard Hilliard receives the on screen credit as director and Tenney’s only credit is as producer, he would later say that Hilliard was a friend of his and a theater person who knew nothing about making films or dealing with actors, so he had to step in himself and take over, making this the first picture he wrote, produced, and directed.

The film made a lot of money (given its budget, anyway) but today is the least recognized of his films. That always confused me a little, given that in technical terms alone it’s the best thing he ever did. But I guess that’s not what people are always looking for in low-budget films.

There’s something else going on in Psychomania, though, that I’ve been touting for years even if no one seems to care. In terms of genre film history, those self-satisfied types who concern themselves with such things comfortably and endlessly cite Mario Bava’s Blood and Black Lace as the first giallo, the film that launched a thousand copycats made by everyone from Fulci to Argento. The Bava film is the immovable cornerstone. Without taking anything at all away from what is undeniably a great picture, I’d still argue that Tenney beat him to the punch. Psychomania (released on DVD as Violent Midnight) contains everything that would later be cited as fundamental to any giallo picture: a string of sex crimes, an obvious suspect, several other obvious suspects, lots of boobs, savage violence, and a twist ending. But Psychomania was released in early ‘64, roughly 14 months before Bava’s picture. Okay, so maybe it’s not Italian, and maybe it wasn’t based on those tawdry little yellow paperbacks that were so popular at the time, but dammit it’s still a giallo, and it was the first.

I’ll shut up about that now.

After making a film with style, intelligence, and even a little class compared to the usual drive-in fodder, a film whose influence would be felt for the next twenty years (even if no one will admit it), and a film that made him a little money, Tenney took a hard left.

Filmed over two weeks in 1962, Curse of the Living Corpse was a costume melodrama set in 1892 that’s reminiscent of those AIP prestige numbers or early Hammer films. When a wealthy, possibly crazy, and just plain mean old man dies, his will stipulates that if the surviving members of his family don’t shape up and fly right, he’s going to rise from the grave and kill them off one by one. Well, they don’t and he does. Or at least it looks like that’s what’s happening.

It’s still a film with style, intelligence, and class, but of a different kind. While Psychomania was intense, sexy, and at times brutal, Curse of the Living Corpse was a very stagebound, theatrical piece, a bit slower, a bit more deliberate. A sitting room murder mystery heavy on the dialogue, punctuated here and there by a thematic murder. Plus most of the characters are wearing too many layers for things to get terribly sexy.

Curse features Roy Scheider (in his film debut) as one of the profligate heirs in question, Carnival of Souls’ Candace Hilligoss, and Tenny’s wife Margot Hartman. It’s one of the things that has always made Tenney’s films, cheap, fast, and DIY as they were, stand out. By pulling in friends from the theater, good, professional actors willing to work on a goofy movie for no money, he ended up with performances several cuts above what you’d normally find in something like this. When none of the actors in a costume drama are, say, chewing gum, it just adds a layer of credibility to the story, no matter how ridiculous that story might be.

The other thing that made Tenney’s first two films stand out was the sharp b/w cinematography. The shadows are so deep here, the contrast so sharp and detailed, the film at times reminds me of those early Bava pictures (to go back there again). Even when the story lags a bit, the atmosphere carries it along. It’s something that can’t often be said about the low-budget pictures of the era.

Well, even as he was still working on Curse of the Living Corpse, pre-production was underway on his next film, The Horror of Party Beach. Shooting began about three days after Curse wrapped. If Tenney took a hard left from Psychomania into Curse, this time he had to jump all the way to the other end of the spectrum.

He admitted he wasn’t sure the genre-mashing satire, the horror musical beach movie, would work, but he charged ahead anyway. What made it work was sticking so tightly to the conventions of both the bug-eyed monster film and the beach blanket movie, while at the same time pointing up the ridiculousness of those conventions. Plus there’s a great fucking soundtrack provided by the Jersey-based surf band The Del-Aires.

In the film’s first five minutes he lays everything out. We meet an assortment of young attractive couples and character types on the beach, each with issues of their own. We meet the potential (human) villains in the form of a local motorcycle gang. And out in Long Island Sound, nuclear waste is being dumped into the water where it settles down on a shipwreck and transforms (with the aid of some neat in-camera trickery) the skeletal remains of lost sailors into an army of fishmen in search of human blood.

After that, well, there you go. The monsters are intentionally silly takeoffs on the usual “man in a rubber suit” creatures (note particularly the eyes and the teeth). But if the monsters are silly, so are the people, and in between the two Tenney crams in as many drive-in standbys as he can fit: motorcycle chases, baffled scientists, malt shops, some of those crazy teenage dances, doomed drunks, convertibles, incredulous cops, superstitious black maids who accidentally save the world. And he holds it all together with some editing that’s a bit more clever than you’d expect. The first victim, for instance, dies during a series of cuts between the attacking fishman and The Del-Aires performing the unbelievably catchy “Do the Zombie Stomp” to a bunch of dancing teenagers on the beach. For something this goofy it’s surprisingly disturbing.

(Jokes and surf bands aside, Humanoids From the Deep owes a serious debt of gratitude to Horror of Party Beach).

This and Curse of the Living Corpse were released as a double bill by 20th Century Fox later in ‘64, complete with a gimmick. Would-be audience members were required to sign a release before entering the theater absolving the theater owners of any blame should the viewer die of fright during the screening. It’s unclear if there were any casualties.

The double bill was the last thing to play at the legendary 3,000-seat Paramount Theater in Times Square, and Horror of Party Beach went on to become Tenney’s most successful film. After that things started to slip.

His next picture, which he completed in ‘64, was Voodoo Bloodbath, a horror comedy that can trace its roots directly back to Val Lewton’s classic I Walk With a Zombie, but with more bad jokes. William Joyce stars as a bestselling, wisecracking, playboy author of adventure novels. Given that he hasn’t turned anything in to his editor for months, his editor drags him onto a plane and flies him to, yes, Voodoo Island in search of inspiration. See, not only is a famed scientist conducting cancer research there, but the place is supposedly overrun with zombies, too.. It’s a million-selling novel in the waiting. When they arrive they discover three things:

1. The Caribbean island is actually populated by Mexicans for some reason.

2. The scientist has a beautiful blonde virgin daughter.

3. The local natives are preparing for a human sacrifice that night.

None of it bodes well for anyone, though no one realizes this yet.

The humor arises mostly from the editor’s shrill and boorish wife, and the author’s overbearing attempts to pick up any woman he sees (particularly the scientist’s daughter). Neither are terribly funny. The rest of the film is straight-faced and boilerplate, reminiscent of a dozen voodoo pictures from the ‘40s. It’s not very good, either. Compared with his first two films in particular the production values and direction had gone straight to hell. It’s a clumsy, sloppy picture with very little charm. There’s not even much of a bloodbath. Drumming’s good, though. Up to this point he had worked near miracles with standard storylines and no budgets by bringing in good actors and skilled editors and cameramen. Here he didn’t seem to be trying all that hard. Of all four films, this one really did look and feel like everything else out there.

I wasn’t the only one who thought it could’ve been better. The picture sat on the shelf for nearly seven years until 1971, when low-budget distributor Jerry Gross came nosing around in search of a film to drop in the bottom half of a double bill he had in mind. After a quick and simple title change, the Tenney film was just the ticket he was looking for. As great and fun as those first three films had been, it was Gross who, if accidentally, helped make Tenney a legend.

Today Voodoo Bloodbath is all but completely forgotten. Even under its new title, I Eat Your Skin is less remembered for what it is as a movie than for being half (together with the utterly unrelated I Drink Your Blood) of one of the most notorious double bills ever released. After seeing them we may not remember anything that happened in either, but we sure do remember those newspaper ads, and sometimes that’s worth a hell of a lot more.

Tenney didn’t talk much about the experience or the film after the fact, but while Voodoo Bloodbath was still sitting on the shelf he all but completely stepped away from the film business, though he admits he kept the monster suit from Horror of Party Beach and wore it at parties. He and his wife had never strayed from Connecticut, never became part of the hobnobbing Hollywood crowd, so they simply settled down where they were all along, and returned to their first love. They founded what would become a very well respected theater company, putting on three or four productions a year.. Years later when they moved to Florida they opened another. In between Tenney got involved in real estate up and down the East Coast.

Then in the late ‘90s, over thirty years after retiring from motion pictures, he and his wife, together with producer/director Kermit Christman (Wicked Games) , founded DelMar Productions and Tenney began writing, producing and directing again. Between ‘99 and 2003, he made three pictures: Clean and Narrow, about an ex-con trying to go straight in a small town; an I Know What You Did Last Summer knockoff called Wanna Know a Secret?; and a supernatural thriller called Descendant, in which a would be writer is haunted by the spirit of an ancestor who happens to be Edgar Allan Poe. The last was particularly dear to Tenney, because he’d always loved Poe and wanted to do some kind of movie about him.

Ah, but the movie business was a very different animal by then. It wasn’t merely a matter of borrowing a few bucks from your father-in-law to make a silly monster picture, then hooking up with an independent distributor. Now even making the smallest film meant raising a few million dollars. Worse, the lawyers had gotten involved. And forget about any kind of distribution if you aren’t connected to a major studio. The fun had been sucked out of the game, and this was evident in the films themselves. Sure those films he made in the ‘60s were blatantly, even cynically commercial, but commercial in a ragtag, adventurous, slapdash way. The new films were commercial, but much more carefully so. They were slick and serious. If they weren’t slick, audiences wouldn’t look at them, and you had to be serious about the whole process, because there were millions of dollars at stake. Hell, there was even a desperation evident on the screen. While before Tenney had been working with a bunch of young actors on their way up, now he was working with a bunch on their way down (William Katt, Sondra Locke, Wings Hauser), and you can almost hear their nails scratching as they scramble to hold onto anything at all before they vanish completely.

No, it wasn’t much fun, But those aren’t the films Tenney will be remembered for, and they won’t take anything away from his status among fans. He’ll be remembered for those four pictures from back in ‘64 (even if one wasn’t released until ‘71). They weren’t as good as some, but a lot better than most. In all four pictures he never once repeated himself. They were all radically different in mood and style and story, and there was a seductive, sloppy magic about them that’s inescapable. No matter how many times I go back to Psychomania/Violent Midnight (and I go back to it a lot) the ending still catches me off guard. After all these years “The Zombie Stomp” still gets stuck in my head. I even find myself returning to I Eat Your Skin every couple years, not to laugh at it, but just to wonder. I guess that’s why Tenney, on the basis of only those four pictures, can now take his rightful spot among the pantheon of cult directors.

by Jim Knipfel

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aconitemare · 6 years ago

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[jaydick - flash fic: Valentine Crime] Pink Lovers

AO3

Summary: “I love you,” Dick whispers against their mouths. Then his head pulls back and slams into Jason’s.

A Valentine's Fay Festival hands out a batch of the Joker's version of candy hearts: drugs that cause lovers to become violently obsessed with each other. Jason has better things to do than pop candy on Hallmark holidays, but Ordinary Guy Ric Grayson clearly does not.

“I love you. I love you. I love you. I love — augh!” The man’s saccharine chant is cut short by a gun cracking against his skull. His body goes limp and Jason catches him before he can hit the asphalt of Park Row Hospital’s employee parking lot. Across from them, an older woman in a lab coat presses herself against a Honda. Her blonde hair escapes in wisps from her toppling bun, glasses askew on her thin nose.

Jason looks at her through his helmet. “This your boy?” he asks. She shakes her head in a negative reply although her eyes remain transfixed on her assailant. She looks like a rabbit about to hightail it out of the meadow.

Jason adjusts the man in his arms, the attackers’ balding head lolling backwards. Jason peels the man’s eyelids back. They’re exactly what he expects: scleras an unnatural pink, a shade reminiscent of Pepto-Bismol. Red veins web outwards, spindly and swollen. In the center are the pupils blown wide enough to swallow the iris, inky black and forming a nebulous heart as if someone had painted it in with watercolor.

“He’s just a work friend,” the doctor explains.

Jason releases the eyelid. “I don’t think he got the memo,” he informs as he gets to work on binding the man’s wrists and ankles.

“He’s not like this. I’ve known him for years, he’s — ”

“Do me a favor, doc.” Jason hefts the man over his shoulders. “Go straight home. Unless you live with your partner, then check into a hotel and don’t talk to anyone who’s not family. No responding to texts, no Snapchatting, just stay inside until the news says it’s safe to be a person again.”

The doctor nods slowly, expression numb with shock. “There was something about this on Channel 4, wasn’t there? I caught some of it, but I’ve been so busy — I wasn’t really… ” she trails off.

Jason sighs; he’s had this conversation several times today. “Latest Joker hijinks.” He runs her through the spiel: a little over an hour ago, candy hearts were handed out at the Valentine’s Day Festival occurring uptown. Everyone who had some soon became violently obsessed with their beaus. At a festival targeting couples, most of the infected didn’t stray very far before getting apprehended on-sight. Trouble is, not everyone was with the one they love and those lonely hearts are left to seemingly attack at random.

Not everyone wears their heart on their sleeve. Or some just can’t see the obvious.

“I don’t think I’m that popular to get another attack,” says the doctor with a breathy, frazzled laugh. Jason merely shrugs.

“Don’t sell yourself short.” He leans towards her. “Seriously. Don’t risk it. It was a big festival; who knows who was there,” he adds more lightly. He leaves her to get in her car and do whatever she’s going to do. His own car is hastily parked from when he spotted the two earlier. He drops the man and pops the trunk to the sight of one of the pink-eyed crazies woken up and squirming around. Jason prepares some anesthesia and injects the needle into the throbbing vein of pinkie’s throat. Then he repeats the process with the new guy to be safe and dumps him in the trunk.

Robin’s voice filters through the com. “I’ve taken down four pink-lovers thus far,” he brags.

Jason snorts. Over the com, he says, “I’ve bagged five.”

“No, you haven’t,” Robin scoffs.

“More the merrier, boys,” Oracle interrupts, buried laughter deepening her voice. “We appreciate your help, Hood,” she says like a kindergarten teacher rewarding the bad kid for class participation.

“Yeah, yeah. It’s my city, too. And you’re down a dick,” he justifies. The bats all keep tabs on “Ric” the best they can, which admittedly hasn’t been difficult considering Ric’s life is remarkably routine for a vagrant. Jason pays him a visit every now and then. It’s plain Dick is regaining memories; nowhere near as many as the bats would like, but any amount has Ric tensing up suddenly during their (infrequent, sometimes fun, often frigid) conversations and running off.

“How’s that antidote coming?” Jason asks. He should probably get going; the goal is to deliver the pink-lovers to the batcave for treatment, picking up any strays along the way. It’s boring as shit. The infected are rabid but ultimately still ordinary people easily taken out. It feels more like a weirdly festive scavenger hunt than an actual mission.

“Finished, but questionable,” Oracle answers. “Joker basically built upon an earlier bioweapon of his maniacal invention, so we’re hardly fumbling in the dark here but… without a rational human test subject, we can’t in good conscience administer the serum to the pink-lovers we have — ”

“Strapped and ready?” says Jason. He removes his helmet and the pack of cigarettes from his pocket, considers smoking one just to delay inevitably being in the same room as Batman, and then shoves the pack back in his jacket. He gets behind the wheel instead, leaving his helmet on the passenger seat. “Just pop one of the candy hearts and then test the antidote on yourself.” The engine purrs with the press of a button.

Oracle’s response is not immediate. When it does come it sounds reluctant and somewhat distracted. “That’s what we may end up having to do, yeah. Everyone’s on reconnaissance at the moment, but I guess whoever drops off the next batch of pink-lovers wins a special candy heart.” Jason drives down the road slower than his foot itches to go. He needs to keep an eye any signs of dispute from festival stragglers. “You’re not volunteering, I take it?” he says idly.

Oracle laughs over the com. It’s sharp, almost painful, in his earpiece. “I’m way too important to risk, Hood, you know that,” she quips. “More to the point, I’m not in love. At least, that’s my guess as to why I didn’t go all cray-cray when I did pop a candy heart. I then suggested Batman take one — he just tensed up and ran off into the night. Well, early afternoon.”

Movement from a third-story apartment window catches his eye. “Way to take one for the team,” he murmurs, slowing down and craning his neck.

Batman, as it turns out, is not one to let his good name be sullied because he growls over the com, “If the toxin does have an effect on me and the antidote does not work, that leaves fewer eyes on the streets which, if you have not noticed, are littered with intoxicated citizens cognitively closer to homing pigeons than human beings.”

“It’s true,” Robin vouches. “I just witnessed one get hit by a car because their partner was across the street.”

“Robin.”

“She’s fine. I escorted her to the nearest hospital and told them to get the straps until we have distributed the antidote,” he defends primly. Meanwhile, Jason tries to parse out the body language of the exposed couple. One’s arms extend; another’s push them away. Playful or hostile? Playful or hostile? Jason muses.

Now Red Robin chimes in, in his usual world-weary tone, “These pink-lovers are more dangerous to themselves than to their targets. They’re out of it — like, totally vacant. The Joker stayed on-brand for this one.”

Jason dismisses the movement as innocent as the couple embraces. His eyes return to the road in time to see a man standing there dumbly. Jason has his foot on the brake too late and his heart lurches into his throat, his stomach following suit. Then the man leaps onto the hood of Jason’s car. The wheels stop abruptly and the man must overcompensate for the force, because instead of being thrown off, his head bashes against the windshield.

This all happens within — a second, two? — three at most. The next second, a car blares its horn angrily before briefly swerving into the other lane to pass him. Jason registers this only distantly. He’s focused on the familiar face of the man clutching his forehead, eyes Pepto-pink and staring into Jason’s. Blood escapes the press of his fingers, collecting at the dip of his broken nose before trailing onto his cheeks.

Jason pulls over; a task that is mildly complicated by the asshole sticking to his windshield like a bug. He practically kicks the door open. His concern, that sick twist of worry in his gut, is feeding into his agitation. As if gathering kindling, Jason’s mind runs through how this happened. The idiot clearly was at the Valentine’s Day Festival. Of course he was; he’s not Nightwing with a checkered love life or a full plate of crises to resolve. He’s just Ric, an ordinary guy with an ordinary job and an ordinary girlfriend to attend silly festivals with. Happily living out his new life as a passive civilian: a victim waiting to happen.

Jason is barely out of the car when Dick jumps him. His hands fist into Jason’s collar, trying to shove him back in the car with brute strength. It’s considerable strength, too, considering the months of disuse as a cabbie. But beyond that strength, Dick doesn’t attempt to maneuver him and Jason’s knees don’t buckle. “Get off,” he grunts, seizing Dick’s arms.

“But I love you.”

The phrase hits him like a blow to the chest. Jason looks at Dick, really looks at him. There’s an ugly bleeding gash across his forehead above his angular eyebrows — one now sporting a fashionable slit — and his black hair is growing back fuzzy. Last week Dick’s fingers clasped Jason’s wrist as he laughingly guided Jason to pet the top of his soft head. Today Dick grins joylessly at him, any trace of his baby blues wiped out by the Joker. Jason’s heart sinks with the weighty meaninglessness of Dick’s confession.

He doesn’t want to look at Dick’s face anymore and forces him to face the other direction. “Jason,” Dick says. His name sounds so clear, so conscious on Dick’s tongue. It doesn’t sound like the Joker. But then Dick repeats, “I love you.”

Anger strikes Jason whip-fast. I love you is sacrilege coming from this body that belongs more to the Joker �� more to Ric — than the man who should’ve said it. Maybe Dick would even have had reason to say it from the scraps of their lives he and Jason managed to share together, between all the hatred and the death, the lies and disappearances and new identities. Jason still isn’t sure if that’s what he’s been wanting from Dick, some verbal confirmation of a felt truth, but it’s irrelevant now. Another thing the Joker has taken from them.

Jason swings Dick around harder than necessary and pins him against the car. He knows it’s a waste of time but still stares into that manic pink, searching desperately for something. He wants some remnant of Dick Grayson to peer at him through those unnatural pupils, make itself known through a sliver of sky-blue iris or a flicker of intelligence. Inky hearts watch him back.

Jason is caught off guard by the legs that wind around his waist. Dick’s ankles cross together and bring Jason closer. Their heartbeats travel from one chest to the other. Jason just stands there, dumb, between Dick’s thighs until he can actually feel Dick’s heartbeat adjust to his.

Dick rests his forehead against Jason’s. Jason stops breathing. Dick’s lips touch his but don’t press in. “I love you,” Dick whispers against their mouths. Then his head pulls back and slams into Jason’s. Pain reverberates through his skull in a hot pulsing motion. He releases Dick automatically, but Dick merely stumbles forward in his own pain. Jason catches him only to violently throw him to the ground and rush to the car.

Jason retrieves a shot from his anesthetics kit while Dick clatters to the asphalt like a finished wind-up toy. Jason pops the trunk as Dick rises again and tries to wrench Jason bodily the ground. He resists Dick well enough, but does briefly lose his footing. Dick knocks the needle from his hand. “I love you,” Dick chants. “I love you. I love you. I lov — ”

Jason barrels towards him. “Shut up!” he shouts. He topples Dick over. The two grapple on the cement, Jason twisting Dick’s arm. Dick cries out but otherwise remains focused on getting the upper-hand. Dick attempts to gouge his eyeball out. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Jason seethes, catching Dick’s wrist and snapping it in a flash of fury. Dick screams and Jason thinks there’s something to be said either for Gotham law enforcement or people’s reluctance to be on the streets that no one has grown curious about the Red Hood beating the shit out of some guy in broad daylight next to a trunk of unconscious bodies.

Business as usual, he guesses.

Jason quickly stands and dashes for the shot. Dick struggles to his feet with the broken wrist. He’s on Jason shortly, but his grip is weak and Jason is ready with the anesthesia. He whirls around and snatches Dick’s broken wrist. Dick curls inwards. It’s the opening Jason needs to plunge the shot into Dick’s arm. The reaction isn’t instantaneous. Nevertheless, Dick’s movements slow from wild animal to netted fish and his unnatural eyes drift shut.

Jason zipties him particularly well. He props Dick up, douses a cloth from the front seat with his water bottle, and gently dabs at the blood on his face. Jason’s anger softens to concern over how much pain Dick will be in when he wakes up. He tries not to picture him wincing awake beneath the bloody cloth as if from some ugly dream. Jason tries, first and foremost, not to want things Dick can’t give him.

The com alerts him that Batman has tested the candy heart and is under its effects. The antidote is being administered.

Bruce’s backseat-driving whilst being restrained turns out to be the real trial. The antidote’s guesswork is spot-on and the worst side-effect is the full body rash that covers Bruce and the other pink-lovers’ skin in red splotches. The bats are still in and out the cave, but most of them stay to help recover the victims. Barbara eventually wheels over to Dick and disinfects the soft hollow of his arm. As she does, she side-eyes Jason and asks, “So, how’d you find him? Attacking his hot new bartender girlfriend?”

It’s either weariness or bitterness that tingers her sarcasm a darker shade than usual. Jason doesn’t know her or her relationship with Dick well enough to tell which. He leans against the wall and watches her fasten a tourniquet around Dick. His nose has been reset and his head bandaged. The wrist is in a temporary velcro brace.

“Something like that,” murmurs Jason.

Barbara, ever vigilant, not only notices the word choice but doesn’t let it go. “Something like that? As in he was attacking someone else. Wasn’t he?”

Jason merely shrugs. He’d be content to leave it at that except he’d rather satisfy her with useless details than encourage her with silence. “I found him on the edge of downtown. He wasn’t attacking anyone, but the name he called for wasn’t Bea.” Jason drinks from his water bottle. “That’s all I’ll say. Ric’s made it clear he doesn’t want us prying.”

Whether Barbara wholly accepts this information, he can’t decipher. She’s concentrating on the needle sinking into Dick’s vein, her long red hair obscuring half her face as she ducks her head down. She does, however, argue in half-distraction, “No one, including you, has completely respected that.”

Jason neatly deflects the accusation. “That’s to make sure the idiot doesn’t get himself killed by enemies he can’t remember. Beyond that, what’s his life is his life. Not about to snitch on him to his ex-girlfriend.”

It’s a low blow, one which Barbara responds to with an icy gaze that holds onto Jason with cold, clinging fingers. Regardless, his jab has the intended result: Barbara drops the conversation and moves onto the next pink-lover without a word further.

Jason could help out with the injections, but no one directly asks him to and he’s feeling like he’s reached his quota for bat-cooperation. Instead he pulls up a chair next to Dick and stays on his phone to avoid seeming overly invested in Dick’s progress. With time, though, and the activity whirring around him, Jason does partly forget about the man passed out beside him. At least to the extent that he’s surprised to hear Dick’s voice — rusty with sleep but always, always possessing that slight musical lilt — announce, “I’m annoyed.”

Jason glances down. Dick’s eyes are more than Jason expects, which means he’s probably been awake for a few minutes. They’re also lucid blue, the only reminders of his mania existing in the bloodshot veins.

Dick’s throat swallows dryly. “I know,” he begins thickly, “I probably don’t have to be. From the looks of this creepy dark room brimming with people also strapped to gurneys, I’d say this has a chance of genuinely being a ridiculous coincidence that I ended up here.”

Jason wants to kiss Dick’s tired eyes and tell him to sleep until all the red is gone. He doubts that would go over well. Tentatively, he inquires, “Do you remember what happened? What you did to — get here?” he finishes lamely. Hopefully it doesn’t come off as blame-finding to Dick as it does to himself.

Dick licks his lips. “Some of it. Enough to know I probably have a lot of texts from Bea that I’ll put off longer than I should.” He laughs so thinly it could be a cough if not for the wry smile.

Jason considers laughing back, just as some knee-jerk social reaction, but he doesn’t feel up to it. He turns his phone absently around in his hands. “Yeah, well, don’t put her off too long. This situation isn’t what I’d call easily salvageable.”

Dick’s gaze slides towards him. Their eyes meet. Jason wishes he could read Dick like he knows Dick can read him. “What happened, Jason?”

So Jason tells him. Dick takes it all in, processing sluggishly. Jason nearly opens his phone for something to do when Dick cracks out a “wow.” The word is dry and scratchy, prompting Jason to unscrew the cap on his water bottle and hold it to Dick’s mouth. When he takes it away, Dick continues clearer, “Not many scenarios wherein your girlfriend could be mad you didn’t kill her, huh?”

“Not many I can think of.”

They’re quiet again. Jason doesn’t open his phone this time. He waits.

“I think I meant what I said,” Dick admits. “I mean, I guess the Joker knows better than I do — ”

“Don’t.” Jason can’t listen to that. He hates that name in a way Ric will never get. But Jason can’t let the Joker be any more a part of them than he already is after the festival.

“Okay,” says Dick, bemused. “I just — I don’t know you. Not really. Sometimes I get flashes of our past together. I like them. And I like us together now, but. It’s not enough.”

Dick’s rejection seers through Jason, flays him alive. You’re not enough.

Dick mercilessly charges on. “I don’t even know if those feelings are mine or — or Dick Grayson’s. I don’t want something that’s his — ”

Jason refuses to hear more of this spiel. “You’re the same person,” he snaps.

Dick falls silent. Jason is grateful for the chaos around them that allows this bubble of privacy. He is starting to shake, raw from the anger and hurt.

“I know,” Dick says faintly. Startled, Jason accidentally looks up from his hands; Dick is staring straight at him. “I don’t want to be him. I know I am, but I don’t want to be because then I’ll wind up inheriting his life and all the mistakes from it.”

Jason smirks. It’s so damn predictable. Of course this is how Jason would be loved — with regret. “Like me,” he concludes.

“No,” Dick immediately disagrees. “I don’t remember much of us. Mostly the good things actually, but — no, I feel it. You’re not one of my mistakes, whatever you are. Whatever we were, it wasn’t a mistake.”

Jason doesn’t want to tell him the pathetic truth of how they were never anything.

“Jason,” Dick says softly. “I’d like to get to know you.” He eyes the milling bats with something akin to queasiness. “Just you,” he clarifies. “And not as a trial basis for everyone else. This isn’t some open-door policy on my life, but. But. If you can leave — ” Dick gestures his good hand, the one attached to the IV, to the cave, “ — whatever this is behind you when we hang, then this could be something. Maybe even something good,” he adds with a teasing smile.

Dick’s expression is openly hopeful. Jason’s heart aches. He wishes love didn’t feel this way all the time. Truthfully, he doesn’t know if he can compartmentalize like Dick expects. Nor is it fair for Dick to expect that from Jason who does remember, whose life isn’t a before-and-after picture but a composition piece of everything he’s been through.

Yet Jason swallows the cinderblock in his throat and says, “Yeah. I think we can do that, Ric.”

Dick’s bad hand twitches. He winces around his smile, that legendary Dick Grayson smile that wins over the toughest crowd. Even ones as tough as Jason Todd, Park Row streetrat with a penchant for fistfights and posturing. Jason snorts at the humor of it all, of his life, and reaches across Dick to lightly squeeze the fingers on his good hand.

Dick squeezes back happily. “Think you can take me home without drawing suspicion?”

“What, about us?”

Dick nods.

Jason considers the question. No one is looking at them. No one has even spared them a single glance. And as landmined as that short conversation with Barbara was, suspicion towards Jason’s dodginess regarding Dick’s love life wasn’t one of those mines. “Yeah,” Jason answers. “I think I’m pretty good about not wearing my heart on my sleeve. What about you, pretty boy?”

Dick’s grin dazzles. “The best,” he replies.

#jaydick #jaydick_flashfic: valentine’s crime #jason todd #dick grayson #dc #fanfiction for the void

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eideticreid · 7 years ago

Text

First Case » Spencer Reid

Pairing: Reader x Spencer Reid

Word Count: 1,988

Warnings: None

Summary: You are heading out onto your first case within the BAU, and Hotch pairs you up with your new favourite person.

Tag: @ultrarebelheart, @captainreid, @cynbx

You had never been to Dallas, Texas before. But a serial killer, known as an UnSub within the Behavioral Analysis Unit, had brought you to the beautiful city for your first ever case.

You were feeling a mixture of emotions as you sat in the SUV, heading to the dump site of the latest victim, preparing yourself for what was probably going to be a days long case.

You were excited to use your skills and knowledge you had learnt over the years; you were determined to catch the UnSub and bring justice to those who needed it, and you were nervous in case you messed this up.

It was your first and only time to prove your worth to the team. Your first time to show them that you belong at the BAU.

Whilst on the private jet, Hotch had dished out jobs for each member of the team, and much to your delight he had paired you up with Spencer. You were excited about this because it meant more alone time with him.

Yours and Spencer’s job was to visit the dump site of the latest victim, Grace Chambers.

The only information you had on the case was that the UnSub targeted young girls between the ages of twenty-one and twenty-five; all were held hostage for three days whilst being brutally beaten, and then subsequently being murdered by blunt force trauma to the head.

“How are you feeling now we’re in Dallas?” Spencer asked from behind the wheel.

He could sense your excitement had dwindled, now being replaced with anxiety.

You thought for a second, “I’m a little nervous, to be honest. I just want to prove to you guys that I’m good enough for this job.”

“No one thinks that you aren’t.” He stated, briefly looking at you. “Didn’t you graduate top of your class in the academy?”

“Yeah, but I don’t have near enough the experience you all have.”

“It’s true, the academy can only teach you so much. But you’ll be fine. You’re intelligent. Hotch would never have hired you if he didn’t think you were capable. Don’t start doubting yourself now.”

You smiled, “I’ll try my best to remember that. Thanks, Spence.”

There was that nickname again.

His heart skipped a beat when his name slipped from your mouth, although this time you were aware of the shortened version you used. He blushed; he liked the way his name sounded when you spoke it.

“You know, J.J’s the only person who calls me Spence.”

“Oh,” You blushed hard, “I’m sorry. I didn’t realise. In future I’ll just stick with Spencer. Or Reid. I mean, which would you prefer?”

He noticed your slight stammering, and smiled at how cute you sounded. “I didn’t mean for that to sound rude. I was just stating that J.J is the only person who calls me that. I actually don’t mind you calling me Spence.”

“Oh, okay,” You didn’t know why, but you were still blushing, “It just seems natural for me to say Spence. So if you really don’t mind, I might just stick with that.” You grinned.

He chuckled, “Totally don’t mind.”

As the conversation seemed to end, you started paying more attention to the streets of Dallas passing you by. Even though you were here under unfortunate circumstances, you still thought this city was appealing and fascinating.

“You wanna know what I do when I feel anxious?” Spencer asked, “I read. I mean, I read for pleasure mostly, but it also helps if I’m feeling anxious about something.”

“Does it really work?” You were curious.

“For me, yeah. Studies have shown that just six minutes of reading can help reduce stress levels by up to sixty percent. That’s sixty-eight percent better than listening to music, a hundred percent better than drinking tea, and three hundred percent better than going for a walk.” He explained.

“See I’ve always tried listening to music to calm my nerves.” You stated, “But if reading is more effective, then I should definitely try that out.”

You noticed that Spencer was pulling up to the side of the road, and when you caught sight of the yellow tape sectioning off an alleyway, you realised you were at your destination.

“What were you reading on the jet earlier?” You asked, stepping out from the SUV.

“Strangers on a Train by Patricia Highsmith. It’s a good read, I highly recommend.”

“You did look very invested.” You both walked over to the scene, flashing your credentials to the officer patrolling the area, “Any other books you recommend?”

Spencer held up the tape so you could both duck underneath it, “I could recommend many books,” He chuckled, “How about I give you a list later of my personal favourites?”

“I’d love that, thanks.”

• • •

You and the team had been working tirelessly all day to find clues and information on the UnSub, and now all of you were exhausted and ready for bed.

You and Spencer had returned to the police station after visiting the dump site — an alleyway in the roughest part of Dallas — and you both concluded that the UnSub left Grace’s body there for anyone to find, because he lacked concern, sympathy and interest.

When you returned to the police station, Hotch had instructed for you and Spencer to start a geographical profile, along with J.J, and that’s where you had been for hours. Trying to make connections; trying to find clues.

Your brain was frazzled.

“You know what, I don’t think I can function anymore without coffee. Do you guys want one?” J.J asked, rising from her seat.

“Yes, please.” Spencer replied.

You knew coffee at 9 P.M. was a bad idea, “Not for me, thanks. But I wouldn’t say no to water.”

J.J smiled, “Coming right up. You know (Y/L/N), I wish I could make good decisions like you.”

You chuckled as she left the room, leaving you and Spencer alone once again. He was sitting at the long table with you, staring intently at all the folders and pieces of paper sprawled in front of him.

You looked over at the big board beside you, a map of Dallas enlarged, pins located on each dump site of the UnSub’s victims and where they were last seen.

“So we’ve established the dump sites have no significance to the UnSub, just wherever is convenient for him.” You thought aloud, “But he’s got to be keeping these girls in a secluded area for the three days he holds them hostage. A place where he can’t be disturbed.”

“A place where passers by wouldn’t hear the screams of the girls.” Spencer carried on, turning to the board, “The dump sites are all roughly two miles from each other, but it’s hard to tell if there’s any secluded areas on this map around where he left the bodies.”

You smiled, you were getting somewhere. “I believe that’s a job for our tech genius friend back home.”

Just as Spencer went to retrieve his phone from his pocket to call Garcia, Derek and Elle had returned from their jobs looking exhausted and mentally drained.

“Kids, please tell me you have something.” Derek moaned, as he flopped down onto a chair.

“We might have a potential lead,” Spencer said, now watching Hotch and Gideon walk into the room, “We were just going to call Garcia for her assistance.”

He dialled her number and after three rings she picked up, “You’ve reached Penelope Garcia in the FBI’s Office of Supreme Genius.”

You smiled. “Hey Garcia, it’s Reid. We need you to look up isolated abandoned buildings and secluded houses in Dallas.”

“Preferably somewhere that’s not situated in the city. We are looking for a place where no one would suspect a thing, or hear the cries and screams of our victims.” You further explained.

“You got it love bugs.”

• • •

In no less than thirty minutes had you all pulled up outside of an abandoned warehouse, thanks to Penelope’s tech skills.

After gathering information from Penelope’s finds and then making connections to the profile you’d all delivered, you realised that Vincent Woods was your UnSub and his next target was likely his ex-girlfriend.

With your bullet proof FBI vests securely on, and your weapons firmly in your hands, you had all fanned out around the warehouse in pairs from Hotch’s orders.

You and Spencer walked around a corner, covering each other, when Hotch had started speaking into the device in your ear. “Guys, J.J has just left Gabrielle’s house. She’s missing. There seems to have been a struggle. We now have reason to believe Vincent already has her, so go easy on approach.”

You and Spencer shared a look before walking down a corridor, making sure to have each others backs the whole time.

Around two minutes later, you and Reid had entered into the main room of the warehouse, the same time Derek and Elle did from across the other side.

“FBI! Put down your weapon!” Derek bellowed.

Your UnSub had jumped at the loud noise your co-worker had made and scrambled to grab his ex-girlfriend so she was now in front of him. His own human shield.

He pressed his gun to Gabrielle’s head, “Stay away! Get away! Don’t come any closer!”

“Vincent Woods, we will not ask you again. Put down your weapon!” Elle spoke sternly.

“Or what?” He pressed, “You’ll shoot me? Good luck with that. You’ll just end up shooting her too.” An evil smirk graced his lips.

“We know she hurt you,” Spencer spoke, “We know she left you heart broken and alone. But do you really think killing her is the answer?”

“Yes!” He shouted, “She deserves to feel the hurt and pain she put me through!” He pressed the gun further into Gabrielle’s temple.

You and the team had come to the conclusion that the girls he killed were just tests to see what the best method of torture and murder was, and that it all ultimately ended with Gabrielle and what she deserved.

“No good is going to come out from this, Woods.” You said, repositioning how you held your gun, “You kill her but your pain will still remain. Don’t you want her to apologise for what she did?”

You were trying to buy some more time for the team to work out a plan in which Gabrielle made this out alive.

“Her apology means nothing.” He spat, “I know I’ll feel a lot better when she’s dead.”

The next few seconds had consisted of Hotch and Gideon sneaking up behind Vincent, alerting him of their presence, and then a shoot out happening because Vincent had been snuck up on once again.

You didn’t draw any bullets, purely because the angle you and Spencer were at didn’t give you a clear enough shot of him. But Derek had managed to shoot him twice in the back, taking him down without harming Gabrielle.

As you put your weapon back in its holster, you had noticed a small simple action that was made by Spencer.

He had stepped in front of you. When the guns were drawn he had stepped in front of you.

He turned around to face you with slight concern adorned on his features, “Are you okay?”

You nodded, “Yeah, I’m fine.” You hesitated to mention his movement at first, “Spence, you uh, you stepped in front of me.”

A blush had fastly approached his cheeks, “I uh, yeah.” He scratched the back of his neck, “I’m sorry, I don’t know why I, uh, did that.”

Before you could tell him that it was okay, he had walked off flustered at his stupid actions. You watched as he walked away, your heart thumping in your chest, but not because of the adrenaline of what just happened.

But because you was sure you were slowly developing feelings for Spencer Reid.

#Spencer Reid #Spencer Reid imagine #Reader x Spencer Reid #Criminal Minds #Criminal Minds fic #Criminal Minds imagine #Aaron Hotchner #Jennifer Jareau #Penelope Garcia #Derek Morgan #Elle Greenaway #Jason Gideon

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lorainelaneyblog · 5 years ago

Text

Letter to the Prime Minister

Dear Prime Minister Trudeau,

I am the woman who was tortured over a period of years, up to, and including, the present, with chemicals, noise machines, fly pasts, alterations of objects in my apartments, plants, bugs, damaged furniture, theft, sirening, stalking, a tasing, and a shooting, by the Vancouver, Toronto, and Ottawa police departments.

Further, I was nearly a casualty of a Carlington landlord, who assaulted me with paint fumes, in the apartment where I still live, and I believe the apartment to harbour the remaining toxicities.

Further, this landlord, of which I speak, assaulted me with gasoline, and plastics, so that I could not breathe well for some years.

Further, I am of the belief that many people infringed on my copyright for Bros Before Hos, The Equality Apocalypse.

Further, I have been a victim of the mental health system, including pinching of my fingernails, a sprained ankle, confiscation of foot wear, when I had open wounds on my feet, being refused soap, and being told to use the alcohol cleanser when I had open wounds on my hands. I was tied down, denied an adequate diet, denied food supplements, inadequately supplied with toilet paper and towels, and finally gasolined, again, by someone in the hospital.

Further, I was instructed to push down the garbage, since my chemical affection caused frequent trips to bathroom.

Further, I was exposed to toxic cleaning fluids, and further, I was assaulted with Haldol gaseous. I awoke to hear my roommate gasping for breath, as I was. Once it was naphtha, or something like it.

Further, once, several nurses stormed the bathroom, and kept telling me not to shower so often.

Further, upon admittance, a single vial of blood drawn caused a chemical overload, nearly causing my death.

Further, in the PSA, I was given a bed pan to go to the toilet in the room, on the floor. I was never asked if I wanted to use the bathroom.

Further, a security guard, female, watched me toileting, and conducting rituals, to stay alive, throughout the night.

Further, there was untreated rashing, from chemicals, all over my body. I was given hydrocortisone, which I thought would aggravate it. A glaxal based cream was helpful.

As for the police, the chemicals were aviation gas, the propellant for dry ice, and what I believe to be, white gas, mustard gas, and hydrogen gas. Also, I am, currently, this day, being gasolined in my apartment at #15 - 1481 Morisset Avenue, Ottawa, Ontario, Canada.

Further, several substances have been used in this very apartment, over the past four years, in addition to substances by the landlord, by the police, I believe, since access to all my apartments would be difficult to achieve. They include joke shop chemicals, like cat urine, garbage, and exhaust, also gasoline, it’s lighter smelling than real gasoline, what I believe to be an industrial adhesive, which caused a slight aching sensation in my sinuses, as well as paint thinners, at least two kinds, one made me smell funny. On that topic, there have been times over the past years, when I could smell like a toxic waste dump, it’s chemical, and it comes out in the urine. Plastics, I have been blowing out of my nose for four years. In fact, you can’t blow your nose anymore, the air sticks, I don’t know how else to describe it.

Further to the plastics, the fear in shortness of breath is very real. I found, and this is very private, but some people know, rest assured, that I would find, as a sex worker, if someone was on top of me, I wouldn’t be able to breathe at all.

Further to the plastics, again, they adhere to the inside of the nostrils, and, perhaps, sinuses, causing nose bleeds, though I was using drugs in my nose, a bit, at the time.

Further, even the joke shop chemicals cause headaches, though not sinus pain.

Further, noise machines have been installed in adjacent apartments at times, in a hostel, on a roof top, and in a man hole. These provide such a grinding sound, so as to compel one to move.

To elaborate on the noise machines, it would be hard to compare the noise with the surrounding construction noise, but it would be all night, compelling me, along with the inundation, with the propellant for dry ice, through the penthouse fan vent, to move to the small bedroom where I preferred to see clients, saving the queen bed for myself. The irritation I felt at paying $1950 per month and being unable to utilize the master bedroom and ensuite cannot be overstated.

Further, it was upon making this move that I heard what I suspected were officers on the adjacent roof, talking, and, presumably watching me through infrared cameras.

Further, there were fly pasts, including small planes, and helicopters, large planes, up to 747′s and larger, I believe, on a flight path, but loud, and deviating. One incident involved the chemical bombing of my open windows and a concurrent chemical bombing of the penthouse, at the time, bathroom fan vent.

This continued, in Vancouver, through fan vents, for several years, including shorter stints, with less intensity, in Ottawa and Toronto.

The hovering and fly pasts continued too. Sometimes there is a dump of aviation gas. Even this past summer.

Once, I wrote a nasty letter to Global News complaining about the traffic helicopters, and, that night, a helicopter hovered for over three hours.

Once, a friend of mine was helicoptered too, for three hours.

The disruption of the planes and helicopters cannot be overstated. They are loud, and annoying.

Further, there were intentional air craft simmerings, on the water front in Vancouver, once by Cobras and in Kanata, at a small airport, I believe, well within earshot of my building, causing ear pain, and extreme annoyance.

Further, the police entered my apartment a number of times, tilting pictures, putting in bugs, the live kind, once putting an old pair of 50 Cent tickets in a book I was reading, confusing me immensely, once putting a green glow worm in my kale.

Further, there were a number of thefts, and what I believe to be called exchanges, of my belongings, so many over the years that I still have memories of things that have been missing for years, including my only two pairs of glasses.

It is my belief, on that topic, that my townhouse, at the time, in Kanata, was entered while I was sleeping, as, at first, the arm of my newer glasses, and the screw, lay beside the glasses, themselves, in the morning. And then both pairs were missing the following morning.

And finally, the old, ugly, scratched, and discoloured pair of glasses turned up again.

Further to exchanges, almost every pair of Victoria’s Secret panties were exchanged, and it took me some time, again, sick as I was, to realize that they were not mine. This is disgusting. I could have got a disease from them.

Further to my mental health experience, blankets are shorted, leaving one cold, I was a little bit attacked by my roommate, and nothing was done. I was a victim of unlawful confinement by a young man I let kiss me, he would entrap me in the bathroom, and I would beg to leave. Further, the same young man would hump me unsuspectingly in front of the microwave every morning, and there was nothing I could do to stop him. Nothing was done. He was sent home. I did several months more.

After my transfer to The Royal, it was decided to place me on Seroquel, I have no idea why. I was perfectly calm, as opposed to when they were going to take more blood, I was calling out, “You’re gonna kill me! You’re gonna kill me!” Further, the security guard bent my wrist, and I called out, “You’re gonna break my arm! You’re gonna break my arm!” I almost died on Seroquel. One night, my legs were kicking uncontrollably, and I was falling off the toilet, sick as I was.

Further, I have since been told, by my psychiatrist, that there was liver damage. Further, I am blamed for drinking beer.

Further, my apartment keys, which the arresting officer showed me were placed in my wallet, disappeared in emergency, and also, money was missing, about two hundred dollars, and also, change.

To further illuminate the sprained ankle, I was dumped into a transfer chair, while engaging in passive resistance. I limped around the hospital for two months. On that note, that was also when my thumb nails were pinched. I was obviously conscious, as my eyes were flickering.

I was sufficiently depleted by each hospital stay, I came to realize I would lose eight pounds with each stay. Further, the medications gave rise to many side affects, such as deep wrinkles, frown lines, sore feet, exhaustion, sexual dysfunction, and agitation.

Further, with respect to the police, my computer has been hacked for several years. I believe material has been stolen. The screen jiggles up and down almost always, and, most recently, side to side. The hacking also involved the theft of four hundred pages of original material, and, maybe, the installation of some porn on a roommates computer, which ended up on mine, as we were connected at the time, and she placed it there. It included a scene of beastiality, which I believe to be illegal. It has since been removed, parts of it, anyway.

The jiggling makes it impossible, at times, to use my computer for blogging, and email. I no longer write in Word, since I can’t afford it. I would prefer to, as some of my work is private, but I see no point, as I can’t hide anything, and I’m a drug user, so all my money goes to that.

On that note, I believe that my phone calls are tapped since, a few times, during a drug deal, a police vehicle happens to appear, though Carlington is a busy neighbourhood for such crimes, at least it was.

Further, in an apartment on West 11th was where the tasing took place. It was not painful, as I understand it to be, because it was through the wall, but it caused my body to tense into a curl, and vibrate, and I knew what it was.

Further, once, I believe there was an obstacle course set up for me, while I was driving. I would even guess that two police officers, a man and a woman, on bikes, sports bikes, not ten speeds, who drove quickly and haphazardly, in a diagonal, actually, across the middle of a residential street, were wearing dark contact lenses and grey tone clothing to appear evil.

Further, on another occasion, a driver pulled out right in front of me, while I was driving along 12th Avenue in Vancouver, unpredictably, and late, after looking right at me.

I believe I was on camera frequently, even infrared camera. This was embarrassing for me. I would notice responses to my movements in the form of laughter and conversation, even, once anyway, two phone calls.

Further, sometimes officers, as I believe, will throw rocks or something up under the appliances, disturbing me at night. Further, they will knock on the wall, causing me stress, and a reason to go check the door. Sometimes, there is a noise at night, which I believe to be exclusively to frighten me.

Further, I believe the officers still enter because of tilted pictures. Also, there was a spatula, missing for years, which was replaced recently. The same thing happened to a foot file.

An Ikea quilt deserves special mention, it was exchanged, and I was left freezing under an old technology quilt, I suppose, with black feathers, freezing. I am still cold, because whatever that landlord used to jack the heat, stayed with the apartment, whether it’s dirt in the lines or what have you, it’s seventeen degrees, borne out by a call to the city last spring, after freezing for four winters.

Further, and I take this moment to apologize for the haphazard nature of this letter, but such as it is, I’m sorry, Prime Minister Trudeau, I also experienced a few moments of deafness, due to construction noise, in the downtown eastside, prior to the 2010 Olympics, as well as weeping, due, specifically, to a certain machine, and frequent migraines.

In the hospital, after getting arrested under the mental health act for refusing to leave Vancouver City Hall at closing time, I was diagnosed as having “somatic delusions.”

Upon arrival in the downtown eastside, in a higher end apartment on Water Street, I was the victim of acidizing, not knowing what it was at the time, my father said to me, “What’s wrong with your face?” It turned my skin yellowy brown, and rough for a period of several months. My skin, to this day, peels, and is rough.

Once, I was hanging a picture, and then went out for a walk. A truck licked up my heels, and when I returned home, the picture was askew by eight inches.

Further to the deafness, I had gone to visit my father when I noticed that his voice was a whisper, frightened, I said, “Dad! Dad! Your voice is a whisper.”

Once, when at 550 Taylor, there were two fake fires. I heard later that someone had lit a jacket and two phone books on fire, and not been evicted. At the time, due to the chemical bombing, I phoned the security desk, and said the following, “I know you’re involved in this,” and was told this, “You can’t prove anything.”

Much later, in Ottawa, while living, for a short while, in a townhouse in Kanata, where the police had taken up residence in the attic to white gas me, I believe, I was shot at. I have a tiny bit of experience with guns from army cadets, and, though I have never seen a round fly, I believe it was a .22 caliber, it fluttered by me, about a meter behind me, as I trudged through the snow late, about 10:30 PM, at night.

Further to the damage to furniture, besides annoying nicks and scratches, the pins were bent on a chest, and on my sofa, causing them to shift dangerously, and a wheel was bashed off a table, leaving a rough metal edge, and leaving the table permanently unstable. I believe that the stove was chipped, in a relatively new building.

Further, it is my belief that something, perhaps gasoline, as I’ve heard from God, was added to my vodka, causing extreme discomfort, in my bladder, for seven months.

Further, I would like to emphasize that whenever a client was present in my home, all assaults would cease. I could not prove anything, ever.

During one phase of the torture, I began writing what I call the Armageddon letters, including, in one, the suggestion of a “whispering campaign,” which, to me, was the only way anyone could help, as I felt, since my building emptied out, that anyone who spoke for me, or, complained about the environment, would be done too, with white gas, I felt. This effort was to no avail, and created further vulnerability.

Further to the fake fires, in one, the stairwell was filled with smoke, and the other stairwell housed a massive shit. I’ve heard of shit from fire fighters, in the boots of female would be fire fighters, so I wondered if they had become involved.

When I called the police to report the gases, I was told immediately, “We’re not coming out.”

Further, I am of the sincere belief that I have been channel blocked for years. I noticed it first about the age of thirty three, as I phoned Shaw in Vancouver and asked for CNN, which I never received, nor the BBC. CNN looped a weather story. I forget what was on the BBC. In addition, though I believe I have always been, since, a victim of this, channel blocking, it was made clear to me at this address, as, first, though I had yet to pay for cable, the English channels disappeared from a small TV given to me by a client, and then the channel channel disappeared, leaving only French stations.

On this note, when my things arrived from storage, in a rage from chemical affection, calmly, however, I threw my large TV out the window, and served five and a half months under the mental health act at both the Queensway-Carleton, and The Royal.

On the topic of the chemicals, the spot under my nose was burned red, and bubbly, though not exactly blisters, more just round and red. Also, my skin was blotchy.

Further to the landlord who tried to kill me, he also used bleach and birch sap, I believe it is, which caused coughing. He would also, regularly, take a shit on the roof, near or in the fan vents, causing the smell to spread through the suite. It is my belief that he would also use semen and shit and boil it on the roof, placing it in the fan vents. I understand e. Coli has an airborne quality, and this worries me too.

In Toronto, in an effort to escape the torture in Vancouver, and also as evidence of call tapping, I was about to sign a lease when, that night, there was a gas used in the hostel, and a noise machine too. This caused me to move again, closer to family, who have since taken up an opportunity to live in [ ], leaving me alone again.

It is my belief that I have no allies at all. I walk the streets for errands, and for exercise, a bit, and nobody looks at me anymore, unless they are laughing. This is my home now. And I have no one. And I have no money either to save myself from ridicule, and ostracization. Nobody looks at me. I’m not that old. I’m not that ugly. But this is how it is now.

To return to the green glow worm, though I was suspicious that the police were entering because of picture tilting, they would always choose one picture, where I ate my dinner, and it was right against the furnace, so that I would wonder if it was vibrating itself sideways. The green glow worm was on a cookie sheet of cooked kale, and despite my suspicion, the truth escaped me. I ate the kale around it, as I was being pushed out of that apartment, and was exhausted and hungry from working seven days a week in massage parlours.

Further, also, once there was a massive cockroach, and once there was a BC spider, when I first arrived in Ottawa, that is.

Once, I confronted the officer whom I thought was responsible for the majority of the chemical torture on West 11th, saying, “Why are you torturing me?” And he only snorted.

Further, once, I was doing laundry, and, on that note, the dryer was gasolined once, and a man raced in, looked right at me, and walked out. I believe the police also exhausted up the parking garage a few times, right next to the laundry, which I would do daily.

Further, I suspected, at any rate, thought, that I had noticed many cars stalking me while I was running on the canal. The cars were very similar in appearance, older, and small, like hatchbacks or something, causing me to wonder if police officers would have a second car for this purpose, for the purpose of crimes, Prime Minister Trudeau.

Further, in Vancouver, I noticed that a bird call was installed along my running route. I could hear it whirring. On that note, bird calls were also used around my apartment, and, even, possibly, at this apartment, a few years ago.

I have neglected to mention that I was both stalked and sirened all the time, even when I was out, even out with a favoured client, even being helicoptered or planed with him. Once, I was planed in a neighbouring small town where family were living at the time. And once I was planed when visiting a friend in [ ].

Having said that there was never any corroboration, there was once. It had become apparent to me that a din would ensue the moment that my client and myself turned to each other to have sex. Once the din was so obvious, that we both remained silent for some time. The din included sirens, planes, helicopters, beeping garbage trucks, and drive bys in general. I was right on the lane.

Further to one of my mental health stays, I was, once, after fleeing medication, locked in a room with no toilet for three and a half days. It smelled of piss.

I believe I was the subject of gossip by nurses, once over hearing a nurse declaring, “sexual grandiosity.”

At one mental health stay, I noticed the tea had been removed. At the desk, I was told, “You don’t need three tea bags.”

I had specific, I felt, tampering with my food, once, believe, my cranberry juice was replaced with communion wine, and, these are the worst, two pieces of white fish tasted like moldy plant pot soil. I had to spit them out. ALL of the meat caused my ovaries, and bladder, pain.

At one stay, I was denied walks, in the form of being left out of the timing for leaving. Once, I signed up, and was not collected. I would see the walking group forming and not be invited. I know this is protocol, from other hospitals.

This seems petty, but the plentiful cereal at night was replaced by humous and crackers or a tiny yoghurt.

This brings to mind incidences which occurred nightly at one hospital, I would, despite the frequent urination caused by my chemical affection, be encouraged to drink “a little more” water with my nightly medication. I begged and pleaded, and the encouragement only continued.

My room was moved repeatedly. Once, I asked to be moved away from a shitter, and I was moved, only to be moved again the next day.

This brings to mind another set of complaints. This time, at the shelter. I was chased for being naked, right into my room, by a staff member. A woman from the street was plaintive, asking for something, I thought it was a blanket, and the response was sarcastic, and unrelenting. After being told to turn in paraphernalia and bottles, I handed in a beer can, and was locked out for three hours. I missed curfew once, sitting at McDonald’s, and my bed was stripped of all my carefully washed linens and blankets. The sweater that I had been using as a pillow was taken too.

Further, this is the kicker, I had had one appointment with that landlord, and my housing worker at the time, and I was about to sign the lease the next day, and I was moved from a single room where I had been staying for a few months, to a triple. That day, I was sick from, I believe, a bout of salmonella. Several social workers stood at the door saying my name repeatedly, the ambulance was called, and then the police. At one point, the accountant came into the room, and shoved the dresser so hard that it bent the pins on my nightlight. I showed the police. The police helped me move many garbage bags full of things into the new room.

There were two occasions when I had to get up early for appointments, and, both times the hot water was turned off.

Recently, gasoline was sprayed outside my window, at night, so I had to get up, after a nap, and wash all my sheets and pillow cases, or change them anyway, and wash my body, as it was summer, and I was naked, and, I understand, from my helper in heaven, Patrick Crean, that more would have absorbed into the body, without coverings, like when you pump your gas.

The most recent assault was with gasoline, directly into the apartment.

Recently, I was removed from my Community Treatment Order, and yet I am still compelled to take medication. I don’t understand this. I actually consider it to be blackmail, the way I’m coerced by the threat of being placed back on the Community Treatment Order, should I fail to comply “voluntarily”. Further, I find the shot in the rump to be extremely undignifying.

Further to my mental health stays, at one hospital I was strapped to the bed five times, with what I perceived to be dirty restraints, against my bare genitals. It was hazardous to be forced into lying down for long periods because of the need for the toilet. Further, on one occasion, I was exhausted and stumbling for three days from, I believe, one dose of Valium.

Further to my brief tenancy at a townhouse in Kanata, there was a home invasion. It was almost surreal, as I was so frightened that I was praying, and God led me down to the basement, and I could hear someone running around the second and third floors.

Further to that time, I was arrested under the mental health in a most disruptive way. First of all, I had no idea I was being considered for arrest, second, I was in the bathtub when the officers entered, the female officer telling me brusquely to dress. Thirdly, a former “crime” was cited as a reason for the arrest, an incident where I had become lost in my new neighbourhood, and was sitting in a parked car, albeit illegally, I was not charged, but only driven back home.

I was subjected to four years of stalking by non-police fans, I knew who they were, but would not say their names, feeling responsible, in part, for my own silly behaviours, such as an offensive tee shirt, and a gang bang contest.

The stalking involved throwing rocks at my building. Once, pennies were scattered around the entrance to one of my apartment buildings, also dimes. I don’t know who all was involved at times. When I first noticed fan activity, they were calling my name in the downtown eastside. At the same time, I felt I hadn’t a friend in the world.

Once, I went for a jog, only to discover the entire neighbourhood looking at me over the previous night’s hovering helicopter.

Once, at St. Paul’s Hospital in Vancouver, I was not permitted to return to my home in Ottawa, the stipulation was that I had to find my own psychiatrist. I was lucky to find one, having to call several individuals.

Prior to that, the reason for my admittance, was that I confronted a family member about some memories of rape as a child, only to be bruised on the arm, wrestled to the floor, and later arrested for refusing to speak. The fact of the matter is, I did not turn a trick in my mother’s apartment. I had sex with a client, but was not paid, as we had an arrangement.

In Ottawa, I could tell men were sharing video of me, because I saw a reaction from someone I’d never seen. There was a rash of clients wanting to take video.

Further to the single room that I stayed in, for a period of time, at the shelter. This room, unlike the others, was dirty. The sink smelled of urine, the corner had splatters of vomit and, maybe, shit, and all of the walls had been written on in red. I cleaned the room mercilessly with Lysol, only to be turfed out of it, for only two days, just to inconvenience me, I felt.

Further to that room, it overlooked two restaurants, and I asked for curtains to no avail, eventually hanging a blanket I found on the street, and washed, on one side. The mirror, hung unevenly by the contractor, was most welcome.

Further to the landlord who tried to kill me with paint, allow me to illuminate that this onslaught involved hours upon hours of paint fumes, through the open windows and the fan vents, giving rise to constant vomiting, in rituals, to stay alive, including the pounding of water, moldy, from the tap, and one episode of unconsciousness resulting in white drool from the mouth.

Further, this landlord failed to provide heat for all of October, November, and December that year.

Further, I had to walk from Morisset Avenue to Preston Street four times, each day, in an attempt to pick up my ODSP cheque, and was finally accused of cheque fraud by a clerk holding two pieces of paper, one with a photocopy of my signature. I had signed many cheques that summer, at the bank, from the shelter. I left, quickly. The following month, begging, again, for my cheque, my address was recited, and it was incorrect, so I asked, “How could I commit cheque fraud on a cheque I never received?” The response was incoherent.

The last day of walking, I went unconscious for about two days, and couldn’t walk when I woke up. I soon discovered that the pee can I had been using, to avoid further chemical contamination from the painted bathtub, had been turned into a shit can by, I assume, the landlord, and he had also used all of my toilet paper, and my torn newsprint, and it was thrown everywhere, all over the can and the bag I was shitting in, again to avoid further contamination from the bathroom.

Further, he placed an LED nightlight beside my “toilet.”

Years ago, at the start of my stint in prostitution, I applied for worker’s compensation after quitting a job, which was disallowed at the time, and was asked about my prostitution income, and was told, “Can’t you just do that?”

My doctor, my medical doctor, refused to give me a note stating that my chemical toxicity would make having an attached garage a terrible thing for me, should I ever be placed in housing.

I was recently quoted a twelve year wait from this place where I almost died from toxicity.

Though it is not illegal, the officer who, I believed, was white gassing me on West 11th, shook a dusty rag out on me, while I was cleaning my new used car.

I don’t know the law, but I received one strike and lost my driver’s license over a drug seizure.

Once, another landlord bellowed my name in the hall two weeks before the rent was due, because my roommate had moved out.

Once, a third landlord, of the other apartment I was pushed out of, banged on the door, calling, “I know you’re in there.”

Each time, I’m so traumatized by the move that I forget who my friends are. Once, my mother and I didn’t speak for two years.

The first eviction involved an oven that took six months to fix. Later, in this apartment, the oven took a year to fix. A faulty oven is most depressing.

I have a call in to the city currently about the lack of heat in this apartment. The thermostat is good for about six degrees, and that’s it. I freeze all winter long. The by law officer came out, and checked the temperature, and it is three degrees below the legal limit, and nothing has been done, save, I was given two heaters which cost a fortune to run, and peel, what I believe to be, lead paint off of the walls, and spew it into the air.

Both evictions were actually push outs, as, both times, I was allowed to remain a tenant as long as quit working there. This is illegal, I believe, to dictate how to use my apartment, with nothing official, God tells me.

My character was slandered, as, at the time, I had nothing but a marijuana habit, and the landlord did too, ironically, and she wrote in her testimony that she had read in my journal that I was “hooked up on high speed,” and thought it was another drug addiction.

Further to the police, they broke four pairs of running shoes, and stole a pair too.

Further to running shoes, which are expensive, at this apartment, they stole one runner, and, after I threw the other one out, returned it.

Further to unlawful landlords, at another place, the landlord rang the bell at ten o’clock at night for an hour, when I wasn’t answering. Another time, the same landlord, rung the bell for an hour at one o’clock in the morning, and then entered. I was shaking like a leaf.

At that same place, a townhouse, the police entered one night while I was sleeping, I believe, and broke my two epilators. I had bought a second one when I immigrated to Ontario in order to escape the white gas torture in Vancouver. Some five years later, I went downstairs to find both of the epilators broken. On the same day? Are you kidding me?

Further to the damage to furniture, they spray an antiquing compound on fabric, they did it to a very expensive pair of shoes once as well, they sprayed the antiquing compound on the fabric of a chest, a new one, from The Brick, and it has caused the fabric to fall off in dusty chunks for five years. Every time I go and sweep, there’s new fabric junk on the floor.

Further to my health, when the agent orange landlord, I believe it’s called agent orange, the bathtub, I may have mentioned it was called unguents, I now realize that this is the wrong word for it, it’s a bathtub shellac, in any case, and it causes such tremendous illness so as to cause my asshole to bleed for a year. There are also two occasions of internal bleeding, different composition, which come out in the washroom.

Further, my small B’s turned into D’s and fell. Thanks for that, guy.

Further to injustice, once I thought I was going to go blind from something, and God was telling me what it was. I believe it’s called hydrophane eyes, which causes sticking in the morning, and pain with water. Now I can open my eyes under water again, because I was helped in heaven with picking the plastic out of my eyes, and rinsing, the pain I do not recall.

Recently, I reported a rape to the police which happened some years ago, and, lo and behold, the police showed up unannounced, well, in the stairway, two seconds away. And one thing which really irked me was I asked about my medication, which they are not allowed to do, as, as far as I know, there is no active CTO on me right now, though a call to the rights advisor did not solidify an answer. Further, it was most annoying, and, I believe, illegal, when the social worker in attendance said, upon my assertion that I had gone for my shot that afternoon, “And you’re tellin’ the truth?”

Further, I was accused of having said I didn’t want to take my medication, as though, it seemed, this was some kind of crime in itself.

There was a doctor some years ago, who shoved a speculum in hard, causing my eyes to water. It was for a colposcopy.

When I arrived in Ottawa, a noise machine producing a wave sound was placed on a roof top, for eight months. I used to have to wake up and put the TV on loud on a fuzzy station in order to sleep again. I doubt the neighbours were very happy, in either case.

The was a bus stand off once, which, I believe was not my fault, though it is likely on my police record. This is when there was some snow in Vancouver, and the bus was very slow, and, upon getting on the bus, I said some friendly comment about how busy it was, and was told, “You’re lucky to have a bus at all,” to which I replied, “Oh, fuck off.” The transit police, came, the police came, and nothing was done at all, except to get me off the bus, which I was refusing to do. Funny.

There were four masturbators, or streakers, encountered by me, as a young girl, in Kitsilano.

There was a very bizarre experience in the townhouse in Kanata. It was on a highway, and cars from another part of the world were driving along it. It went on, seemingly for days. I had never seen anything like it, in all the car rallies in Vancouver, and Ottawa, around town, never.

When I arrived in Ottawa, I noted someone staring over at my balcony, and I felt sure that he was a police officer, broken hearted, over a move away from Vancouver. I feel sure of this. Thus, I feel sure that certain officers are moved around to torture me. Maybe even to this day.

I was so sick, and God told me--this is before the bathtub shellac--that my endocrine system was arrested. I had been running a lot, well, not a lot, but every other day or so, and I found that I was no longer able to take a running gait.

I lost it a bit in the hospital, at Queensway-Carleton, I had been refused soap for so long and I came out of the washroom, and was refused soap again, and I dragged my hands down the front of the shirt of one the nurses, and, I forget, but God tells me I said something like, ‘You take my shitty hands then.’ I kind of remember, but not totally. My memory has been extremely affected by abuse, I believe, not impact but ingestion, of, I believe, God tells me, anyway, e. Coli. I can’t remember anything sometimes, like names, places, like now, I can’t even think of anything to say, but I forget so much.

Some time ago, from a finance course I had taken at night school, I was awarded a small silver bar, which has been missing for some time, though I may have misplaced it.

Further, I noticed recently, after tucking away a card repeatedly, that there is only one business card of mine left, little works of art, of which I was quite proud. I was saving one of each, and I had designed them myself in Publisher.

Further to police harassment, once, I made a piece of torte for an officer whom I believed was torturing me, and out of my set of cutlery disappeared a dessert fork. Do you think that is fun having a piece of cutlery missing for fifteen years?

A doctor told me to stop talking to God.

Further, some months after I received my apartment, and the torture had ensued, and the landlord had disappeared, only to be replaced by a man of the same name, and startlingly similar in appearance once, only, the rest of the time, I felt sure it wasn’t him, but a gangster in his stead, the ODSP financial worker who I had been assigned to, also disappeared, and was replaced, though I never met her, by a woman of the same name, with a different voice.

Further to the police torture, my favorite blanket was shortened by four inches. You think this isn’t noticeable, but it is. When you lie on your back, your feet stick out. Of course, I can’t lie on my back, my lungs strain, I blowfish, or I suffocate from orthodontics.

Further to the police, they stole my black cardamom, and all my jewelry went missing from this apartment, albeit, probably cheap, from my thieving [ ].

My [ ] made me an ‘L’ ring, and I threw it in the garbage for God. God tells me that the ring was worth $7000. I had no idea, but I followed the orders of God, though, knowing they were real diamonds, feeling it strongly, because they were so pretty.

Items of clothing were stolen, and I’m still having nightmares about it. Also, five new socks were stolen from the laundry at the shelter, as well as other things, says God.

The police, probably oiled two down jackets, one long, and one short, one expensive.

The same chest with the antiquing compound, had its lining torn. If you don’t think that’s annoying, you have another thing coming.

Further to the police torture, I tasted come in my flour when I fried it. I had removed the lumps before using it, but I missed one. The sugar was lumpy too.

Further to the Agent Orange torture, I now have a gross looking and feeling bump on my sphincter, and, though I can’t bring myself to examine it, my asshole is ruined. As well, I have an annoying, similar, bump, on the roof of my mouth. I believe it’s from that. Acid bumps, God told me. Thank you, landlord.

Further, when I was arrested under the mental health act for throwing my TV out the window, the police, I believe, threw my massage table out the window on top of it, and the gangster landlord informed me a year or so later that it was found out there.

Further, my erstwhile [ ] had a key cut, and, God tells me, stole a bunch of stuff too. I still have nightmares about all my favorite tee shirts going missing.

Further to the police thefts, my box of new PEACEKEEPING tee shirts was stolen some years ago. And further, my two epilators, after being jacked, were stolen.

The police, or someone, God tells me, put gasoline in my vodka, back at an old apartment. My bladder hurt for seven months.

Further, the police in Ottawa cut the zipper on a new winter coat.

There is a cop in Vancouver, at the time, who deserves special mention. I once caught him in flagrante delicto with someone in his apartment, where he was living to torture me. His torture was replete, every fifteen minutes, for years. I have heard, from God, that he is good now.

Further, I have been told that there are new burns from acidization over the past few years or so, maybe less.

Lately, there has been a sharp increase in assaults with chemicals, over the past three weeks or so. This reminded me of a time when the police threw a lit cigarette into my window sill. The window was open.

This letter is subject to amendments.

Yours Truly,

Loraine Laney

#LoraineLaneylettertothePrimeMinister

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thevideogamestudies-blog · 5 years ago

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A Cult Classic To Sink Your Teeth Into

Let’s be honest. Most of you have never heard about Vampire: The Masquerade - Bloodlines, so you have no idea why everyone is so ecstatic - or negative depending on whom you talk to - about the new sequel coming out next year. Vampire: the Masquerade - Bloodlines isn’t considered a cult classic for no reason.

**Under the cut does include pictures of animated violence between fictional characters and blood**

What is V:TMB?

Synopsis: Vampire: The Masquerade - Bloodlines is an RPG that takes place in modern Los Angeles and you play a character who has recently turned into a vampire - shocker - in the character creation you choose the vampire clan you want to be a part of, as well as their starting stats. The game revolves around following or disobeying the Masquerade, which is just a fancy word for vampire laws, that keep humans oblivious to all the vampires’ existence. The main plot centers around the arrival of a sarcophagus that is rumored to contain the remains of an old and powerful vampire - and without going into too much detail - there is some vampire politics because of this as well.

Vampire: The Masquerade started as a table-top roleplaying game in the 1990s, which sparked novels, and video games - such as Vampire: The Masquerade - Redemption, and Vampire: The Masquerade - Bloodlines followed shortly after (Wikipedia). Bloodlines was released way back in November of 2004, and unfortunately, sold fewer than 80,000 copies. Compare that to other games released the same year like “GTA: San Andreas” which sold 12 million copies - and that was only on Playstation 2 (Wikipedia).

Why Did Bloodlines Perform So Badly?

According to the lead writer, Brian Mitsoda, "It was dumped on the market at the worst possible time - most people didn't even know we were out...both fans and the Troika devs are always going to wonder what the game could have been like with another six months,” (Lane).

Sure, maybe the timing wasn’t right, but it didn’t help that the game was pretty much ‘unfinished’ when released. The engine used for Bloodlines, Valve, was still in development. The developers were dealing with code they were unfamiliar with (Lane). The issues with the engine caused the game’s development to extend longer than Bloodlines’ publisher, Activision, was wanting. After three years of being development, Activision was getting impatient, "We were told to wrap it up in a matter of months at a point where we knew that was going to require a lot of crunch. It was pretty obvious at that point that we weren't considered a very important project anymore,” commented Mitsoda (Lane). Shortly after release, Troika laid off more and more developers until Troika’s doors were permanently closed (Lane).

Why Does Bloodlines Have A Following?

The issue with Bloodlines was never the story. The unforgettable characters, dialogue, and storyline are why the game still has a following 15 years later. In ScreenRant’s article on the announcement of the sequel they commented, “Bloodlines is considered to be one of the best RPGs of all time (even if parts of it haven't aged well),” (Baird). In IGN’s “Top 100 RPGs”, they list Bloodlines as number 42, and Game Informer lists the game at number 98 in their list. PC Gamer mentions Bloodlines in their “The Best RPGs on PC” article as well.

Bloodlines gets the ‘unfinished’ label because it was unfortunately left a bug-ridden game, and as it gets older and operating systems update, the game seems to keep getting worse. In my personal experience, certain quests are impossible to complete because of bugs. Luckily enough, the fanbase has a passionate player, Werner Spahl, who continuously updates the game - and occasionally adds new content that he recovers from the game files - for free (Lane).

Bloodlines 2: Electric Boogaloo

Paradox Interactive, Bloodlines new publisher, and Hardsuit Labs, Bloodlines new developer, announced the sequel in March and will be released sometime in March of 2020.

What We Know So Far

We will be playing as a ‘Victim of the Mass Embrace’ in Seattle, and we are thrown into the middle of heated vampire politics. Your background, discipline, clan, faction, humanity will affect the main character throughout the whole story (Bloodlines). Brian Mitsoda is still the lead writer for the series, Mitsoda promises, “a true successor guided by the people who knew what made the original so special,” (Robertson). There will be more clans than in the original, new abilities such as telekinesis, turning into mist or bats (Game Checkup). In character creation for the sequel, we don’t choose a clan, (clans are picked later in the game) but instead, choose a background for our character, and since the character starts as a ‘thin-blood,’ we get limited powers (Alexandra). Senior writer, Cara Ellison, confirmed that there is a massive side quest revolving around finding all the other ‘Victims of the Mass Embrace,’ “We’re looking at introducing you to the idea that lots of different people will have a different experience of being a vampire,” Ellison said. “And their vampire puberty might be a bit more difficult or more fraught,” (Alexandra).

The sequel will also support all the features from Nvidia’s latest video cards - such as real-time ray tracing effects and DLSS technology - and mod support (Capel).

Response

In an article on GameGavel, they claimed Bloodlines 2 as the most anticipated RPG sequel (Bassili). In Kotaku’s review, they commented, “I’m cautiously optimistic about Bloodlines 2. The gameplay’s emphasis on exploration and Hardsuit’s goal of building a vibrant Seattle are compelling. The team’s willingness to talk about the first game’s stumbles was good to see. And it’s exciting to have a Vampire game that appears to play well,” (Alexandra).

“Farewell, Vampire”

If you haven’t already gathered, I am excited about this sequel, so much to the point, I am contemplating pre-ordering it - and I never, ever pre-order games – unless it’s a new Sims 4 expansion pack. I have pretty high hopes the sequel will be worth it, considering the positive reviews from those who tested it at E3 and that the lead writer returned. March 2020, please get here faster!

Follow me on Twitter @ girlfrmthesales where I post a lot about video games, comics, etc! Or follow me here on Tumblr @mentallyinnoir!

Also if you have never played the original and you want to check it out here is a link to a forum that links mods and the patches! But of course, beware of spoilers in the comments!

Buy the original game here on Steam for $19.99! Pre-order Bloodlines 2 here on Steam for $59.99!

Works Cited

Alexandra, Heather. “Vampire: The Masquerade Bloodlines Is Getting A Sequel, And It Looks Pretty Good.” Kotaku Australia, Kotaku Australia, 22 Mar. 2019, www.kotaku.com.au/2019/03/vampire-the-masquerade- bloodlines-is-getting-a-sequel-and-it-looks-pretty-good/.

Baird, Scott. “Vampire: The Masquerade - Bloodlines 2 Announced, Story Details Revealed.” ScreenRant, 22 Mar. 2019, screenrant.com/vampire- masquerade-bloodlines-2-details/.

Bassili, Albert. “10 Best RPGs of All Time: Don't Miss Them Even in 2019.” Game Gavel, 14 May 2019, gamegavel.com/best-rpgs-of-all-time/. Capel, Chris J. “Vampire Bloodlines 2 Will Have Mod Support, plus Ray Tracing and DLSS.” PCGamesN, 23 Mar. 2019, www.pcgamesn.com/vampire-the-masquerade-bloodlines-2/vampire- bloodlines-2-mod-support.

“Game Info: VtM: Bloodlines 2.” Game Info | VtM: Bloodlines 2, 2019, www.bloodlines2.com/en/game-info.

Game Informer Staff. “The Top 100 RPGs Of All Time.” Game Informer, 1 Jan. 2018, www.gameinformer.com/b/features/archive/2018/01/01/the- top-100-rpgs-of-all-time.aspx.

“Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas.” Wikipedia, Wikimedia Foundation, 25 Aug. 2019, en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Grand_Theft_Auto:_San_Andreas. Lane, Rick. “Reanimated: The Story of Vampire: The Masquerade Bloodlines.” Eurogamer, Eurogamer, 27 Apr. 2014, www.eurogamer.net/articles/2013-07-10-reanimated-the-story-of-vampire- the-masquerade-bloodlines.

PC Gamer. “The Best RPGs on PC.” Pcgamer, PC Gamer, 12 July 2019, www.pcgamer.com/best-rpgs-of-all-time/. Robertson, Adi. “Cult Role-Playing Game ‘Vampire: the Masquerade - Bloodlines’ Is Getting a Sequel.” The Verge, The Verge, 21 Mar. 2019, www.theverge.com/2019/3/21/18275652/vampire-the-masquerade- bloodlines-2-world-of-darkness-white-wolf-rpg-sequel-announced-release- date.

“Top 100 RPGs of All Time.” IGN, www.ign.com/lists/top-100-rpgs.

“Vampire: The Masquerade - Bloodlines 2 Announced for 2020.”

Gamecheckup, Gamecheckup, 23 Mar. 2019, gamecheckup.com/vampire- the-masquerade-bloodlines-2-announced-for-2020/.

“Vampire: The Masquerade – Bloodlines.” Wikipedia, Wikimedia Foundation, 27 Aug. 2019, en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Vampire%3A_The_Masquerade_%E2%80%93_Blood lines.

“Vampire: The Masquerade.” Wikipedia, Wikimedia Foundation, 3 Sept. 2019, en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Vampire:_The_Masquerade#Video_games.

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enkisstories · 6 years ago

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The android cemetery (Chapter 12)

They were not done with the landfill yet, after all. Safely out of the floodlights’ reach Gavin had put up an improvised shelter from the rescue blankets he had brought. He had remained outside the lean-to himself, having a quiet smoke while allowing Daniel to gather himself. For some time it had been quiet in Gavin’s back, but now he heard noises. The man grinned, because the sounds were strongly suggesting that Daniel’s gathering himself had entered the kicking up the garbage and cursing humankind stage. Gavin finished his cigarette and turned around. And predictably Daniel was just sending a very surprised and very annoyed rat flying across the dump. “That wasn’t a human, though”, Gavin remarked. “But close enough.”

“And how’s YOUR relative doing?” Gavin asked, referring to the android corpse that was lying to both their feet. The PL600 hadn’t moved or so much as blinked since they had excavated it from deeper inside the landfill.

“That depends on whether he has lived a good life or was more like us”, Daniel answered. “He’s dead, Gavin. Soul fled, won’t return, sings with the angels and so on.”

Gavin let out a relieved sigh. So their efforts hadn’t been in vain, at least.

“Only complication, I accidently hit the corpse, too, when I fired into the shaft. It’s leaking thirium now.”

Curiously Gavin drew closer. They hunkered down next to the corpse where Daniel took advantage of the other PL600’s leakage by smearing the blue blood all over its shirt, arms and face.

“You wouldn’t have phone pictures of me?” Daniel asked while working on making the dead resemble himself after getting shot. “You know – from when I was in the archive? Nah, forget it. Stupid question.”

“You might want to ask Connor to share memories with you”, Gavin suggested. “And I don’t know why I said that now!”

“Good idea, though. Ask him to upload the images for you to open in a photo viewer! Then you and Tina can give the corpse the required finishing touches. Myself, I won’t get anywhere near the DPD before this isn’t out of the world.”

Gavin said nothing. How come his partner could be so damn unfazed while everything inside the human was like ice? Probably because there were so many PL600s in the USA. Unlike the RKs there were far too many of them for any two individuals to consider themselves close relatives. Gavin remembered that on the Adeline Daniel and Simon had not shown any interest in perceiving each other as siblings. Of course Daniel had accused the latter of drug smuggling, what had put quite a damper on their relationship… Anyway, another PL600 was no closer to Daniel than any Caucasian male would have been to Gavin.

The other way around, however… Gavin did not see a random out of commission PL600 lying on its back. Maybe if the other one had been walking around, speaking in a different mode of speech than Danny, wearing something other than the iconic uniform… but the way he was stretched out there, Gavin saw his boyfriend. Dead.

“Okay, that’s it. I think I did a pretty good job”, Daniel chatted away. “We’ll keep the legs attached for ease of transport, you can hack them off once you’re in the archive. Now help me smash the head in! Right here, please!”

“Help you do… what? And what was that about chopping off your legs? Daniel! I cannot do that!”

“Hello? Is that still Gavin Reed in there?” Daniel asked, pointing at his boyfriend’s head. “Why would you of all people be shy about cutting up an android?”

“Dammit, Danny! How come you cannot tell? It looks like you!”

“It isn…”

“Yes, I know, I know! It isn’t you. I still can’t do it!”

Daniel stared at his partner for several seconds. Eventually he asked, calmly, yet with an undertone Gavin could not quite place: “Do you love me or not?”

“I do! That’s why I cannot mutilate your twin.”

“So, you can’t.”

Still so deceptively calm… but the next moment Daniel grabbed Gavin and pushed him to the ground next to the dead PL600.

“I asked you if you love me while I’m sitting her ALIVE and need your assistance to STAY so, goddammit!” Daniel shouted. “This is serious and no time to get emotional! Or are you a fucking millennial?”

Gavin wasn’t. He was a “digital native” who felt uneasy in the presence of androids, as contrary as that sounded. And he also really, really, didn’t like getting doubted or, worse, getting pressed into the trash. The man brought up his knee, but it didn’t have the intended effect. Daniel switched off the drivers to the parts this particular move targeted whenever he left the house.

“That was low, Gavin”, Daniel growled while shaking the human.

Gavin kicked again, this time in an attempt to wiggle himself free. The man knew he was stronger than a PL600, but that knowledge did not do him any good when the environment was against him. Already the ground below Gavin was moving. There was a real chance that the trash below might give way and swallow its victim alive. But Daniel held his boyfriend in his grip and on the surface, if only to accuse him:

“Stunningly good looking family android, remember? That’s what you called me!” he shouted. “And now you do not want to damage that pretty face when you see it on someone else? It comes on newer models, too, you know! Maybe you’d love a BL100 better than me anyway! All the looks, none of the trouble…”

“I was “low” just now, but YOU dare ask if I love you?!” Gavin cried back. “Fuck, ey, you KNOW I do! I did so all the time when you were “without makeup”! I never deserted you… or conspired with a deviant army behind your back like SOMEONE I could name!”

“Grrrrrrrr…”

No more words, just that primeval growling. With his opponent allocating too much computing capacity into coming up with a reply that would shift the blame back to Gavin, the human saw his chance! He freed his arm and brought it up between them. Then he grabbed Daniel’s vest, to pull him down towards himself. And there their lips met, while they were laying with their heads half buried in the garbage and with Daniel still wearing the surveillance goggles.

“You are mine!” Gavin gasped after the kiss. “Don’t think even for a moment that anything could change that, because that’s the only choice that’s not fucking yours to make, deviant!”

Gavin took Daniel’s head in his hands. It was a little more fragile than one made of bone and the machine at work inside generated far less body heat. Gavin had noticed that last bit after he had held Daniel in his arms for the first time. Of course he had known about this little detail before that moment, but never really paid attention to it. After experiencing the sensation for the first time it had reinforced the man’s desire to make this co-worker his.

Fumbling with the headband Gavin at last managed to pull the goggles down. They were dangling around Daniel’s neck now and Gavin was able to look his partner into the eyes.

“I’m Gavin Reed, the selfish one”, he said. “If I want something, I take it. Sometimes there’s minor setbacks or I don’t understand what it really is that I want. But one thing I do not: make excuses. Not. Ever. If I wanted a BL100 or exclusive rights on Tina I’d take that.” The man paused, allowing what had been said to sink in before he added: “If there was someone else you’d know it.”

“Okay”, Daniel whispered. “I believe you.”

Feeling for each other’s faces… caressing the skin… swatting the occasional bug and centipede away, because this was still the goddamm landfill… kissing. When they parted again, Gavin’s lower legs were buried in plastic cups and bottles and wrapped in a torn kitchen apron. Daniel was sitting on him with half a solar system mobile dangling from his ear. They grinned at each other.

“You wanna make a Uranus joke first or shall I?” Gavin teased.

“No need for more jokes when we’ve just made fools of ourselves”, the android replied. He removed Neptune, Uranus, Saturn and Jupiter from his head, then asked: “What the hell happened?”

“You got jealous, my dear.”

“What? No way! I didn’t!”

“Jealous!”

“No!”

“Jealous! Jealous! Je-a-lous!” the man said in a sing-sang. Now that the episode was over it was hilariously amusing.

“Maybe… a little”, Daniel admitted. “And it’s totally a great relationship milestone!”

Daniel rolled off his partner and onto his back next to him as if they were about to watch the stars together. They needed a breather, but they also needed to get away from this place before it consumed what was left of their sanity.

Gavin moved his head towards Daniel’s shoulder.

“See?” he said. “No other android I’m cuddling with, least of all our prize body.”

“Really not? It was lying to your left.”

“No, to your right!”

“There is no android here…”

Gavin groped around for the PL600. There was none.

“There’s none here, either…”

The partners pushed themselves up in unison. Frantically they looked around and then they saw it: The ruckus they had made had sent deeper tiers of trash moving. Small crevices that had existed down below were getting filled, leaving behind free spots for different pieces of waste to pour into. Detroit’s domestic waste was swapping back and forth and on the wave the dead PL600 was drifting.

“Our android carcass gets away!” Gavin cried. “Quick! Grab it!”

Them getting back to their feet only served to accelerate the tectonic movement. Here and there the crust broke open, even. Gavin stepped in one of the gaps, but got grabbed and pulled out by Daniel. The PL600, however, slowly sank down another hole. They dived for it and Daniel got to grab it by one arm. Gavin held it while Daniel used his glove’s claws to dig through the trash until they could pull the body out together without running the danger of damaging it.

“That must have a deviant”, Gavin commented. “Even in death it tries to escape!”

Beyond caring about right or wrong Daniel laughed and the human joined in. They were once again in a place where they shouldn’t be, once again making inappropriate jokes.

“And to think that I was afraid of entering a museum room only yesterday”, Daniel mused.

“Oh, is it tomorrow already?”

“Yeah, past midnight.”

For some reason that was re-assuring. Neither man believed in the hour of ghosts or in pretty much any transcendental stuff, except when displaying acts of faith granted them freebies at festivals of various religions. Daniel also hoped there was some sort of afterlife, but that covered them both already as far as spirituality went. But despite this, the knowledge that from now on they were moving away from the darkness and towards dawn echoed in both men and touched some ancient part of all people. They were feeling their determination return and, in some strange way, also gratitude. But they would not have been able to say what they were feeling grateful for or even naming that sensation as what it was.

#non sims #detroit become human #sims4 dbh partfive #sims4danielgavin

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thrashermaxey · 6 years ago

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Ramblings: Is It OK To… Drop Pacioretty? Trade Pettersson? Add Aberg? (Oct 31)

Is It OK To… Drop Pacioretty? Trade Pettersson? Add Aberg?

Those drafting Max Pacioretty hoping for a bounce-back have been discouraged with the fact that he has recorded just two points (both goals) over his first ten games as a Vegas Golden Knight. Now that he is sidelined with a day-to-day injury, fantasy owners might be in the unenviable position of deciding whether to cut bait. Obviously, it’s more ideal if you can bench him or place him on IR (if/when he is eligible) should he need some more time to become acclimatized to Vegas.

The fact is, though, that Pacioretty has been mediocre for over a season now. In terms of points per game since the start of the 2017-18 season, Patches isn’t even among the top 150 (minimum 70 games played). Players with a similar points-per-game-played total include Kevin Hayes, Alexander Kerfoot, Kevin Labanc, Alexander Wennberg, and Bryan Rust – players who were drafted long after Pacioretty in single-season leagues. That’s simply not getting it done, particularly in shallow leagues where a higher-scoring option likely resides on the waiver wire.

Things could get better for Patches in Vegas. He should still be on the first power-play unit once he returns. Paul Stastny will also return from injury at some point. And maybe, just maybe, he even cracks the top line somehow. But when someone in the Forum inquired about dropping Patches for Anders Lee (among other choices he listed), I said I was fine with that. So if you're in a shallow league, go ahead and make the move if you need to.

Is there anything that can stop Elias Pettersson right now? With two more goals, the kid is up to seven goals and ten points in just seven games. At this point, if you think he’s a flash in the pan, then you need to watch him and you’ll be convinced otherwise. Let’s just say he’s far surpassed what I usually draft in the 15th round (176th overall) in a single-season fantasy league.

It got to the point where as I was watching the Canucks/Wild game on Monday night, I was actually considering selling high on him. With just 16 shots taken, Pettersson is shooting at an out-of-this-world 43 percent clip. In other words, no one shoots that high. So unless he finds a way to take even more shots, or his shooting percentage remains sky-high similar to William Karlsson last season, the goal totals will eventually fall. Even if that happens, 30 goals seems like a realistic projection and would be an incredible output for the rookie.

I decided to look up Yahoo’s Trade Market feature to find out what Pettersson is worth on the trade market. Pettersson was traded 1-for-1 for the following players: Jordan Staal, Rasmus Ristolainen, Jonathan Marchessault, Leon Draisaitl, and Aleksander Barkov. The Staal deal seemed like highway robbery, but the other deals seemed fair. Ristolainen can provide help on D in certain multicategory leagues, while the last three are proven commodities that should be able to reach 70 points (barring injury). So if trading Pettersson, I would aim for about that caliber of player.

So with that in mind, I decided to accept the offer that, by coincidence, was presented to me today: Pettersson for Jack Eichel. As much as I would like to marvel at the super sleeper sitting on my roster all season, I’m pocketing the closer-to-sure point-per-game production and crossing my fingers that top-50 pick Eichel doesn’t fall victim to the injury bug again.

After being embarrassed by the Coyotes on Saturday, the Lightning took out their frustrations on the Devils on Tuesday with an 8-3 exorcism of the Devils on Tuesday (Halloween reference intended). Brayden Point led the charge with a goal and four assists. The Lightning have juggled their lines around numerous times this season, so it’s worth mentioning that Point was on a line with Yanni Gourde (3 assists) and Tyler Johnson (2 points).

Although he recorded just one assist in this game, J.T. Miller is back on the Nikita Kucherov/Steven Stamkos line. If someone hastily bailed on him because he was bumped down to the fourth line, he’s worth finding a roster spot for on your team. By the way, Kucherov and Stamkos each recorded three points on Tuesday.

Because he allowed seven goals (on 38 shots by the early third period), Keith Kinkaid was pulled in favor of Cory Schneider. This was Schneider’s first appearance of the season, where he allowed a goal on six shots over the garbage time known as the last 15 minutes of this game. Although Kinkaid has fallen back to earth recently, I think he’s played decently enough over this season and last to at least form a timeshare here. I’ll predict, though, that Schneider will start the Devils’ next game, which is a relatively cupcake matchup against Detroit on Thursday.

Death, taxes, and Kris Letang injury reports. Letang was a game-time decision on Tuesday, but the Penguins appeared to err on the side of caution. But with Letang we can never be too sure it will be “just” one game. How can you tell I have been a Letang keeper owner for several years now?

Tanger’s injury meant that Jusso Riikola drew in on the stacked Penguins’ first-unit power play. Unfortunately he couldn’t record a point, and his presence on that unit will last only as long as Letang’s injury.

Speaking of oft-injured players, Robin Lehner left Tuesday’s game after two periods with what Barry Trotz described as a “strain.”

Torey Krug returned to the Bruins’ lineup on Tuesday, recording one assist while resuming first-unit power-play duties. Charlie McAvoy and now Matt Grzelcyk did not play due to injuries, though.

About a week and a half ago I mentioned that I wasn’t concerned about Jaroslav Halak stealing starts from Tuukka Rask. Well, here we are and Halak is still on a roll. On Tuesday he stopped 42 of 44 shots he faced in backstopping the Bruins to a 3-2 victory over Carolina. The Bruins don’t play again until Saturday against Nashville, and it wouldn’t surprise me if Halak gets the nod again, which would render Rask useless for this week. Rask owners will just need to ride this out, while Halak is worth at least a short-term pickup if you have room and he’s available.

Sebastian Aho continues to pile up assists. With a helper on Tuesday, he ties an NHL record with assists in each of his first 12 games.

With his first goal of the season and an assist on Tuesday, Alex Galchenyuk now has four points in four games as a Coyote. Don’t take the Yotes offense for granted right now, as they have scored 20 goals over their last four games.

Your lowlight of the night was from this game. A nightmare of a goal allowed by Mike Condon. What was funny was watching Derek Stepan skate to the bench as he dumped the puck in!

{youtube}OybgGohfYQw{/youtube}

A night after being held pointless in Vancouver, Eric Staal scored a power-play goal and added two assists in the Wild’s 4-3 victory over Edmonton.

Of note for the Wild is that rookie Jordan Greenway was promoted to Staal’s line for this game, although he could not record a point. He was briefly sent to the AHL, where he recorded a hat trick during one of his two games. Minnesota has enough scorers for three solid forward lines, which could end up helping Greenway.

Joe Thornton returned to the Sharks’ lineup on Tuesday, but he was held without a point in 14 minutes of icetime. But if you’re holding out hope for him this season, the good news was that he was on a line with Joe Pavelski and the red-hot Timo Meier.

With another goal on Tuesday, Meier now has goals in five consecutive games (six goals over that span) along with a nine-game point streak. Scoring at over a point per game, Meier has been one of fantasy hockey’s top sleepers. But be careful, as his shooting percentage remains quite high (nearly 25 percent). Although he’s now a legitimate option in most fantasy leagues and has been placed with solid linemates, he will inevitably slow down at some point.

Pontus Aberg is red hot, having scored four goals over his past two games. You may recall that he was picked up off waivers on October 1 by the Ducks after being a somewhat surprising cut from the Oilers, who acquired him at last season’s deadline because the Predators couldn’t find room for him. Since the waiver claim, all he has done is match his goal total from all of last season (53 games) over the past three days.

If you drafted Aberg as a sleeper, it would have been because of the outside chance that he would receive the prized Connor McDavid golden ticket. Now he’s on Anaheim’s top line with Ryan Getzlaf and Rickard Rakell, which isn’t quite McDavid but it’s much better than what he’s used to. At the moment he’s still a 1 percenter in Yahoo leagues, which makes him officially worth an add in deeper formats.

John Gibson received a well-deserved night off, with Ryan Miller facing “just” 36 shots. That was the Ducks’ lowest shots allowed total over the past five games. If you’re a Gibson owner, once-a-week rest breaks to allow Miller to start should be considered a blessing in disguise. I know I’ve mentioned this before, but I’m seriously concerned about a Gibson wear-and-tear injury with the barrage of shots the Ducks face on a nightly basis.

That Ducks/Flyers game took a strange turn. With just over two minutes to play, Aberg tied the game with his second goal (on the power play). But 21 seconds later when it was almost safe to assume that overtime was looming, Nolan Patrick put the Flyers in the lead for good.

Happy Halloween! Enjoy your evening, but remember to do so safely. Here’s a last-minute costume idea if you need one.

Why didn’t I find this tutorial 2 weeks ago?! https://t.co/tpcvqyEepI

— Ted Mann (@turkeymonkey) October 31, 2018

For more fantasy hockey information, you can follow me on Twitter @Ian_Gooding.

from All About Sports https://dobberhockey.com/hockey-rambling/ramblings-is-it-ok-to-drop-pacioretty-trade-pettersson-add-aberg-oct-31/

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theliterateape · 7 years ago

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Only Lydia Knows

By Paul Teodo & Tom Myers

I have Parkinson’s. Yeah, that’s right. Parkinson’s. No cure, and the kind that comes at you hard and fast. Multiple System Atrophy. I have an over production of the protein alpha-synoclein. What does that mean to you? Nothing, most likely, but to me it means a sentence. A death sentence. It’s coming for me like a freight train, and I have to decide what I’m going do.

If something else doesn’t happen first, It’s going kill me, shake me to death.

Bad metaphor? Well it’s my metaphor bad or not. I’m sixty. Just found out a year ago. My hand was shaking, little twitches. Like when I used to drink. OK, when I drink. Nobody knows. No other docs, friends, family. Nobody. But now you do. The invisible reader. The person I let into my secret, while closing the real people out.

You may ask why. Why? I’ll tell you. Because my wife ain’t a wife anymore, my fiancé dumped me, and my kids have their own lives. And friends? It’d just mess up our friendship. How? When people know you’re sick things change. They realize you have an incurable illness that’ll kill you, they don’t know what to do. I could say “Bill I have Parkinson’s.” He’d get that look. Like, “What the fuck do I do or say now?” I don’t want that look. And I sure as hell don’t want him ducking into the bathroom to Google Parkinson’s. So I keep my mouth shut. I’d rather have that spontaneous happy relationship I have with Bill, than him fucking Googling my disease each time we hang out. It’s cumbersome, slow, muddy, a fucking pain in the ass. I don’t want that.

My doc? I don’t have a one. I am one. But do I have one? A favorite. A primary care doc? No. When the twitches started I did the research. Googled the shit out of this disease that has taken over my body. That’s what I do. I look into things. And what I got, or what’s got me, is Parkinson’s

It’s not hard to diagnose. If you went to medical school. A good one like I did. And can work a computer, which on a good day, I can. And it’s this alpha-synoclein protein shit. It’s not hard.

My type. This alpha shit comes on strong. It’s no creeper or crawler. I made the call about five months ago. Twitches. Tremors. Invisible bugs creeping up and down my legs. My age. Yes, my age. A few clicks on my Mac and there I was.

As I sit at my desk at six-thirty each morning, drinking black coffee (no longer mixed with Chivas Regal) my hand shakes. And each morning I shake a bit more and a bit longer. For some reason the coffee helps. Coffee with Chivas helped better.

Like I said, nobody knows and that’s how its going to stay. Nobody knew about the booze, so I thought, until they knew. You get that? I didn’t think they knew. They fucking knew.

My phone buzzed. I looked at the ID. Rachel. At six-thirty? What the hell does she want?

“Morning.”

“Good morning John. What are you doing?”

What was I doing? It was six-thirty. What does a normal person do at six-thirty? Forgot. (Parkinson’s has me) I’m not normal.. Nice of you to ask Rachel, I’m drinking black coffee without booze trying to get my hands to stop shaking.

“Drinking coffee, reading the paper, enjoying the beautiful morning.” That’s the kind of thing you tell your boss, when you want her to think you’re doing your job.

“I’d like to talk to you.”

The coffee jumped out of the fucking cup. Talk to me? About what? The booze? My shakes?

“I’m busy.”

“You just said you were drinking coffee, reading the paper.”

That means I’m busy. Leave me the fuck alone!

“OK when?”

“Now. Meet me in my office in fifteen minutes.”

“Sure.” How was that? Perky? Cooperative?

My hand was covered in coffee. My shirt sleeve was stained too. If I held the cup any longer a river of caffeine would cascade down my pants and into my shoes. Exaggeration, but you get the picture. So I hit the john and did my best to not look like a guy with Parkinson’s or a drunk, of which I was both.

“Doc. Spill coffee?” Lydia Smith has worked at the hospital for twenty-five years. She cleaned everything that needed to be cleaned. Today it was the bathroom I was using to prepare to hide one of my diseases from my boss.

“Yeah. You know me. I’m a slob.”

She eyed me. She was one of the ones who I thought didn’t know about the booze. She knew. A look like that told me she knew and she’d looked at me like that about fifty times before. Who was I trying to kid? EVERYBODY.

“Let me.” She dabbed my shirtsleeve with some type of cleaner she carried on her cart and wiped my hands with the white towel that hung from her waist. “That helps.”

I need help. But I ain’t asking. We don’t. Drunks. 'Til it’s so obvious the help turns to life support.

“Thanks,” I said to her, obsessing on Rachel and our talk.

I paced down the hall listening to my heels click on the shiny marble floor. Yeah it’s one of those hospitals. We must have marble. No tile for us. We need to maintain a competitive advantage since one of our docs is a drunk and now has a fatal illness.

I look up. I’m here already. I didn’t think I could walk that fast. And why the hell was I walking that fast?

A glass wall stood before me. ADMINISTRATION. Bold black letters. A shiny silver handle inviting me to give it a yank and enter the sanctum of the judge, jury, and executioner.

No one was there to greet me. It was early. But not for me, Lydia and Rachel. I should leave. Claim confusion. No one there. No one to greet me. I was a physician. Harvard trained. I needed to be greeted. I demanded to be greeted.

“John.” I turned.

“Rachel.” Her scarf. What? Four, five hundred bucks?

“Good to see you.” Her best corporate smile.

Bullshit.

“Good to see you.” We could both sling the bullshit.

“Coffee?” Her eyes moved to my stained sleeve.

I raised it and smiled making sure she saw the evidence of my illnesses. “No thanks. I’ve had mine already.”

“Come in.” She gestured gracefully like a ballerina. I think she was one, once.

My feet no longer clicked on the marble. Now they padded silently across her hand-woven deep blue C-suite carpet.

“Please sit.” She pointed to the loveseat adjacent to her brass and glass coffee table.

I wasn’t in the mood for love. I chose a straight back chair to the side of the small couch.

OK, Boss, what do you have on your mind? You gonna lift up the covers? Come at me hard and strong? “John, you’re sick. John, you’ve started drinking again. John, I’m worried. John, you’re an asshole.” Right on all counts.

“John…”

Here it comes. I shoulda had a snort before I got here. Took something off Lydia’s cart, cleaner, solvent, anything. What the hell, why not?

“… we’ve noticed…”

That my hands shake like a man out in the cold. The freezing fucking cold.

“… that your surgeries…”

Are taking twice as long, that I cut and then need to stop, focus, grab my twisted fingers and straighten them before I proceed.

“… are taking longer…”

Longer and longer, and the staff standing next to me is afraid to say anything, to challenge me, so they say nothing, and hope and pray, as I do, that I don’t kill the poor sonofabitch on the table.

“… to begin, and I’m sorry for that. I apologize. We are working on procedures to improve our turnaround time. We will get better. We have to. We respect your time, and ours too. Let’s face it, turnaround time is the key to efficiency and quality.”

And profit, dollars, revenue, and keeping the other cutters happy.

Nothing — not a thing about Johnny’s shakes. His rockin’ and rollin’. His Parkinson’s. His post-Johnnie Walker heebie-jeebies.

I was home free. In the clear. My secret remained hidden.

“That’s it?” I sounded too short. Too indifferent. I was a surgeon. That’s how we act. Try again. “I mean,” I softened my voice. “I mean, I understand. Running a place of this magnitude, with all the moving parts must be a real challenge, and keeping all of us surgeons happy, well I hope you feel like I’m not one of those,” I was laying it so fucking thick, “kinds of docs who is not a team player.”

Rachel stood. She shook my hand. My sweaty shaky hand. Gripped it firmly then spoke. “I assure you we will improve. You are,” She emphasized 'are' like she had been trained for this, “a team player and we value you.”

Value me? That? What?

“Thanks Rachel. We will work together,” I lied.

I exited the C-suite’s lush carpeting, sparkling glass and overstuffed love seats, smug, smiling ear to fucking ear. I had conned her. Conned everybody. I could continue with the secret that only you and I know.

I even had a spring in my drunk ass Parkinsonian feet.

I hit the marble floor bounding down the hallway enjoying every click.

I darted into the Mens to straighten my Jerry Garcia tie and to make sure I knew how proud of myself I was. The bathroom was cool. A minty aroma drifted through the air making me smile and wink at myself in the mirror. “Champ,” I said with disgusting cockiness. “You got away with it. You’re golden.”

“Bullshit.” Her voice bounced off the beautifully tiled walls “You ain’t foolin’ me.”

I turned. Lydia. “I thought you was...” She shook her head with contempt.

A good man? A respected doctor? A what?

“… different.”

“Lydia? What do you mean?”

“You know what the fuck I mean.”

I did. I knew exactly what she meant.

I left the sweet smelling bathroom of the prestigious hospital where I perform complex surgeries on unsuspecting victims.

I know what Lydia meant.

Exactly.

But I have Parkinson’s. My error. It has me. And I’m a drunk.

So I have an excuse. A reason.

“You have no excuse Dr. John.” She didn’t look at me as she left.

I did. I have Parkinson’s. I am a drunk.

#Addiction #Parkinson's #Doctors

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travelafter55 · 8 years ago

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Time to go home after a month in Spain and Portugal 2017

My partner Greta and I have been in Spain for two weeks and then Portugal for the last two weeks. Before we knew it, it was time for us to be making our way back from Estoi, Portugual, to the Madrid Airport, from which we were scheduled to depart on Tuesday, May 16, 2017.

Our stay in Portugual was unique and very special. We did a home exchange (homeexchange.com) with a couple from Munich, Germany, who own a vacation home about five miles from Estoi, which is about five miles from Faro, the main city in the Algarve Region of Portugal.

The home was called Casa Sams, and was located off a remote road in the hills about Estoi. The views from Casa Sams were spectacular; the house incredible.

Casa Sams near Estoi Portugal - heaven in the hills

View from Casa Sams--the Atlantic Ocean is in the far distance

We decided to start making our way back to the airport on Sunday, May 15, to ensure we didn’t have to rush to make our 8:35 a.m. departure on Tuesday.

While the trip back to the airport was enjoyable, it reminded us that one of the most important benefits of travel is that it forces people to use their brains, which helps keeps them young. How did it make us use our brains on this short return to the Madrid Airport?

We had left over food at Casa Sams. Instead of discarding it, or giving it to neighbors, we made a picnic for the five or so hours we’d be in transit to our hotel in Madrid. We prepared everything the night before. Sandwiches and fruit became breakfast, consumed in the car. The coffee pot was ready to turn on. We had a check-off list ready for the morning:

-Feed the stray cats -Take trash to the public dumpster -Doors locked, alarm set -Padlock on the driveway gate -Leave house keys per owners instructions

At 8:15, wheels were in the well (an old Naval Air saying). Saying good bye to Casa Sams.

Two-hour drive to Sevilla. Found our way to the Rent-A-Car office at Santa Justa train station. Car turned in, no damage, no dents—only added charge was for gas fill up. Big relief. Reason for big relief? We took the full coverage insurance, on everything. If nothing bad happens to the car, no dent, no scratches, no accident, not stolen, etc., there is no cost.

But, if something happens, another 600 euros or so is added to the bill, so that is why I was relieved. And you should have seen some of the tiny city and town streets were found ourselves on, not to mention driving in Lisbon.

Train ticket office. Our non-refundable tickets for Monday could not be used toward purchase of tickets for Sunday so a travel lesson learned there—do not purchase non-refundable tickets in advance to save money—you might end up losing it. New tickets, 12:45 train. Three stops + Cordoba.

Arrive Atocha Train Station 3:15--drag suitcases to hotel--crap shoot to find because our phone GPS did not work there – hotel close to train station, got to front desk in 25 minutes.

Hotel Sleep ‘n Atocha – nice room, tiny, but adequate for one night. Reasonable, great front desk people--A’lvaro and Sonia. Friendly, helpful, smart.

Went to Café Reina in square adjacent to hotel for sangria and paella, calamari and potatoes with cheese, another glass of wine, sweet choc rolls. Joined in dance lesson on the square, took pics and videos

Dancing in Madrid--people of all ages came on Sunday night

Monday, May 15

Canceled auto tolls credit card for charges in Portugal, which I forgot to do the day before. This was so if rental car went back to Portugal our credit card would have paid the tolls for two more weeks. No added charges had been accrued.

Breakfast at hotel. Secured luggage in lockers so we could stroll around that part of Madrid for an hour or two. One euro per locker. Nice hotel feature as well.

Visited the gardens at the inside front of Atocha station. We had been there 13 years before to pay our respects at that time to the victims of the bombing that took place a week before we arrived there. I was starved, had a Whopper jr. at Burger King in the station.

Atocha Train Station Madrid looking toward the front. Gardens just inside

Atocha Train Station Madrid - Greta in the gardens near the front of station

Taxi mid-afternoon to hotel Hostal Viking in Barajas, near airport. Gave driver 3 Madrid Metro tickets with at least 16 rides on them remaining, which we had left over from our first week plus paid him 30 euros.

At our hotel, reserved the free shuttle ride for 5:30 a.m. from hotel to Barajas Airport, a 5-10 minute ride. A nice feature of this hotel. Rested in our nice room, only 57 euros for the night.

Walked five minutes to Town Square. Enjoyed leisurely dinner watching sound crew set up for 9 pm concert for Festival de Ignacio.

View of stage from our restaurant table Our last meal in Madrid (not counting coffee at the airport in the morning).

Tuesday May 16

Wake up call 4:30 am Shuttle 5:30 Easy check in at Iberia Airlines except confiscated our cork screw we bought in Madrid—was cute. I forgot it was in my red carry on bag.

Breakfast at airport – 2 hours early for flight to London Heathrow Airport.

Trip Summary Lots of positives. Great food, great wine, friendly people (for the most part), no problems at all, weather was pleasant, not too hot, some rain.

C and C and C negative –cigarettes, cellphones and courtesy; people don’t look while walking and are on their cellphones and many don’t get out of the way, they expect you to move. But, after all, we are in their country so that is the way it is.

Portugal isn’t Spain. Very different countries. Drivers more aggressive in Portugal.

Give ourselves (Tom and Greta) a pat on back. Two mid-70s doing the trip on our own for a month; saw a lot; had great experiences.

Good for the brain. So much to figure out. Traffic rotaries. Directions, getting lost in Lisboa, even in Faro, and up to Casa Sams first 10 times. Mileage, money, language, don’t speak Spanish to Portuguese people—they don’t like it. All the Casa Sams things to learn. 5 different places to stay overall on the trip. Next time, get more euros in advance. We did change $100 (easily, no commission)in Lagos, Portugal, three days before we left. Kept phones on airplane mode most of the time so cost low.

The first Madrid taxi-from the airport to downtown--dropped us (and another couple had the same thing happen to them) at the wrong hotel.

Learned how to navigate Madrid Metro

Little purses made out of cork a nice gift from Portugal. Light to carry and very reasonable. Found them in Lagos and Quarteria (on Algarve Coast).

On our flights home:

Greta and I got checked in at Madrid Airport and thru security in minutes. Red Trader Joe’s insulated bag pulled aside. I had to empty all contents, dumped everything out. Guy says wine open. No, wine. He pulls a wine opener souvenir that we bought in Madrid out of bottom of red bag and he was pissed. I had forgotten it, we bought on day two in Madrid. Security behind us.

Two passport and boarding pass checks We were two hours early for our flight to London. Two-hour plus flight to London.

Heathrow Airport Security is very tight

Heathrow Airport was different. We landed at Terminal 4 but needed to connect at Terminal 3. It is a 10-minute shuttle bus ride to Terminal 4. We had a 2 hour 25 min. connection.

Security was tight. PP check. Liquids and gels go in a plastic bag. Everything must come out of pockets, even paper. Belt off. Computer out of bag. Nothing sharp. No water. Xray machine with arms up. Then, the “iron cross” position for more xrays. Pants falling down. Then step on a wooden stool and a magic magnetic wand checks each shoe.

Then to AAL connection desk. Wait in line, 20-25 minutes. Why? We are all checked through to LAX. All connecting flights. Passport check (pp) and bp check. Interviewed. How long in Europe, why here, to have fun, what work do you do? Teacher, what kind. She stamped boarding passes with green stamp. Then security again. To get to int’l departures. Pp and bp. Then red bag has liquid—2 partially full bottles of bug spray had forgotten—tossed it away because guy said he had to test it. Dumped red bag out again.

We get to Gate H 27 at about 1:15, 45 minutes to spare. I wonder how many connections are missed. There, have to show boarding pass and pp again to get into lounge area.

Then to enter jetway, pp and bp one last time.

Wowser. They are serious about airport security at Heathrow. We understand, that is a good thing. A Boeing 777 American Airlines flight to LAX. The Captain lands it softly and perfectly. It made me think of an AAL advertisement in a magazine, when I worked for AAL in the late 1960s. The caption showed a pilot and he said, “I think of my passengers as eggs.” Never forgot that. A big 777 just landed as softly as can be. We were home; we were safe, with our egg shells still in tact. It had been a great trip.

Andalusia horse at Cathedral of Sevilla in the rain

#Estoi Portugal #Faro Portugal #Heathrow Airport Security #Atocha Train Station #Hostal Viky Hotel Barajas #Sleep #n Atocha hotel #Sleep n Atocha hotel #Santa Justa train station sevilla

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gilbertineonfr2 · 8 years ago

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TROOPERS 2017 Day #4 Wrap-Up

I’m just back from Heidelberg so here is the last wrap-up for the TROOPERS 2017 edition. This day was a little bit more difficult due to the fatigue and the social event of yesterday. That’s why the wrap-up will be shorter… The second keynote was presented by Mara Tam: “Magical thinking … and how to thwart it”. Mara is an advisor to executive agencies on information security issues. Her job focuses on the technical and strategic implications of regulatory and policy activity. In my opinion, the keynote topic remained classic. Mara explained her vision of the problems that the infosec community is facing when information must be exchanged with “the outside world”. Personally, I found that Mara’s slides were difficult to understand.

For the first presentation of the day, I stayed in the main room – the offensive track – to follow “How we hacked distributed configuration management systems” by Francis Alexander and Bharadwaj Machhiraju. As we already saw yesterday with the SDN, automation is a hot topic and companies tend to install specific tools to automate the configuration tasks. Such software is called DCM or “Distributed Configuration Management”. They simplify the maintenance of complex infrastructures, the synchronization and service discovery. But, as software, they also have bugs or vulnerabilities and are, for a pentester, a nice target. They’re real goldmines because they content not only configuration files but if the attacker can change them, it’s even more dangerous. DCM can be agent-less or -based on agents. This is the second case that was the target of Francis & Bharadwaj. They reviewed three tools:

HashiCorp Consul

Apache Zookeeper

CoreOS etcd

For each tool, that explained the vulnerability they found and how it was exploited up to remote code execution. The crazy story is that all of them do not have authentication enabled by default! To automate the search for DCM and exploitation, they developed a specific tool called Garfield. Nice demos were performed during the talk with many remote shells and calc.exe spawned here and there.

The next talk was my favourite of today. It was about a tool called Ruller to pivot through Exchange servers. Etienne Stamens presented his research on Microsoft Exchange and how he reverse engineered the protocol. The goal is just to get a shell though Exchange. The classic phases of an attack were reviewed:

Reconnaissance

Exploitation

Persistence (always better!)

Basically, Exchange is a mail server but many more features are available: calendar, Lync, Skype, etc. Exchange must be able to serve local and remote users so it exposes services on the Internet. How do identify companies that use an Exchange server and how to find it? Simply thanks to the auto-discovery feature that is implemented by Microsoft. If your domain is company.com, Outlook will search for https://company.com/autodiscover/autodiscover.xml (+ other alternatives URLs if this one isn’t useful). Etienne did some research and found that 10% of the Internet domains have this process enabled. After some triage, he found that approximatively 26000 domains are linked to an Exchange server. Nice attack surface! The next step is to compromise at least one account. Here, classic methods can be used (brute-force, rogue wireless AP, phishing or dumps of leaked databases). The exploitation in itself is performed by creating a rule that will execute a script. The rule looks like “When the word “pwned” is present in the subject, start “badprogram.exe”. A very nice finding is the way Windows converts UNC path to webdav:

\\host.com@SSL\webdav\pew.zip\s.exe

will be converted to:

https://host.com/webdab/pew.zip

And Windows will even extract s.exe for you! Magic!

Etienne performed a nice demo of Ruler which automates all the process described above. Then, he demonstrated another tool called Linial which takes care of the persistence. To conclude, Etienne explained briefly how to harden Exchange to prevent this kind of attack. Outlook 2016 blocks unsafe rules by default which is good. An alternative is to block WebDAV and use MFA.

After the lunch, Zoz came back with another funny presentation: “Data Demolition: Gone in 60 seconds!”. The idea is simple: When you throw away some devices, you must be sure that they don’t contain remaining critical data. Classic examples are HD’s and printers. Also extremely mobiles devices like drones. The talk was some kind of a “Myth Busters” show for hard drives! Different techniques were tested by Zoz:

Thermal

Kinetic

Electric

For each of them, different scenarios were presented and the results demonstrated with small videos. Crazy!

What was interesting to notice is that most techniques failed because the disk plates could still be “cleaned” (ex: removing the dust) and become maybe readable by using forensic techniques. For your information, the most feasible techniques were: Plasma cutter or oxygen injector, nailguns and HV Power spike. Just one advice: don’t try this at home!

There was a surprise talk scheduled. The time slot was offered to The Grugq. Renowned security researcher, he presented “Surprise Bitches, Enterprise Security Lessons From Terrorists”. He talked about APT’s but not as a buzzword. He gave his own view of how APT’s work. For him, the term “APT” was invented by Americans and means: “Asia Pacific Threat“.

I finished the day back to offensive track. Mike Ossmann and Dominic Spill from Great Scott Gadgets presented “Exploring the Infrared, part 2“. The first part was presented at Schmoocon. Hopefully, they started with a quick recap. What is the infrared light and its applications (remote control, sensors, communications, heating systems, …). The talk was a suite of nice demos where they use replay attack techniques to abuse of tools/toys that work with IR like a Dunk Hunt game, a shark remote controller. The most impressive one was the replay attack against the Bosh audio transmitter. This very expensive device is used in big events for instant translations. They were able to reverse engineer the protocol and were able to play a song through the device… You can imagine the impact of such attack in a live event (ex: switching voices, replacing translations by others, etc). They have many more tests in the pipe.

The last talk was “Blinded Random Block Corruption” by Rodrigo Branco. Rodrigo is a regular speaker at TROOPERS and provides always good content. His presentation was very impressive. They idea is to evaluate the problems around memory encryption? How and why to use it? Physical access to the victim is the worse case. An attacker has access to anything. You implemented full-disk encryption? Cool but many info are in the memory when the system is running. Access to memory can be performed via Firewire, PCIe, PCMCIA and new USB standards. What about memory encryption? It’s good but encryption alone is not enough. Controls must be implemented. The attack explained by Rodrigo is called “BRBC” or “Blinded Random Block Corruption“. After giving the details, a nice demo was realized: how to become root on a locked system? Access to the memory is more easy in virtualized (or cloud) environments. Indeed many hypervisors allow enabling a “debug” feature per VM. Once activated, the administrator has write access to the memory. By using a debugger, you can use the BRBC attack and bypass the login procedure. The video demo was impressive.

So, TROPPER 10th anniversary edition is over. I spend four awesome days attending nice talks and meeting a lot of friends (old & new). I learned a lot and my todo-list already expanded.

[The post TROOPERS 2017 Day #4 Wrap-Up has been first published on /dev/random]

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#TROOPERS 2017 Day 4 Wrap-Up

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