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shurisneakers · 4 years ago

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shut in [2]

Summary: When your high profile mission goes terribly wrong, you’re forced to hide in a safehouse with a man you’ve never met before. With seemingly nowhere else to go, you’re forced to work together to figure out who is trying to have you assassinated before it’s too late. (Sam Wilson x Gender Neutral Reader, Hitman AU)

Warnings: cursing, implied violence, drama kings, and stupid tv show references

Word count: 3.4k

A/N: ayeeee, we’re back for part two. i also appreciate feedback so if you would like to, please consider dropping me an ask or comment ly guys!! also if you want to be on the taglist, it’s mentioned at the bottom of the chapter.

here’s my ko-fi if you’d like to support my writing <333

Previous Part || Shut In Masterlist

Hours were spent on the road in thick silence.

The both of you had been driving around for a while now. You were a considerable distance away from the mansion and Pierce, but you didn’t dare to stop.

Initially you had only put the pedal to the metal without solid plan. Get the fuck away from there was the only objective you cared about.

Hours later a signboard registered in your frantic thoughts. Familiarity struck a chord, and all of a sudden you had a vague idea of where you could go. You were unsure if it still existed, but it was a risk you were willing to take.

Darkness still coloured the sky, but the roads were deserted. No cameras along the highway was a welcomed feature. You eased your foot off the accelerator, carefully assessing the path you were taking for your exit.

You saw a small clearing near the highway, taking a deep breath before pulling the car into a sharp turn off the road and into the woods.

“Where are you going?” your companion jolted up when the car swerved abruptly.

You didn’t answer; just kept your eyes peeled for the structure. You didn’t have a backup plan if this didn’t go right.

It took much longer than you anticipated before you found it, pulling the car to a stop. You were deeper into the woods than you would have liked.

You stuck your head out of the window to confirm you were at the right place. It looked like you were.

“Where the hell are we?”

“My summer vacation house,” you murmured, unbuckling your seatbelt. You stepped out of the car to assess the damage. .

Another door opening and closing told you that he had gotten out of the car as well. However, he trudged ahead, leaving you behind.

The car was pretty beaten up. The metal gates hadn’t done it any favours.The question was whether it would still work if you needed it to.

Probably would, but not for too long.

You looked to the side to see where he went. He was standing in front of the house, arms crossed over his chest as he ran his eyes all over the building.

You trekked past him, walking up the two steps to the door. Pulling at what looked like a doorbell in any other scenario, you tugged off the outer shell to reveal a small scanner underneath.

You pressed your thumb to it, tapping your foot impatiently as it gave a beep of approval. The door gave a soft click. You let out a breath you didn’t realise you were holding, twisting the handle to let yourself in.

“You’re kidding right?” he asked incredulously from a distance behind you.

“Hey, man, stay outside if you want. Suit yourself.” You were sure he could fashion a bed out of leaves and twigs if he was that desperate.

Fumbling for the light switch, you sigh in relief when the room is illuminated.

“Whose safehouse is this?”

“Ransone’s.” You shrugged nonchalantly, moving ahead to inspect the place.

“I have every single one of his safehouses committed to memory.” His voice was becoming fainter as he planted his feet firmly at the doorway, refusing to move. “This ain’t one of them.”

“He’s sneaky. Once watched the next episode of Desperate Housewives without telling me.” The house wasn’t as dusty as you thought it would be, clearly being maintained once in a while although not regularly. “Broke my whole heart, he did.”

“Whose house is this?” he asked once again, tone hard as steel.

“Best that you don’t ask questions, buddy.” You looked at him wearily, a slo warning in itself, ending the conversation there. “Or else you’re welcome to leave.”

The entrance opened directly into what you assumed was the living room, or a sorry excuse for one. It had a couch facing an old cable television set, mounted on a small cupboard.

In the same space was the kitchen, with a microwave, a sink, and shelves lining the wall. A small mini fridge sat atop the counter. There was a dining table with six chairs for a family, almost like a sick joke. You found yourself letting out a short exhale at it, moving onto the next room.

It was bare except for a shelf pressed against a well. Opening it, you found yourself looking at multitudes of what looked like burner phones, microphones, cameras, some as small as a button. Regular security cameras and monitors to go with it, trackers, anything you needed was available in those four drawers.

You pocketed a burner cell to use for later, moving to the room on the opposite side of the hall.

However, unlike the rest of the rooms you had seen so far, this one was empty. Not even a shelf decorating it.

The next door you opened was a bathroom, the final being a bedroom with one bed in the centre pushed up against the wall. A wardrobe in the corner contained numerous t-shirts of black and grey of every size, tactical pants and other necessary items of clothing.

You eyed the last door at the end of the hall before finally deciding to pursue it.

It opened to the patio in the back, two steps leading down from the house into the wooded area. Pillars held up the corners of the roof. It all looked picturesque, meant to blend in as a normal house.

You stood there for a second, taking in the silence around you. Nothing could be heard for miles, so if something were to happen-

You shook your head, forcing your imagination to stop running wild. You shut the door behind you, steadily making your way back to where the guy was.

It appeared that he had caved. He had moved from the doorway, instead taking a seat on one of the dining chairs. He was observing you, eyes keen as you took a seat opposite to him.

Dropping the burner phone on the table, you looked at him expectantly. Silence ensued until it dawned on him what you were implying.

“I’m not calling him,” the guy said, leaning on his palm. Coward.

“Fine.” You pulled it back, snapping it open to dial the number.

You let it ring all the way until the very last second.

“Hello?” the low voice resonated from the other end.

“Ransone.” You rolled your eyes at his tone, somehow letting your exhaustion tear down any kind of filter you usually had while in conversation with him.

“Y/N?” His voice jumped two octaves higher to his usual pitch, dropping the facade immediately.

“Did you set us up?” You ignored the small glance you got from the guy at your name.

“What?”

“Did you set us up?” you repeated brazenly.

“What?”

“Oh, cut the shit Ransone, was this a trap?” The guy next to you exploded impatiently.

“Wilson?” Great. A name to the face.

“Answer the fuckin’ question, Vincent.” The mention of Ranone’s first name had you surprised. No one dared to call him that.

“No, Sam,” came his response almost mockingly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Sam Wilson. It sounded familiar. You’d heard it tossed around a few times at the organisation.

“Why were both of us on the same assignment?”

“I told you, I wasn’t sure if Wilson was going to show up.” You could hear his chair faintly creak in the background. “This was his mission first.”

“The hell is that supposed to mean?” you interjected. Faint memories of a passing comment he made during your briefing were beginning to surface.

“It means,” Ransone emphasised. “I called him first. He was being a bit… difficult. So I sent you as a backup.”

You looked at Sam. He dismissed you with a wave of his hand, as if to say to ignore what he was saying.

“And you didn’t think it was important to tell me that you were sending someone else?” If Ransone had told you, he should have mentioned it to him too.

“Oh, grow up.” Ransone sounded irritated, a tone that he seemed to reserve for Sam specifically. “You’re not children anymore. You can handle a few miscommunications.”

“Bullshit. You and I both know this isn’t an accident,” Sam retorted, dangerously good at not giving a shit.

“You better watch yourself, agent.” Ransone snarled. “I don’t like being questioned.”

“Like I give a shit about what you like or not. We were outnumbered 8 to 2. You tellin’ me you had nothing to do with this? That the stars just aligned to royally fuck with us?”

“Yes, I waited until Mercury was in retrograde to plan this hit,” he drawled sarcastically. “Don’t you for a second forget what you owe me, Wilson. You’d be stupid to believe I’d let it go so easily by having you killed.”

His voice was ice by the end. Sam’s eyebrow furrowed as he leaned back, crossing his arm over his chest.

“Then what about me?”

“Y/N,” he sighed, instantly sounding softer. “I didn’t think he would show. That’s it.”

“You’ve never been unsure of anything.”

“Which is why I sent you in. Pierce had to die one way or the other. Don’t care how.” It wasn’t what you were talking about, but it brought up something else.

You looked at Sam. Should you tell him that Pierce was dead before you got there?

You decided against it, not knowing what his reaction would be and too tired to gauge it over the phone. If someone else had gotten to Pierce before you, it meant that Ransone didn’t get a chance to deliver a dramatic end to his life, which would tick him off endlessly.

“How do I know you’re telling the truth?” Sam broke the momentary pause.

“You don’t.” He paused. “Distrusting me is the wisest thing you could do.”

You scoffed at his stupid Game of Thrones quote. How he was this obnoxious at a time like this was beyond comprehension.

“Give me your location.” He couldn’t sound less interested, like a parent forced to pick up their child. “I’ll send someone to come pick you up.”

Sam’s finger tapped at the table, drawing your attention to him.

He slowly shook his head, mentioning to his ear then drawing his finger in a circle indicating his surroundings.

Disclosing confidential information over the phone wasn’t the wisest idea. You had no idea if anyone was tapping into Ransone’s calls, listening for sensitive information. For all you knew that’s how they got to the mansion before you.

“Forget it. We’ll figure it out,” you told Ransone, eyes still locked on Sam.

“All right, stay low for a while. Keep me updated.”

You cut the call without another word, removing the battery and tossing the phone onto the table.

“What now?”

Neither of you said anything for a while. The silence rested uncomfortably between you as you stewed over what to bring up.

“Did you kill Pierce?”

“Christ, we still on this?” he scoffed.

“It’s a yes or no question.”

“No,” he stared at you. “I didn’t.”

“Did Ransone send you to spy on me?” It wouldn’t be the first time it had happened, although you thought he had moved past the need for that years ago.

“No, I was there for a mission.”

“You got any proof?”

He rolled his eyes. “Scout’s honour.”

He lifted his hand up in a mock-salute. A wince flashed across his face; barely, but enough for you to catch it. His arm dropped back down again.

You examined him silently, searching for any hint of a lie or bluff. You found nothing, only an adamant set of eyes staring right back at you.

Your chair creaked as you pushed yourself away from the table. You could feel his gaze following you as you walked down the hall to the bathroom. Shuffling through the shelves for something you were sure was there, you soon stepped back out.

You had no idea why you were doing this. You didn’t even know the guy.

He had his sleeve pulled up to his shoulder, examining the wound from the bullet graze. Dried blood streaked his forearm, partially covering his tattoo.

You tossed the first aid kit onto the table, watching it slide across to where he was sitting. Sam glanced at the box, then up at you.

You just turned around silently, walking back down the hall and towards the bedroom, shutting the door behind you.

__________

Sleep didn’t come that night, and predictably so.

Whether it was the survival instinct guarding you from the stranger in the house, the adrenaline from the mission or even the anxiety of not knowing what exactly was going on, you were sure that you didn’t catch even a bit of shut eye.

Morning came around after what seemed like days rather than hours. You still stayed in bed well past the sunrise, pulling at the hem of your pillow. Your knife was still strapped to your thigh and your gun found a place on the nightstand, just in case.

When you heard the opening and shut of cabinets down the hall, you finally pulled yourself up, stretching to get rid of the weariness in your muscles. You decided against the gun but left the knife strapped to your thigh as you shifted off the bed.

You paused at the doorway, hand on the knob. Shoving aside your hesitation, you opened the door quietly. You could handle it, easily.

Walking towards the kitchen, the volume of his ruffling and filing through the kitchen only became louder. You stopped at the entrance, watching as Sam slammed a cabinet door shut.

“C’mon man,” he groaned before turning around to lean his body weight against the counter. There was a small bump under the sleeve of his arm, different from the curve of his muscle. You assumed he had bandaged the bullet graze the night before.

He was still wearing the same thing as yesterday. Dust was slightly settled on his shirt and one knee of his pants was ripped slightly.

“Mornin’.” You quickly looked back up at him, not realising when he had seen you. “Get any sleep last night?”

You wordlessly shook your head and he shrugged in understanding.

“Did you?”

“Oh yeah. Out like a light.” He pushed himself off the counter.

“Really?” You watched as he pulled out a chair for himself, taking a place at the dining table, same place he was sitting the night before.

“Sounded like the reasonable thing to do.” He had an unnatural amount of faith in the fact that you wouldn’t murder him. Although you couldn’t judge if he was simply putting on a show, having stayed awake just as you had.

“I'm stuck in a safehouse with a stranger, forgive me for being a little careful,” you muttered defensively, crossing your arms over your chest.

“Hey, never said you were wrong.” He lifted his hands up. “But just to make sure; are you going to kill me?”

Your eyebrows furrowed. “No?”

“And I’m not going to kill you. I’d say that’s enough reassurance to get at least a nap in.”

“Give me one good reason to believe you.”

“If you killed me, Ransone would blow the roof of this place with you still in it. I’m one of the best he’s got.”

“Bullshit.” You scoffed, walking around the table to go see what you could find to eat. Ransone wouldn’t do that for anyone, and he knew that.

He didn’t bother responding but you could sense him tracking your movement.

The first cabinet you opened consisted purely of jars of peanut butter, stacked together neatly. The one beside it had jelly arranged in a similar fashion, jar to jar and taking up the entire space. Adjacent cupboard had loaves of bread, probably the most you’d seen together in a house ever.

The next cupboard was... empty.

“You have got to be fuckin’ with me,” you cursed under your breath. “Is there nothing else here?”

Save for a few plates and cutlery, every other shelf was empty. Your frustration only grew with each drawer you opened and shut, finding nothing but the same three components over and over again.

“There’s some soup on the top right, behind the bread.” His voice came from behind you. You checked where he mentioned, finding multiple cans of tomato soup. “I hope PB&J is your favourite, ‘cause that’s really all we got. I checked twice.”

“We won’t be here long anyway. It’s fine.” You walked a few steps towards where the TV was, sitting atop a small cupboard. If you weren’t getting gourmet meals, hopefully it would be compensated with some entertainment.

Rummaging through it didn’t prove to be a major hassle since there were only three DVDs; Die Hard, Notting Hill and Megamind. Beside it sat two books, American Gods, and Pride and Prejudice. That’s all.

“Really made sure to cover all demographics with those movies. There’s only one local news channel, everything else is static,” Sam informed you, unmoving from his position. You sighed, tossing the DVDs back and shutting the door.

“There’s a room over there with some basic shit. Burners, mics, cameras. Clothes are in the bedroom drawer. Should probably take a shower while you’re at it, I can smell you from a mile away and it’s giving me a migraine.” You pushed yourself off the ground, pointing towards the rooms as you walked down the hall. “Backyard’s all heavily wooded. If we try hard enough, I’m sure there are a few trap doors or crawl spaces or whatever around here.”

You could hear him follow you as you gave him the tour of a place you were sure he already had examined thoroughly before you greeted him this morning.

Pushing open the door to the suspiciously empty room, you stepped to the side, allowing him to observe. The both of you had the same thought process as you split up, sticking close to the walls, running your fingers across the plaster to look for any major differences.

“Got it,” he called out. You spun on your heel to face where he was standing. A small chunk of the wall was missing, a small button in the centre of the cavity he had created.

Pressing it lightly, the mechanical sound of sliding doors filled the air as the entire side of the room gave way to shelves upon shelves of weapons. Guns, knives, ammunition, bulletproof vests; enough material to last you years.

The doors slid shut when you pressed the button again, not until you had a mental note of what was available in case you found yourself in a situation where you required them.

“That about covers it. Don’t think we’ll be here long so just think of it as your three day long staycation.”

“I’ve had a better time at funerals than I’ll ever have in this shithole.”

________

“What do you mean they escaped?” Their voice was booming, dripping with slow rising anger. “Someone explain to me how the fuck that’s possible.”

“They took the car and left.”

“They took the car and left,” they said mockingly in a high pitch. “I know that, you fucking imbecile. I’m asking how they were alive long enough to do it?”

“They teamed up. Took out nearly everyone,” the agent was monotone. His arm was in a sling and his partner stood beside him, thick bandages around his midsection.

“They shouldn’t have been there together. They shouldn’t have been sent together.”

No one said a word, not even daring to breathe loudly.

“This wasn’t supposed to fucking happen. We killed Pierce. Everything was perfect,” their voice dropped as they spat out the last word. “So then how did this fucking happen?”

“Boss, we’ll-”

“I want them dead.” They interrupted, casting silence in the room. “I don’t care how you fucking do it. I want you to find them and rip them to shreds. Both of them.”

“Yes, boss.”

“And if you even fucking think of coming back without a proper update-” they brought their hand down harshly on the table. “-I’ll make you wish you were never born.”

The agents just nodded, faces pale as they shuffled out of the room silently.

“Fucking idiots.” They nursed their forehead on their palm, calming the nerve that was menacingly visible on their temple. “This wasn’t supposed to happen.”

Part 3

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forexcrypt-blog · 4 years ago

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Summer Solstice Update

Ok its a week late - sue me... everyone else is trying to. I have been busy with other stuff but things are hotting up on lots of fronts so I am adding a note to show I am still here. Half way through the year now and I must be ~20 weeks on from when this blog took a major turn. I repeat a lot of stuff - so again, I never intended this blog to be about scammers - it morphed after I found ProphetFX and Ashley Richards - scammers getting a lot of press and internet space written about them... Since, I have put serious dents into Ashley Richards (plus James Watts & Dan Legg + others) & ProphetFX (Edward Elford and Jack Alexander Harwood (FrontlineFX / TradehuntFX)). I definitely won't be on their Christmas card list. I have had severe abuse and harassment aimed at me since I blogged about these people - lets just lay down some facts; - I write the truth. All the evidence is posted for you to see - most of it is already in the public domain available via Google/Bing etc. You can verify it yourself. It is all true. - I am not a competitor of these shitheads. - I don't threaten or harass people. Good luck with your bullshit defamation claim - writing the truth is not defamation - no matter how you shameless warped cretins spin it. This is an investigative blog by someone that knows the retail forex industry inside out and is blowing the whistle on your bullshit instasham FX Lifestyles. For doing so, I have attracted some serious oddballs and my life is in danger from blogging about these people - they are scum. You wouldn't have half of them tarmac your drive - they are knuckle dragging scumbags - you only have to look at Instagram to see who and what these people are about. I only did one month of scammers/scams as you can see from the warning list - I only focused on Ashley Richards and ProphetFX. What did I find out? The FCA, Trading Standards, HMRC, OFCOM, IPSO and Action Fraud are so fucking useless they may as well not exist. They are absolutely fucking inept. I genuinely cannot get the words out to describe how fucking bad this lot are. A page full of 'useless fucking cunts' still won't cut it. We are nearly 20 weeks in on some of this stuff an what has happened from any UK regulator/agency? - NOTHING. I have put this stuff on a plate for them with all the evidence and we have seen NOTHING from any of them - in some cases they are simply ignoring me and/or not responding to their own complaints process. When I say the UK is fucked I mean it - THE UK IS FUCKED. Did you get that bit? THE UK IS FUCKED - nothing works - it is the wild west and if you are selling something online you can do what the fuck you like. It is easy to see why there is a scam epidemic in the UK. We have a culture among young people that it is OK to scam - they don't know any better and the UK regulators/agencies and social media companies are nowhere - it is a scammers paradise. Google reviews, Amazon reviews, Trustpilot reviews all contain thousands of fake reviews. Everything online is now fake and no one is stopping the fakery juggernaut. Hell even Conservative MP Grant Shapps was at it too https://www.theguardian.com/politics/2015/mar/15/grant-shapps-admits-he-had-second-job-as-millioniare-web-marketer-while-mp You can create a fake lifestyle in cyberspace and there is absolutely no one in the UK to stop you with nothing for 'normal' people to use/report to take them down - the scammers know it. Try reporting a profile on Instagram/Facebook - you can't even report them if they block you. You are met with bot agents and never a human. We are so far into absolutely fucketysphere, companies/people and scammers can do what the fuck they like - what are you going to do about it? Now of course, the UK Government/agencies/regulators blame Covid-19 for it all. As if the scammers infrastructure didn't already exist and scams magically sprung up as a result of Covid-19... Look at the cases I have raised on the blog - they have been going four plus years untouched. As far as I am aware, I am the first blogger/website to put a serious dent into these people - the trading forums are a mess at best given they are happy to house scams/scammers & BS 'Educators' for advertising revenue. This has won me a lot of interesting fans. I am getting take down requests every week - I have had special fans like Michael Watkins (theholistictrader) subject me to 12+ weeks of sustained harassment, doxing, DDOS attack, intimidation, threats, abuse (just to name a few) - all criminal acts which I have sent to North Wales Police four times - what have they done about it? NOTHING. For any prat telling me I don't have journalistic integrity because I don't reveal my name - that is why. People with a bit of money, especially one up from caravan dwellers - are not the most reasonable of sorts if their scam livelihoods are destroyed. What of the Media/Newspapers/Broadcasters/Producers/Journalists from the Ashley Richards fall out? I got multiple newspaper 'articles' taken down along with the BBC website 'article' & the BBC Programme "Young Welsh and Pretty Minted" featuring Ashley Richards taken down after 12 weeks of campaigning. - No apologies. - Not one correction. Utter cunts. They have simply buried this. As for IPSO (Independent Press Standards Organisation)? Fuck you too. Absolute fucking joke of an 'organisation'. I haven't had the time/bandwidth to keep on at the UK Agencies/Regulators/Newspapers/Broadcasters - it is a full time job - just for a few scammers - they are all fucking useless, all fucking jobsworths, all total cunts. You haven't seen the amount of emails and phone calls I have been putting in over ~20 Weeks just for these few select scammers - look what has happened - apart from the BBC takedown of Ashley Richards - NOTHING. We have utter cretins in the UK media (if you didn't already know). I repeatedly got the line, "It was a TV piece and we don't check the veracity... yak yak"... Well UK Media, you've just been done over by Ashley Richards, James Watts and Dan Legg - 20 year old scammers that have ruined your reputations and careers. So not only can you say you 'are a millionaire' online, you can also say you 'are a millionaire' to Local & National Newspapers, TV producers and TV Broadcasters and absolutely no one is checking you because thats what we love in the UK - nouveau riche Instagrat. Lets be fucking clear on these people - They are 'internet marketers' - they are not Forex traders. It doesn't matter if they sold weight loss diets, dating tips or Amazon affiliate courses - they just happen to sell you Forex Courses. In the case of James Watts he actually does sell Amazon affiliate courses. Everything they say is fake, everything is an instasham lifestyle - they cannot and never have traded Forex consistently profitably. They never made their money from actually trading Forex. Never, ever call these people Forex Traders. They sell bullshit Forex courses and/or sign you up to brokers get their huge broker affiliate commission via whatever means possible - you will never, ever make money with them. No one in retail forex makes money trading. So..... much of the same, me just repeating myself until everyone catches up with my depressing realism and cynicism. I appreciate people need a creditable full time UK scam/scammer reveal operation - people send me scams/scammers on a daily basis - the trading forums and social media are full of bitcoin/forex trading scams/scammers. I have always stated I would just do a few scammers to see where we got. The work involved in just doing the few scammers has been phenomenal - weeks and weeks of work (I have been doing what the FCA/Trading Standards/Action Fraud/HMRC/IPSO/OFCOM/ASA should be doing) - hundreds of hours - its a full time gig and I don't get paid for it so its not something I can offer at this stage - if I win the lottery maybe I could do some more... Read the full article

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sweetlifetownsville · 6 years ago

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It's A Bugger ...But Maybe A Blessing, Too. Do We Need To Clean Up More Than The Mud And Mould?

The deliberate managed flooding of Townsville should be the catalyst for a far-ranging review of how we do things in this city and maybe the way forward is to know how we should not have done them before. Are we entering the phase of the faceless spokesman? Seems so, as Mayor Mullet suddenly refuses to comment on some matters. The floodwaters might have receded but some leeches are still hanging around firmly plonking their suckers on the public tit one exponent of the big suck is particularly prominent or has Shayne Sutton departed our company? and never the twain should meet its not just the Astonisher having problems with keeping the wrong ads away from the wrong story one of Britains more respected papers has dropped a complete clanger Plus your regular illustrated Trump gallery But first Damned If Adani Do, Damned If Adani Dont The Pies favorite acid-tongued columnist, the Guardians Marina Hyde dropped a wonderful line the other day, and while she was referring hopeless and hapless British conservatives, it is so apt for our Queensland goofarium in George Street, The Pie will borrow it the Palaszczuk Government is like a gif of someone lighting their own fart and then being consumed by the fireball. Jackie Treacherous Trad has the box of matches, and our premier is the one whos been chugging down the vindaloo and frothy XXXX, or should that be Adani Ale. Adding to the fireball was Queensland Resources Investment Commissioner Caoilin Chestnutt, who became a roasting chestnut when she described the Black Throated Finch controversy as an absolute mess which would delay any subsequent approval of the Carmichael mine by between six months to two years. That was a bit rich of her, considering she was talking in New Delhi, in a country which knows a fair bit about messes in politics and social ethics. But those critical of what they see as a cynical and dishonest delay are particularly incensed that arch-Greenie Associate Professor Brendan Wintle has been driving the review they see that as akin to having, say, Clive Palmer being out in charge of an inquiry whether chocolate doughnuts should be outlawed. But Bentleys on to the nutty professors game, who seems to have taken a page out of the hunting with hawks manual.

Still Searching For Icebergs

The mans sensitivity and sense of timing (not to mention decency) was on full display at the Casino ballroom a few nights ago, when Clive Palmer hosted a lavish dinner promoting his unicorn plan to build a replica of Titanic. This affair had a feel of as Rome burns, being staged just as the devastating extent of the flood disaster was becoming fully apparent. Clive seems fatally attracted to things that have been destroyed by natural disasters dinosaurs, the Titantic, but the cynical Yabulu disaster was all his own doing but his only nod on the night towards the immense local disaster was a pledge of $100,000 to help fund any class action against insurers that may emerge from a flood inquiry. Very handsome of the man willing to splurge $500million on a wild whim. But the bombast didnt finish on the night. A day or two later, Palmer called for the TCC to be put into administration and the mayor sacked, because of her handling of the flood disaster. While that scenario has been put in this blog and elsewhere as a question to be answered, it hasnt been asserted as a fact, until Clive came along. The response was predictable, but what was interesting was that although a subsequent headline said Mayor Hill Rejects Palmers Claim, the funny thing is she didnt. In fact, as far as The Pie has heard, she hasnt said tickety boo about his attack, and about claims from others that shes going to have to carry the can on this one. Instead, all of sudden, the mayor went all media shy and we got this

Now, all that be as it may, the thing that caught the beady eye were the words a council spokesman. That phrase has been as rare as rocking horse shit ever since former editor Mick Carroll ten years ago ruled that all such spokespeople needed to supply a name and position, no anonymity. (Dolan Hayes went thermonuclear over that one, but he lost anyway.)

So now it seems the council, via a faceless, nameless spokesman (they probably rolled out the rapidly expanding Tony Bligh of the Legal Dept) as an organisation is pre-judging any official findings about what role the mayor played in the deliberate flooding of hundreds of Townsville ratepayers homes. Something to be learned there, Jenna Cairney .. as Mick Carroll said all those years ago, if there is no name and position to go with statements, whats to stop people thinking the paper just made it up. And that is far more relevant now than when Mick was in charge. It Looks Like Its A Whole New And Overdue Ball Game For Townsville A trusted correspondent on this blog we know as Memory Man has offered many intelligent insights here. During the week, he sent in this story from the Guardian

and attached these comments. This stuff is actually serious, and requires very careful consideration. Simplistic fluff from the likes of Col Dwyer about the poor old North not getting its fair share doesnt address the underlying drivers of risk / mitigation that frame the market for regional insurance. I know talking to colleagues in the global insurance market that cutting out a middle man or two would reduce premiums by about 10% straight away. This means going directly to the underwriters. Only a local authority-backed insurance operation can do this. The Gold Coast City Council did this some years ago. The flip side is also risk mitigation. In part this means making sure the right things are built in the right places. This is easier said than done, because the right things is a function of a minimal specification, which in turn is driven by a given assessment of risk and impact magnitude. Now, the rule has been to build to a 1-in-100 year event impact. This isnt as silly as it sounds. Folk whove derided it as a meaningless measure because such levels have occurred more than once in the past 100 years miss the point of of probability. The reason why the measure is relevant is that it also goes to balancing out the costs of building the right thing versus the probable costs of loss (or replacement). Over-engineering is costly to build, and in many cases also unnecessary. Societies accept that there are some things that can be built to a lesser standard, and other things need to be built to a higher standard. Thats what the public debate should be focused on. Critical infrastructure should be built to a higher standard; things that are more easily replaced can be built to a lower standard. Additionally, everyone needs to recognise that the probability of severe events occurring is increasing (as well as the severity of events themselves). So, what would be described presently as a 1-in-100 may be better understood as a 1-in-75, for sake of argument. It also means that so-called 1-in-500 events may have a greater probability of occurring in the future than was the case in the past. So a revision of probability estimates to say, 1-in-400, may be necessary. Bottom line though is that all asset owners need to take proactive decisions to ensure their assets are built to such as level as warranted by the owners own assessment of the trade-off between cost to build today versus value of loss + cost to replace. Where there is a social cost, this externality needs to be added to the equation. The lesson is severe weather is more likely but this shouldnt be a reason to stop things being developed. It simply means being clearer about the right things being built in the right places, with trade-off risks being clear to those concerned especially when it involves public implications. A well debated argument, and The Magpie believes that new infrastructure rules about flood plain developments require urgent review. Chronic Cronyism: It Really Has Got To Stop The massive upheaval at executive level in the council has given us a glimpse of the outrageously blatant jobs for the boys and girls culture that the likes of Mooney (himself a beneficiary of the rort) and the mayor make little effort to hide nowadays. A very good case in point is this woman

Shayne Sutton, who is also the wife of Stephen The Screaming Midget Beckett, the lately punted Mayoral shouter at staff and ratepayers. It is not surprising that the council became stacked with imported Labor odd jobbers with questionable qualifications once Mayor Jenny Hills poisonous report commissioned from the Nous group in Melbourne was adopted by council, but Ms Sutton has added a new dimension in the grandest let them eat cake style. The Labor old mates club could not be shielded from view when Mrs Beckett arrived in town, following hubby north after the Qld Labor Party decided because of his bad manners, bad temper and bad judgements were not appreciated in the corridors of central power in Brisbane. Shayne Sutton has been a Brisbane City Councillors for 14 years when they upped sticks for Townsville. But she hadnt been here five minutes it seemed when she landed a plum $44k p.a spot on Tony Mooneys Townsville Hospital Board this has been reported here more than once. Seems mr Mooney just couldnt find any involved local suitable to his requirements. But what The Pie has just been made aware of is as well as handling that onerous hospital task (less than 6 meetings a year), Ms Sutton was a few weeks later tapped on the shoulder by Mayor Mullet for a newly created, totally bullshit position as wait for it the Executive Director of the North Queensland Regional Organisations of Councils (NQROC). The what, you cry? Well, this

Gosh, that must take a bit of doing, you wonder. Sure does, as the job description attests. The executive Director draws on her deep knowledge of the region, its history and its priorities and Provides strategic advocacy and engagement advice to five North Queensland Mayors and CEOs Facilitates regional collaboration between key internal and external stakeholders to progress agreedstrategic priorities for North Queensland Media management Organisational governance and financial reporting This is a made-up position that in fact didnt exist before, and at a guess since the kings of featherbedding the LGAQ are involved probably commanded a salary of around $70-80K. Gee, well, you say, shed have her hands as well as her purse full maybe, but not so much that didnt apply for a job the board of TAFE as well. Dont known how that went, and maybe well never know the full extent of Ms Suttons contribution to a community in which she has lived for barely a year. But this murky NQROC position seems to have been suddenly de-created as far as one can penetrate the layers of obscurity around these goings on, so perhaps she is on her way. Madam, you are a massive leech and our already benighted community can hardly mourn it if you pass on from our midst to infest some other poor bastards treasury. Making The Best Use Of Your Townsville Bulletin This latest in the series of cringe-worthy self-promotions caught The Magpie eye on Friday.

And good on you Freda, you really do look a very sprightly lady. May The Pie add his hearty congratulations on a milestone hell probably not even get within cooee of. And reading your story, mdear, the old bird now perhaps knows the secret of your wonderful longevity you gave a hint when you said your daily dose of news from the Bulletin was what set me up for a good day. Its part of ones everyday routine and I just cant get on without it. Its the first thing I need in the morning. Indeed, Freda. As it does for so many others, probably works better than prunes and porridge at a guess, youd be getting on by page 3 most days. Guess She Finally Came Out Of The Closet Seems the layout blokes at the Scottish Herald had a wee dram too many when they put this page together but then again, it may just have been the world renowned Scottish sense of humour. Eh, Jenna?

New Aussie Tennis Rankings .. Just released

And The Week In Trumpistan

It has come to our attention that too many of you are paying attention. The New Yorker

.. Back again next week, Allah willing, but have your say 24/7 on blog comments, plenty of frisky opinion out there along with information you wont get anywhere else (that is, until the Astonisher trolls have read the blog Mt Isa railway crisis two weeks after the Nest, anyone?) Hope you enjoy what you read here, and any support for the Magpies Nest will be greatly appreciated, the how to donate button is below. http://www.townsvillemagpie.com.au/its-a-bugger-but-maybe-a-blessing-too-do-we-need-to-clean-up-more-than-the-mud-and-mould/

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sweetlifetownsville · 6 years ago

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It's A Bugger ...But Maybe A Blessing, Too. Do We Need To Clean Up More Than The Mud And Mould?