#i once again overestimated my fellow americans

[animentality]

so Trump won, and Republicans won back the Senate.

...

I'm not going to work today.

I'm going to sit at home and contemplate death.

[even-after-a-millennia]

Here Through the Dark and Beautiful

The third and final part of my What We Do For Family series is done!  You can read it down below or over on ao3 here!

(Also, there’s a scene in a club and I definitely put together a self-indulgent playlist of what I wanted to play, so here that is as well.)

Five years into Nile Freeman’s immortality, her immortal family took a break from fighting and from each other.  Well, sort of.  Nicky and Joe went off to Malta, smiling profusely as they drove off.  Andy and Quynh were going to stay right where they were, in the safe house in Greece, where if they looked out the window, they could see the glittering sea.

Which left Nile and Booker undecided on what they were going to do.

Nile didn’t even consider going somewhere on her own.  She turned to him and shrugged.  “I’ve never been to France?”

He chuckled, looking relieved.  “Ma choupette, you will have to be a little more specific than that.”

She smiled, conceding the point.  “The Louvre?”

“Nerd!” Quynh called from where she was sitting on the couch, her wife’s legs in her lap as Andy sprawled across the cushions.

Nile very maturely did not stick her tongue out at Quynh.  She did wrinkle her nose at her, but that was not the same.

“Very well, Nile,” Booker said, smiling.  “I will take you to the Louvre.”

After they packed their bags and headed out the door, Nile began to realize just what she had agreed to.  The team had agreed to take a month off before they would reconvene at Copley’s house near London and get briefed on their new assignment.

So she would be spending a whole month with Booker.

Alone.

Which was fine!  It was!  It was just… once Nile had become an immortal and helped save Booker from Merrick, ever since that early morning conversation they’d had about taking care of their mental health, they had become friends.  Surrounded by couples who loved them, they were the two loners.  That morning’s conversation had been the first of many, spanning countless cups of coffee and missions.  At this point, spanning years.

Nile loved her whole immortal family.  She loved Nicky’s gentle warmth, his inability to let her go without food for a long period of time, his small, proud smile when she had finally disarmed him in a sword fight.  She loved Joe, who painted with her and prayed with her, who would sleepily be there for her when she awoke with a nightmare.  She loved Andy, her fierceness and her kindness, her mentor who listened when Nile spoke and asked Nile how to use technology.  She loved Quynh, her fellow trickster, who clothes shopped with her and let her feel like a sister again when they did mischief together.  

Nile loved Booker, who had been sober for four years now and worked every day to pull himself away from the darkness that had swallowed him five years ago.  Whose scars on his heart were so similar to her own.  Who understood when she gasped awake clutching her throat sometimes, even years after her first death, because he sometimes did the same.  Who felt the ache of missing his family in a way that echoed hers.

She loved all of them.

The trouble was, she was falling in love with Booker.  It had started slowly, based on their shared experiences and the friendship that they had built as the years had gone on, but she had felt herself start to fall for him about a year ago.  A mission had gone bad and she had died very slowly.  She had woken in the back of their escape vehicle with her head resting in Booker’s lap.  His eyes, filled with worry and then relief, were the first thing that she saw.  In that moment, she realized that she wanted to wake up looking at him, without having to die first, for the rest of her immortality.

And that terrified her a bit.

Nile was surrounded by some of the greatest love stories in history, not that history would ever know that.  She knew it.  She saw it.  A love so deep it could span centuries of disagreements and fights and deaths.  A love that could go to the bottom of the ocean and back.  And through all that, to still look at the person who was their everything with love and certainty.

It was awe-inspiring.

She just didn’t know if she could ever have that.

But with Booker, she wanted to try.  And that was what scared her.  

“You okay, Nile?  You’ve been quiet since we left,” Booker asked as they flew towards Paris.

“Hmm?  Oh, sorry.  Got a lot on my mind, I guess,” she said, trying to shrug it off.

“Wanna talk about it?” Booker asked, leaning closer until their shoulders brushed.

Nile smiled softly, but shook her head.  “Nah, just thinking of all the art I’m going to see soon.”

Booker looked at her like he knew that she was bullshitting, but didn’t call her out on it, for which she was grateful.  Even though they confided a lot in each other, they knew when not to press.

“Ah, yes.  What are you looking forward to seeing most?”

“You did not just ask me that.”

Booker chuckled, holding up his hands.  “Sorry, you know art isn’t my expertise.”

“Oh sure, mister forger, I’m sure there aren’t any art replicas out there that came from you,” Nile teased, poking him in the side.

Booker ducked his head.  “I plead the Fifth.”

“You’re not American.”

“You are, are you not?”

“Well… technically, I guess.”  Nile looked out the window, melancholy lancing through her.  “Don’t you have to go to your home country every once in a while to claim citizenship?”

She felt Booker’s hand on hers.  “I’m sorry, ma belle, I didn’t mean to upset you.”

Nile took a deep breath and shook herself, trying to dispel the tidal wave of emotion that had hit her.  Her movement jostled Booker’s hand and he pulled away.

Damn.

“It’s fine.  I just wasn’t expecting it.”

“I understand.”

She knew he did.  Which is why she took a chance and slid a little closer, leaning her head on his shoulder.  He was tense for a moment, then relaxed as she settled in.

“Sleep, Nile.  I’ll wake you when we get there.”

“Thanks, Book,” Nile said, letting her eyes close and trying not to be obvious that she was breathing deeply, both to calm herself and to revel in the slightly pine-like smell that wafted off Booker’s neck.

________________________________________

Nile stood, ignoring the people walking around her, mouth open slightly as she stared at Nike’s statue.

“Isn’t it called The Winged Victory of Samothrace?” Booker asked from beside her, looking at the map in his hands.

Nile waved a hand at him, not looking away.  “Nike means victory, Book.  Keep up.”

“Ah.  Of course.”

Nile couldn’t stop looking at the statue.  “This has existed longer than Joe and Nicky.  It’s older than Joe and Nicky combined.”

“Still young compared to Andy, though.”

Again, Nile waved a hand at Booker.  “A lot of things are young compared to Andy, Book.  That’s not a fair comparison.”

“True.  I wonder if they have miniature versions of this in the gift shop,” Booker mused.

“Huh.  Maybe,” Nile said, finally turning away to grin at him.  “If not, I can just have you make one for me, huh?”

He laughed, throwing his head back.  “You are overestimating my abilities.”

She laughed with him as they started moving again.

There was so much to look at that Nile had only ever seen in books before.  It was almost overwhelming how much history they were looking at.  She was happy that she could tell Booker about a lot of the art, to the point that he put the map in his pocket so he could just listen to what she was saying.  Someone, another tourist, came up to her and asked her for more information once.  

Nile was having the time of her life.

Then, as they were walking through a crowd to get to the next exhibit, she glanced across the room. 

Standing there, unmistakably, was her brother.

Her hand shot out and grabbed Booker’s arm, gripping it tight.

“Nile?  What’s wrong?” he said, going instantly on alert.

“That-”  She couldn’t get the words out.  She cleared her throat.  “That’s my brother over there.”

“What?!”

Booker had turned to look too, but none of that mattered.  Jordan turned, maybe sensing the eyes on him, and looked directly at Nile.  And she got to watch as confusion, recognition, and devastation crossed over his face.

“NILE!” he shouted as he started to rush toward them.

“We need to leave,” she said through numb, unmoving lips.

“Go,” Booker said, putting something in her hand.  “I’ll be right behind you.”

Quynh had taught her how to melt into a crowd and disappear her first year of being an immortal.  Physically, it was so easy.  Mentally, every step away from Jordan hurt her.  But she couldn’t tell him the truth.  She couldn’t come back to her family after five years of being dead and expect them to be okay.  She couldn’t watch them get old, or sick, and die in front of her.  Not while she didn’t age a day.  It was better if she just stayed dead to them.  

But God, it hurt.

She got far enough away to feel safe and ducked behind a pillar.  She turned to Booker, only he wasn’t there.

“Book?”

But he was nowhere to be found.  She felt something in her hand and looked down, remembering that he had put something there before she had left.

A comm earbud?

She quickly put it in her ear and heard her brother’s voice shout her name again.  Nile sagged against the wall, a hand over her heart.

“Hey, man, can I help you?” she heard Booker say, only he didn’t sound like Booker.  He sounded… American?  What the hell?

“My sister, I just saw her here.  Did you see her?  Black woman, slim, with braids.  Name of Nile Freeman?” her brother demanded.

“Nile Freeman?  Wow, that’s not a name I’ve heard in a while.”

“You know her?” Jordan asked.

“I did.  We were in the Marines together.  We were on the same base.  I’m really sorry, man.  She was an amazing person.”

Jordan didn’t say anything.  Nile strained her ears to hear anything.  What was Booker doing?!

It sounded like Jordan let out a gust of air.  “Yeah.  She was.  I’m sorry, I was sure I’d actually seen her this time.”

God, hearing that, Nile’s heart shattered.

“Grief sucks like that,” Booker said, and his voice was rough.

“Yeah, it really fucking does.  I’m Jordan, by the way.  Nile’s younger brother,” her brother said.

Booker huffed out a laugh.  “Did your parents love rivers or something, to name both their kids after two?”

“My dad’s idea.  My mom humored him.”

“From what Nile told me, she is a formidable woman.  I’m Seb.  Nice to meet you, Jordan.”

Nile jerked at Booker giving a form of his real name.  Seriously, what was he doing?!

“Nice to meet you too.  So you were on the same base as Nile?”

“Yeah, for what- eight months?  I got shipped home just before...  Well.  You know.  Heard about it from a buddy of mine.  I’m truly sorry.”

There was silence, and Nile mentally begged Booker to keep talking.  Luckily, he did.

“Nile was one of the kindest people I’ve ever met.  She radiated that to everyone.  Kept candy in one of her TAC vest pockets to give to the kids she met.  Strong too, just like her mom.  I was lucky to be able to work with her, however limited a time it was.”

Jordan let out a gust of air.  

“Nile would have loved it here,” he said.  “She wanted to go to art school after her deployment, did she tell you that?  Was always into this stuff.  My mom didn’t know much about it, but wanted her to chase her passion.  Just, we couldn’t afford it.  So Nile enlisted.  Scared the shit out of Mom, not that she would ever admit it.”

“How’s she doing?  Your mom,” Booker asked.

“She’s a fighter, just like Nile was.  There are still hard days, but she can look at Nile’s photo next to Dad’s and keep going.  We can talk about her a bit more, now.”

Nile knew where her dad’s photo was.  On her mom’s dresser, so every morning and every night, she would see him.

Now Nile’s picture was next to her dad’s.

She couldn’t stop the sob that emerged from deep in her chest.

“Could I get a picture?  My roommate will never believe that I ran into Nile Freeman’s brother otherwise,” Booker said.

It sounded like he was distracted, wrapping up the conversation.

“Of course!”

“Hey man, good talking to you,” Booker said, voice warm.

“Yeah, thanks for the stories.  Gotta keep her alive somehow, right?” Jordan said and Nile focused on his voice as hard as she could.  This would probably be the last time she heard it.

“Definitely.  Someone as amazing as Nile should never fully die.  Take care, Jordan,” Booker said.

“You too, Seb.  See you around.”

And he was gone.

Nile couldn’t stop sobbing.

“Nile, where are you?  Nile!  Please, you have to answer me,” Booker said over the comm.

Nile looked around the column she was hiding behind and gasped out the closest piece of art’s name.  

“I’m coming, don’t move.”

A hysterical laugh broke through the sobs for a moment.  Where would she even go?

Then he was in front of her.

“Oh, Nile.  Can I hold you?” Booker asked, his voice breaking.

Nile threw herself into his arms and truly let go.  She buried her face into Booker’s chest, hoping to contain the sounds of her sobs.  They were secluded enough to avoid awkward stares, but she was still aware of the spectacle she must be making of herself.  She started to take deep breaths, trying to stop crying.  

It was only when she started to calm that she could hear Booker’s soft murmurs of “I’m sorry, you’ll be okay, I know how you feel and I’m here, I’m not going anywhere, ma chérie, we’ll get through this together…”

It only made her hold him tighter.

Finally, she calmed and straightened from being hunched into Booker’s chest.

“I’m so sorry, Nile, I should have just come with you.  I thought- well, it doesn’t matter.  I’m truly sorry,” Booker said.

When she looked up at him, she saw his eyes were wet too, a few tears making their way down his cheeks.

She shook her head, reaching up to wipe his tears.  “You gave me my brother back, Book, for however short a time.  Thank you.”

Her hands were still on his face, cupping his jaw.  She slid them over his jaw, to the back of his neck, and pulled slightly.  Booker was almost half a foot taller than her, but he compressed himself to be shorter until their forehead met.

She closed her puffy eyes and just stayed there a moment.

“Thank you,” she said again, whispering this time.

“You’re welcome.”  

She felt the puff of his breath against her face as he spoke.  It would be so easy to lean a little bit more in, close that distance...

But she couldn’t.  Not right now, when she still felt like she was dying a bit inside.

Pulling away, she said, “I think we should go.  That okay with you?”

“Of course, Nile.  You didn’t even have to ask.”

They got back to his flat, not talking as they walked in.

“You should know, I recorded the conversation with Jordan on my phone.  And um, here,” Booker said, holding out his phone.  “I thought you would want to have this.”

Nile took the phone, knowing what she would see.  It didn’t hurt any less as she looked at Jordan’s face, smiling with his arm around Booker’s shoulder.

She was crying again before she even realized it.

“God, Book.  I miss him,” she sobbed.  Her legs gave out and Booker scooped her into his arms and carried her to the couch.  He sat and pulled her close, starting to murmur comfort again as she lost herself once again.

It took much longer to even begin to pull herself together this time.  It was dark out and she felt exhausted, mentally and physically.  Booker’s leg had to be asleep underneath her, but he just kept brushing his hand up and down her spine, trying to soothe her.

“I think we should leave Paris tomorrow,” she said, her voice hoarse from crying.

“That would probably be best,” Booker agreed.  “Where would you like to go?”

Nile buried her face into his chest, overwhelmed.  “Can I decide later?”

“Of course, Nile.”

“Or you could choose this time,” she said, voice muffled by his shirt.

He paused, thinking.  “We have a safe house near Amsterdam.  There are many art museums there, including the Van Gogh Museum.  If you would like.”

This is why I love you.  The words are on the tip of her tongue, but she keeps them there.

She pushed herself up so that she was able to look at him.  His hair was flopping into his face and she didn’t stop herself from pushing it back in place.  Booker’s gaze changed somehow, from caring to… a closed off kind of caring, where he wasn’t sure what was going on, but still cared about her.

“I would love that.  Thank you, Sebastien,” she said.  Then, before she could talk herself out of it, she leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek.

She pulled away quickly and didn’t look at him as she stood up.  “I’m gonna go lie down, try to sleep for a bit.  Can you make arrangements for Amsterdam?”

He grunted in affirmation and she fled down the hall.  She couldn’t stop herself from glancing back before she left the room, only to see Booker staring at nothing, his hand on the cheek she had kissed.

Well, that’s promising.

It wasn’t until she was in bed that she realized she had called him Sebastien, not Booker.

Well...

Shit.

_____________________________________________

They didn’t talk much as they traveled to the Netherlands.  Nile didn’t mind, she was too tired to tackle any of the emotional options that could have been topics of discussion.  She could feel Booker glancing at her every now and then, but she just pretended to fall asleep against the train’s window.  

She couldn’t consider falling asleep on his shoulder again.  She was already feeling fragile.  Putting herself out there was not in the cards right now.

They took a taxi to get to the safe house from the train station, paying the driver in cash when they arrived.  Booker thanked him in Dutch, which was not a language that Nile had started to learn yet, and they walked up the steps to the front door.

“Booker, wait,” Nile said, grabbing his arm.  She had seen a figure through the door’s frosted glass.  

There was someone inside the house.

“It’s okay, Nile,” Booker said.  “It’s just-”

Andy opened the door.  “Hey, kid.”

Nile blinked at her.  “You’re supposed to be in Greece.”

Andy shrugged.  “All that sun wasn’t agreeing with me,” she said drily.

Nile turned on Booker.  “Book…”

He held up his hands.  “I just told them what happened.  They wanted to be here for you.”

“They?!”

“Hello, little sister,” Quynh said, coming forward from behind Andy.

Nile swallowed hard at the endearment, emotion swelling in her chest.  “Quynh…”

“May I?” Quynh asked, holding out her arms.

Nile could only nod as she stepped forward into Quynh’s embrace.  Andy’s hand came to clasp Nile's shoulder as they hugged, and Nile took a deep, shaky breath.

She disengaged, wiping a stray tear that had leaked out.  “I’m glad, I thought when Book said ‘they’ he meant-”

A car door slammed behind them.  

“We’re here!  Sorry we’re late, Nicky was driving for a bit and suddenly we were in Belgium,” Joe’s voice rang out from behind them and Nile turned to see him and Nicky coming up the walkway.  Their car was parked haphazardly at the curb.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” she muttered, tearing up against her will.

As Nicky and Joe got closer, she took a deep breath, overwhelmed.  “I need a minute,” she said abruptly, darting past Quynh and Andy into the house.  She went into the first room she could find and shut the door.

Turns out she was in the bathroom.

She gripped the edges of the sink, hunched over the basin.

Nile wasn’t entirely sure what she was feeling, the emotions were twisted inside her so much that she couldn’t parse them out.  She made herself breathe and think. 

Okay, Nile.  What’s wrong?

She thought about the most obvious answer, her brother’s face as they made eye contact, and flinched away from the memory.  She had missed her family for so long that the emotional wound had scabbed over.  It was always there, she always felt the pain and some times were worse than others, but she was able to keep going.  Seeing Jordan had ripped that scab off.  She felt like she was bleeding internally.  Even though she was glad she had been able to hear Booker talk to him… even that hurt.  She was aching for her family.

So why was she not glad to see her immortal family?

She hadn’t asked them to come.  Hadn’t wanted to bother them from their vacations.  And she knew that she could handle this by herself.  She had survived the pain of losing her brother and mom this long, why did they seem to think that she couldn’t get through this?

Oh.

Nile understood what she was feeling now.

She was sad, yes.  But she was also angry.

When she had first joined Andy’s little band of immortal warriors, she had felt the difference of age between them and herself.  Andy to this day called her “kid.”  Thank God Booker had gone away from saying the same, that would have made any feelings she had for him incredibly awkward.  It wasn’t like she wasn’t aware of how young she was compared to the others.  But she was a goddamn adult.  She had gone through loss before and knew she would go through more, but she also knew that she could get through that herself.  For everyone to drop everything and come here made her feel like they thought she couldn’t.

That was what was rubbing her the wrong way here.

Nile took a deep breath and turned on the hot water.  She found a washcloth in the cupboard under the sink and wet it once the water was warm.  Slowly, gently, she washed her face, breathing deeply as she did so.  She wrung out the washcloth and dabbed her face dry on the hand towel hanging on the wall.

Then she looked back into the mirror.

The anger had lessened, now that it had been acknowledged.  The pain was still there, right below the surface.  But she straightened her shoulders and nodded to herself.

She’s got this.

The other immortals had moved from the doorway into the living room.  None of them were sitting, though, and they all turned immediately when she walked into the room.

“Sorry about that, needed a second to go to the bathroom.  Hey guys!” she said, opening her arms and pulling Joe into a hug.

“Nile-” Nicky said as she turned to embrace him as well, so she hugged him extra tight, just to quiet him a moment.

“You guys didn’t have to rush here and ruin your vacations,” she said, making sure to keep the smile on her face, to keep the edge out of her voice.

“Nile-”

“You couldn’t have even gotten to Malta before you were turning around to come here,” Nile continued as she pulled away from Nicky.

“Nile, per favore,” Nicky said beseechingly.

Nile swallowed and looked at him hesitantly.  His eyes were attentive and tired.  “Yeah?”

“Are you okay?”

Nile slumped into herself.  She sat on the chair, away from the others and they followed suit, sitting around the room.  Nicky, Joe, Quynh, and Andy squeezed onto the couch and Booker took the other chair, the closest seat to Nile.

“No,” she answered honestly, feeling weighed down with grief and anger.  She forced her chin up, her shoulders square.  “But I will be.”

There were nods around the room.  Nile made eye contact with Booker and could see the understanding radiating from his eyes.  She gave him a small smile.

“We should have asked this from the beginning.  What do you need, Nile?  What can we do?” Joe asked.

She considered.  What did she want?  There were hard answers to that question.  She wanted to see her mother.  She wanted to hug her brother.

She wanted to forget for a bit that she was immortal, and all the hurt that came with that.

Nile went with the easiest answer.

“I wanna go dancing,” she declared, raising her chin as she said it.  

The others blinked.  

Booker let out a chuckle.  “We are in Amsterdam.  I’m sure we can find somewhere to dance.”

“Don’t you think that we will stand out?” Nicky asked.

Nile shrugged.  “Honestly, probably not.  You just jump up and down all night, that would be enough.  I’m sure you can figure out grinding in about two seconds or less, so that’s two dance moves right there, one for slow dances and one for fast ones!”

Andy shrugged.  “Alright, but don’t get mad if we are bad.”

“We’re really going?” Quynh asked, looking excited.

Everyone looked around and nodded.

Nicky sighed.  “For Nile, yes.”

“For Nile!” Quynh shouted, raising a fist in the air.  Nile smiled, thinking how many times Quynh might have rallied that way throughout the centuries.  She shook herself.  No, tonight was to forget about immortality.

“Alright, we’re going to need supplies to do this right,” Nile said, pulling out her phone and starting to write a list.  “I’ve got an outfit that’ll do, but I’ll need to look at your guy’s luggage to see if something works.  Book, you brought that dark blue button down, right?”

He nodded.

Nile stared at her phone as she said, “Your eyes pop with that and it makes your muscles look fantastic, so that would be a good choice.  The pants you’re wearing will be fine and your boots.  Quynh, can you show me you and Andy’s options?  Joe, I’ll send you the list.  Get Nicky something that isn’t a cotton t-shirt when you’re out.”

Joe grinned at his husband who looked less enthused at the idea.  “With pleasure.”

“Okay, let’s get going!”

Nile helped pick out Quynh and Andy’s looks as Joe and Nicky grocery shopped.  Joe and Nicky brought back groceries, including alcohol, and outfits for themselves.  The grey short sleeved button down did wonderful things to Nicky’s eyes and Joe went with a black tank top, which showed off his shoulders.  

Sidling up to Booker as he helped put away groceries, Nile whispered, “Ten bucks that Joe and Nicky start defiling the dance floor?”

Booker laughed loudly.  “I don’t make bets that I know I will lose, Nile.  That’s Nicky’s job.”

Nile pouted, but soon rallied.  “We are all gonna look so good, people are gonna be so jealous when they realize Joe and Nicky, and Andy and Quynh are together!”

“Ah,” Booker said, looking down at the counter.  “Nile.  If you wish to go home with someone tonight, I only ask that you keep your phone on you.  Just in case.”

Nile blinked.  She hadn’t even thought about that.  Hadn’t planned to try to pick anyone up.  She was trying to forget about her immortality, right?  Just for the night?  That could be a good way to help forget.  But… she didn’t want to.

“Thanks, but that’s not what I want from tonight,” she replied, keeping her tone light.

Booker nodded.  She did notice his shoulders relaxed as she walked away.

They had some down time before they should start to get ready, but Nile couldn’t settle.  She ended up doing her eye makeup while she waited, wanting something to do.

Andy knocked on the open door of the bathroom to announce that supper was ready.

“Awesome, just gimme a minute and I’ll be good to go,” Nile said, curling her eyelashes.

Andy leaned against the doorway.  “I’m sorry, for what it’s worth,” she said.

“For what?” Nile said, now putting on mascara.

“For treating you like a kid sometimes.  When I first saw Joe’s drawing of you, I thought, ‘she’s just a baby,’ but you’ve proved time and time again that you can handle yourself.  We should have considered that.  I think,” Andy cut off, sighing.  “I think we wanted to be there for you, the way we hadn’t been for Booker.  To make up for not noticing how bad it was for him.”

Andy looked at Nile, who stared at her, shocked and touched.  “We were thinking of ourselves and what we needed more than you.  That wasn’t fair to either of you, and I’m sorry.”

Nile put the wand back in the mascara tube and dropped it on the counter, not caring where it fell.  She hopped off the counter and hugged Andy.  She felt Andy’s hand cup the back of her neck and relaxed into the embrace.

“Thank you for that, Andy,” Nile murmured.

She let out a breath and felt the last traces of her anger fade away.

___________________________________

Nile was decidedly tipsy as they made their way to the nightclub that Booker had found for their night out.  With her fast healing, she’d had to pregame a lot more than back when she was younger and well, mortal - no, she wasn’t thinking about that - and had drunk about half a bottle of vodka to feel as loose and happy as she did right now.

Booker himself hadn’t touched the alcohol and Nile felt a stab of guilt for getting so much, when he had been so good at staying sober.

He must have noticed her expression, as he shook his head at her.  “It’s fine, Nile.  I want you to have a fun night, and if you wish to imbibe, I understand.”  He gave her a crooked grin.  “I won’t give in to peer pressure.”

She was suddenly overwhelmed with pride and affection for him and didn’t stop herself from going up on tiptoe and kissing him on the cheek.  “Proud of you, Book,” she murmured as she pulled away.

Everyone else in their immortal family saw it, but no one said anything, for which Nile was somewhat grateful.

She also really wanted to talk to someone about Booker.  She was relieved when Quynh leaned against the doorway, much like her wife had done a few hours ago, and asked Nile as she was doing her contouring, “So, you and Booker, huh?”

Nile bobbled the brush she had been using but caught it before it could truly fall.  She turned and closed the door, then turned on some random playlist on her phone, then turned back to Quynh.

“Quynh, I don’t know what to do,” she said honestly.

“Talk to me, little sister,” Quynh said, reaching out to hold one of Nile's hands.

Nile took a deep breath.  She hadn’t ever said any of this out loud and the prospect of it being out there, acknowledged by someone else, was terrifying and exhilarating.

“I love him, Quynh,” she said in a rush.  Her eyes grew wide and she felt tears start and covered her mouth with her free hand.  “Holy shit, I haven’t said that out loud before.”

“How’s it feel?” Quynh asked with a small smile, like she was holding it in until she heard Nile’s answer.

“Amazing,” Nile said, lowering her hand so that Quynh could see her teary, but wide, smile.

Quynh’s smile mirrored her own.

“I love Sebastien le Livre,” Nile murmured, looking at the door.

“Do you have a plan?” Quynh asked.

Nile shook her head.  “What if…  I mean, he was married before.  I don’t even know if he feels the same.  Or if he does, if he’ll let himself start anything.”

“Well, Nile,” Quynh said, “it sounds like you should sit down and talk with him.  Talk about what you want.  See if he wants the same.  At least after that, you will know.”

Quynh’s grin returned.  “But maybe do that later.  Tonight, we dance!”

The atmosphere in the club was exactly what Nile needed as they walked in.  It was dark and the lights flashed often enough to give people momentary identities before they were mostly cloaked in darkness again.  The music was pumping out of huge speakers.  

The other immortals didn’t look as enthused as Nile was, but they dutifully followed her onto the dance floor.  It was just EDM playing at the moment, so Nile took the time to show a few moves that Quynh took great pleasure in replicating.

Soon though, a new song came on and Quynh’s eyes lit up with an idea.  She grabbed Andy and they started to swing dance, right there in the club.  It fit strangely well with the music, even though it was very much a modern song.  Joe and Nicky started to do the same, grins on their face.  Booker held out a hand to Nile and she took it eagerly.  She replicated the steps that Andy and Quynh were doing and followed Booker’s lead, laughing loudly when they got off from the beat and Booker swore as he spun her out and back to reset them.

By the time that song faded out, Nile was breathing heavily and her cheeks hurt from smiling so much.

The next song came on and it was slower, at least at the beginning, and Nile heard the lyrics, “I pray to God, I just don’t know anymore,” and felt like a sledgehammer had hit her over the head.  That had happened that time in-

No, tonight was about forgetting!  She wasn’t going to think about that!

She danced noncommittally to that song, even when it picked up.  The next song started up and Nile recognized it instantly.  “Turn Down for What” had been featured at far too many dances for her NOT to know it.  

Nile took great pleasure in shaking her hips from side to side as the song continued. 

“TURN DOWN FOR WHAT?!” she roared along with most of the club.

The moment that the next song’s first notes came on, the club went wild.

People all around the world went crazy for Beyonce.

Nile wrinkled her nose at the line about Monica Lewinsky, cause she was a cool lady it turned out, and didn’t deserve to be turned into a synonym for a blow job.  Otherwise, she rolled her body and even let a guy come up behind her and grind with her.  The moment that the French section of the song came on, though, her concentration broke and she looked for Booker.  He was bobbing from side to side and as the French section continued, his head cocked to the side and his eyebrows went up.  He looked over at her and she smirked at him, gesturing to the part of the dancefloor that Nicky and Joe were currently defiling, just as she had predicted.

He looked over, then back at her, and shook his head.  She could tell that he was laughing, his shoulders going up and down even though she couldn’t hear him from this far away.

She broke away from the guy she had been dancing with, giving him a small smile, and made her way to Booker.  As she moved, the song changed and she grinned.

“You know when I said you just jump up and down?  This is a great example of that!” Nile shouted to her little group.

The entire club was bouncing as the chorus rang out.  If Nile didn’t heal, she knew her calves would be sore tomorrow.

No, she wasn’t thinking about it!

Nile let herself dance mindlessly through the next few songs, not understanding one song as it was in Italian and willfully ignoring the next one that sang about being lonely together.  She didn’t want to think about why she was lonely.

Then the next song came on and she started jumping along until she heard the lyrics, “Party til we die!”

Except she couldn’t die.  She was immortal and she had lost her family just as much as they had lost her and God, it hurt.

She didn’t realize that she was just standing there, staring into space, until Joe’s hand brushed against her arm.  Nile shook herself and shouted, “I’m gonna go get another drink!”

She made her way through the crowd to get to the bar before any of them could respond.  Once she got there though, she ended up just asking for water.  She didn’t want to follow the path of self-loathing and self-destruction that Booker had taken before he had nearly destroyed himself entirely.  While it might be melodramatic to think that a drink in a club would lead down that path, Nile didn’t want to push herself.

She did, however, block out the rest of the song until it finished.

“I love my friends and my friends love me.  Like all the time, they’re right beside me.  We’ve got each other for eternity.  Like all the time, they’re right beside me,” the new song sang.

Nile let out a shaky breath.

She wasn’t alone.

She turned and saw her new family across the room.  They looked back at her with love in their eyes, and suddenly, there was too much space between her and them.  She pushed gently through the crowd until she was back in their little bubble.

They closed rank around her and wrapped their arms around her.  They swayed slowly to the song even though it was fast paced and Nile felt so loved.

“Thanks, guys,” Nile said, smiling around at her immortal family.

They broke apart for the next song and Quynh grabbed Nile’s hand so they would dance together.  Nile ended up cackling at the exaggerated come hither faces that Quynh made at her and pulled Quynh in for a hug.  

“Thank you, Quynh.  For being my big sister and for just.  Well.  Being here.”

Quynh’s arm wrapped around her and pulled her in tight.

The song that came on next was slow and beautiful and as Nile listened to the lyrics, she knew she had to find Book.  He was watching Nicky and Joe sway back and forth with a small smile on his face.  She walked up and tapped him on the shoulder.

He looked at her and his smile gentled even more.

“Wanna dance?” she asked.

“Yes, ma belle, I would love to dance with you,” he answered.

“I never thought in a million years, in a million years, oh It would be you,” the song rang out.

Nile hands ended up on the back of Booker’s neck, as Booker’s hands stayed firmly on her waist.  She did see his eye flutter shut as her fingers scratched through the short hairs there, and she smirked.

“I just can't get you out my mind, So infatuated.”

Okay, the lyrics were a bit too on the nose, but she just pulled Booker closer and let them sway.  She could hear his heart from where her head rested against his chest, and was suddenly so glad that their immortality existed because there was no other way that they would have been able to meet.

She couldn’t stop thinking about it.  Immortality was a fact of her life, like the fact her dad was dead and the sky was blue.  Some things couldn’t be changed and fighting her immortality would only hurt herself and her new family.  She had seen the worst of what fighting his immortality had done to Booker.

She would make a different path for herself.

It would be painful and there would be days that she would feel like she was dying inside.  But she knew that she could do it.  She was strong.  She had already been through so much and she was still here.  And she had her family to reach out to.

Nile had Booker to reach out to.

The song wound down and Nile placed a kiss where she had just been resting her head.  Booker’s hands tightened minutely, then he let go.

“Forever young, I wanna be forever young.”

Okay.  Who had chosen this song.  Nile started laughing and she couldn’t stop.  Her hooting attracted some attention but she didn’t care.  The irony was just too much.

“You good?” Andy asked, smiling slightly as she raised an eyebrow.

“Yes!  Sorry, I just - ahahaha - this song!” Nile answered incoherently.

She calmed as the song continued, though giggled as Joe busted out some truly ridiculous disco moves.  Nicky looked at him with love in his eyes, even as he too, laughed at his husband.

 Nile looked around and felt suddenly content.  She hadn’t been expecting it.  But as she watched her little family indulge her need for normality, or what used to be her version of normality, she felt okay again. 

She reached out and grabbed Booker’s hand and squeezed.  He looked startled at first, then saw her smile and returned it without thinking.  

“Home we’ll goooooo, home we’ll go.”

Nile turned her grin to the entire group and nodded.

“I’m ready to go home.”

_____________________________________

It didn’t take long for Booker and Nile to be the only ones left in the living room when they got home.  Nicky and Joe were up the stairs in a flash, and Nile definitely saw a little ass grabbage as they made their way up to the main bedroom.  Quynh and Andy had some water, then Quynh gave Andy a look and they were off to the spare bedroom.

“The couch is a pullout, by the way,” Andy threw over her shoulder as they went.

Nile laughed.  “Cheers.”

She turned to Booker, still laughing, but he was looking at the couch with trepidation.  

“I can take the floor,” he offered.

“Book,” she huffed.

“It is the gentlemanly thing to do,” he insisted.

She rolled her eyes.  “I don’t remember asking you to be a gentleman, Sebastien.”

His eyes darkened at her use of his real name.  He swallowed and looked away.

Dammit.

“If that’s what you want, Book, I’m not gonna stop you,” Nile said, going to her bag.  “I’m gonna get ready for bed.”

She emerged, clean and without makeup, about half an hour later.  The bed was out and Booker was sitting at the dining table, a cup of untouched tea in front of him.  Nile settled in the chair next to him and stole the tea, taking a sip.

“Talk to me,” she said.

She had said the same thing so many times over the years that they had known each other.  They had been there for each other while they were both going through therapy, on anniversaries of things that made it hard to get out of bed that day, and in so many other ways.

He let out a gust of breath.  “Tonight was fun for you, right?”

Nile considered.  “It was hard at times.  I had gone to forget about immortality and my family, only to realize that there was no forgetting.  But you guys being there helped.  It was nice to dance.  So yeah, I had fun.”

Booker nodded.  “I noticed, there was that man you were, uh, dancing with.  You didn’t change your mind?  Want to go home with him?”

“Nah,” Nile said.  She decided to take a chance.  “Even when I was dancing with him, I started thinking about you.”

He stared at her.  “Me?”

“Yeah, Seb.  I don’t think that going home with that guy would have been very fulfilling.  I think...” she said slowly as she stared down into Booker’s cup of tea, slightly anxious, “I think that no one out there could compare to who I came home with anyway.”

She plucked up her nerve and looked right at Booker when she finished speaking.  He was staring at her, eyes wide.

“Ma chérie, you don’t believe-”

“You calling me a liar, Sebastien?” Nile said, raising an eyebrow at him.

“No, I would never, but-  I mean - I’m just.  Nile,” he said, flabbergasted.

She leaned towards him, putting a hand on his arm.  “You’re worth a whole lot more than you think, Book.  I see how hard you try to be better, for yourself and for everyone else.  I see how much your demons cling and how you still get up every day and keep going.  I see you.  And I think you’re worth everything.”

Her heart was pounding.  This was as close to a declaration of her feelings as she had ever come to.  Though he had given promising signs in the past, there was no actual guarantee that Booker felt the same towards her.

“Nile, mon ange,” Booker breathed, pulling her close and resting his forehead against her.  “Forgive me, I am a little overwhelmed.”

“Take your time, Book,” Nile said sincerely, closing her eyes and listening to her heart beating and his breathing.

They sat there silently for a while, forehead to forehead.  As time passed, Nile calmed and all she felt was content.

He reached up and stroked her cheek as he pulled his head slightly away from hers.  “I think that I started to fall for you the moment that you pushed Merrick out of the window and fell to the street with him,” he admitted.  “I fought it for a long time, because of shame.  Shame in myself.  Shame at what my family would think.  And then,” he stopped, looking away from Nile and took a breath, blowing it out in a gust.  “I finally talked about my feelings for you with the therapist that you helped me find.”

Book turned to look her in the eye and Nile felt like she could melt at the warmth in his gaze.  “She said that loving you wasn’t replacing the ones that I had loved before.  That I could love them and love you.  I don’t have to choose between one and the other.  And suddenly, I heard my Marie’s voice in my head for the first time in a century.”

His eyes filled with tears and Nile reached up and cupped his cheeks, wiping a tear that fell.  He smiled gently at her and pushed on.  “She told me that I was the love of her life, but I will live many lifetimes, and she didn’t want me to be alone.  I used to hear her all the time, before.  She was my conscience and my guiding light.  Ever since I lost her, and our boys, I’ve been lost.  I love our immortal family, please don’t mistake me.  But I used to feel alone, even when they were all in the room.  That feeling led to terrible things.  And then you led my new family to me and saved me.  And since then, I’ve found a new source of light.”

Nile’s eyes filled with tears too.  “Sebastien…”

“Mon dieu, Nile, I love when you say my name,” Booker breathed.

She grinned.  “You gonna kiss me, Sebastien?”

“Mon bonheur…”  His eyes were wide and she could see his heart in them.

“I don’t know that one, Seb.  You’re gonna have to translate.”

“My happiness,” Sebastien said with a small smile.  

Nile smiled and her eyes crinkled, it was so wide.  The tears that had collected in them spilled over and she realized that Sebastien was crying too.

His hand cupped her cheek gently, almost reverently, and they closed the distance between them.  At first, their lips only pressed together.  Then Nile’s hand came up to the back of Booker’s neck to pull him closer and the dynamic changed.  It was still slow but their mouths moved together.  Booker’s tongue laved at her lower lip.  Nile trapped Booker’s lower lip between hers and sucked it into her mouth.  She remembered how much he seemed to like it when she ran her fingers through the short hairs at the nape of his neck and did so again, then gave a soft pull.

He shuddered.

“Seb,” she whispered, kissing his cheek and then leaning closer to speak into his ear.  “We don’t have to do anything tonight, but do you want to go lie down?”

Booker nodded eagerly.  

The pull out bed wasn’t very comfortable.  But Nile lay half on top of Booker and he pulled her close, kissing behind her ear, down her jaw, and back to her lips.  And then everything else didn’t matter.

She woke up the next day still in his arms.  Remembering the thought she’d had, realizing she wanted to wake up looking at him for the rest of her immortality, Nile smiled.  

This morning was the start of an eternity of waking up together.

She kissed his chest before extracting herself from his arms.  He grumbled in his sleep, then settled.

Quynh and Nicky were already in the kitchen when she stumbled in.  Quynh smiled widely at her and Nicky raised an eyebrow.

“Hi guys…” Nile said warily.  The look on their faces made her want to go crawl back into bed.

“So, do you want us to clear out today so you can start your sexcation?” Quynh asked with a shit eating grin on her face.

“Oh my god,” Nile said.  She hadn’t even had coffee yet.

She filled a cup and chugged it.  Nicky’s eyebrow joined its fellow near his hairline.

Nile set the cup down.  “Maybe.  We aren’t there yet.  But I’d rather not get there with you guys in the next room.”  She refilled the cup and started drinking again, slower this time.  “Not like you don’t have sexcations to get to of your own.”

Quynh nodded and Nicky’s eyebrows finally went down as the corners of his lips curled up.

“Also, that pull out is made out of lumps and I’d rather have a better bed for our first time.  Though I don’t really care about the location that much.  Just that it’ll be him,” Nile said thoughtfully.  

There was a sound of someone choking from the hallway.  Nile turned to see Booker standing there, his face going a deep red color.

“Good morning,” she said, ignoring the fact that he had heard her.  “Want some coffee?”

“Nile,” he said, his voice rough from sleep and emotion.

“Yes, Sebastien?”

“I-  You-  Merde,” he hissed, taking two steps and leaning down to kiss her where she sat.  She met his lips gladly.  This was no gentle press.

Well.  It seems once she got passed the gentlemanly facade, they could really have some fun.

She pulled away from him long enough to look at Quynh and Nicky and raise an eyebrow.  “Don’t you have somewhere to be?  People to get out of bed, woo, and get into a different bed at a different place?  Please?”

Quynh laughed.  “Subtle, little sister.”  She stood and flapped her hands at Booker until he took a step back.  “Sisters before misters,” she teased before she gave Nile a hug.  “We’ll be out of the house in less than a half an hour.  Think you can wait that long?”

Nile giggled, then nodded.  “Thank you, Quynh.  I love you.”

Nicky was next, once Quynh pulled away.  He kissed her forehead.  “We’ll see you in a month, Nile,” he said, his eyes smiling at her.

“Enjoy Malta.”

He smirked.  “We will.”

Nile stayed at the table and Booker made her toast and eggs.  Quynh and Andy were out the door first, Andy stopping to give both of them hugs on the way out.  Joe took longer to rouse, so Nicky was going to drive first.

“We’ll call you for directions when we end up in Lithuania,” Joe said with a sleepy smile as they said goodbye.

Nile laughed.  “See you soon.  Love you guys.”

“Love you, our little river!” Joe called as he got into the vehicle.

She shook her head at them but waved as they drove away.

Closing the door, she found Booker doing the dishes from breakfast.  She came up behind him and wrapped her arms around his stomach.

A sudsy hand rested against where hers were clasped.

Nile let out a huge sigh.

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” she said, nuzzling his back.  “Sometimes it just shocks me the extremes of emotions that people can feel at once.”

“Talk to me,” he said and she smiled and pressed a kiss against his spine.

“I love this family.  So much.  And they exasperate me and challenge me and take care of me and I love them.”  She took a deep breath, then forged on.  “I love my family.  I miss them so badly sometimes it makes my chest ache, and I know that pain will never fully go away.  But I’ll carry it with me cause otherwise, I can’t carry my love for them too.”

She paused and raised on tiptoe to kiss his neck.  “I love you,” she said.  “And that feels a bit like a miracle still.  Maybe someday it’ll feel as naturally as breathing like it seems to be for the others.  But for now, I just want to revel in it.”

Booker was shaking.  Nile could feel it against her chest.

“Seb?  You okay?”

He sniffled.  “Oui, mon bonheur. Ça va bien,” he murmured.

He turned in her arms until she could see the tears on his face.  “You just put how I feel into words.  I love our new family.  I miss Marie and our boys.”  He took a deep breath and looked down at her.  “And I love you.  I love you so much.”

“Seb…”

They pulled each other close and Nile let her own tears come.

Immortality would bring with it times that were hard and times that will be beautiful.  She knew she could handle them.  Especially with her family by her side.  Especially with Sebastien with her.

“Oh, by the way,” she said, pulling back from him a bit.  “I think I’m finally going to go to art school.”

She grinned.  “Wanna model for me?”

Translations: Ma choupette - my little cabbage, in an endearing way Ma belle - my beautiful Per favore - please Ma chérie - my darling mon ange - my angel Mon dieu - my God Mon bonheur - my happiness Merde - shit Oui, mon bonheur. Ça va bien - Yes, my happiness. I'm okay

[science-fiction-is-real]

Lmao you assume that working class people actually care about their interests vs making sure people they think are lesser are worse off than them. My family is paycheck to paycheck conservative. They are exactly the people that will see those scary buzzwords and immediately tune out. There will never be a conversation because they have already been told what to think about those Scary Words. You're overestimating the average american and thinking that only well off people think leftist shit is bullshit and crazy, you're so wrong it's funny. The poorest people will stay poor if getting them help would also be getting the black, latino, lgbt, etc people they hate help as well. The cruelty is the point. You're never going to get your foot in the door with anyone that isn't already in your circles. We already have to explain why all our stuff isn't scary after we say it using our vocab, why is using their vocab to start the conversation and then explaining what we just said in our words so they actually understand before the ronald reagan conditioning even has time to kick in in their minds. You're literally the exact person OP was talking about. You don't even want to think about compromise EVEN FOR EXPLANATIONS and are hurting yourself, your cause, and everyone else that would benefit from actual conversations on these topics.

First of all, historically speaking, even people with rather backwards political consciousness can turn extremely radical in the blink of an eye, when they realize their material interests are at stake and that they actually can win victories for working class people.  

Once again, let me remind you of some examples.

--The significant number of people met while doing political polling who liked both Bernie Sanders AND Donald Trump.

--The fact that “Red” states in this years election also supported very progressive legislation even though they swung for trump.  For example, Florida passing a 15$ minimum wage.

--The 2018 teachers strikes.  Working class teachers, mostly in red states, many of whom were republican, participated in a mass movement for the purposes of working class empowerment.  

Also, in my experience, working class conservatives are not necessarily as unreachable as people seem to think.  If you ware polite and engage people in conversation about material real world problems, many people are curious.  They’ve never met a communist before.  They will especially become more curious when they realize you are 1) not a typical liberal, and you agree with them on things like “democrats suck” and “gun control bad.”  And 2) when you address legitimate concerns of theirs such as distrust of government and the establishment, and genuine economic pressure they are experiencing.

Yeah, you do have to meet people where they’re at, but meeting people where they’re at doesn’t mean hiding your agenda or compromising on your positions. 

I also don’t believe people are quite as mean hearted as you seem to think.  I think people have been exposed to a large amount of bourgeois propaganda about “muslims bad” “mexicans bad.”  But real world experience that comes with realizing they have common interests as people they’ve been taught to hate, or even just EXPOSURE to people they’ve been taught to hate, can go a LONG way.  

Is everyone going to be open minded and give you the time of day, no.  But in my experience talking with conservatives, you meet a rather surprising number of people who genuinely are willing to engage you in a conversation.

My main problem with OP is that basically what I got from that post was that we need to hide our radical politics instead of explaining it, and also that our goal should be to pander toward “moderate” upper middle class suburbanites instead of fellow working class people who actually CAN be won over to our side.

[art-of-manliness]

The Importance of Good Manners

Editor’s note: The following essay — “The Fine Art of Living Together” by Bentley Bates — comes from The Boy’s Own Book of Leadership, published in 1933.   A heap of fellows think manners don’t amount to much. They have an idea it is sort of sissy to be polite. They’re not using their heads. Just as oil makes an engine run more quietly and easily and efficiently, so do manners make your life and the lives of the folks with whom you come in contact run more quietly and pleasantly and efficiently. Good manners are a mighty valuable asset that anybody can have cheaply. “There is something which you owe to everybody and which has no exact date when it must be paid, because it is due every minute and second of your life. You owe courtesy to the strangest people. Actually, you owe it to your brother and sister. It doesn’t seem possible, but you do. And you owe it to your father and mother. You owe it the ash man and to washwoman. You owe it to the President of the United States and to the blind man who tries to sell you a lead pencil on the street corner. When you were born you gave the whole world a promissory note payable in courtesy, and you have to make it good every second of your life until you die. Do you know why people loved Abraham Lincoln so much? It was because he never forgot that he was paying his courtesy note,” says The American Boy. A certain Harvard professor, in instructing a class in good writing, said to them: “To write well you must first think of your subject; second, think of the people you are writing to; and last, think of yourself.” These same simple rules may easily be made effective rules for a boy’s manners also. First, think of the demands of true sympathy and kindness; second, think of the person you are addressing; and last, think of what is owing to yourself, for the real secret of good manners is a kind heart. The story is told of a certain office boy who kept a whole, big, busy office happy and agreeable and kindly disposed toward one another by his habits of courtesy and good will. One day the boss wheeled suddenly in his big chair and said: “Bennie, who on earth taught you to be so polite? You often make me ashamed of myself.” Bennie smiled, grinned from ear to ear, stood on one foot a bit abashed, and then with a sudden inspiration replied: “Well, sir, Mother is polite, Dad is polite, and — and oh, I guess I just caught it from them.” Nothing in the world is so “catching” as good manners. One of the surest of all tests of character is one’s manners. You do not need to know a boy intimately to judge him accurately. All you need to do is to watch him a bit in action; such as playing a game. If he is kind and sympathetic, if he is manly and honest and considerate, he will show these very qualities all over and over again in every game. Every boy at play is a walking advertisement of what he really is inside, and nothing is so difficult to successfully camouflage as bad manners, for they will show themselves at the most unexpected times and places. Manners, after all, are but the outside expression of what you are inside, and what you are inside will get out like the proverbial cat that is always coming forth just at the moment you want him kept out of sight. The value of good manners can scarcely be overestimated. Roosevelt once wrote to his son, “My boy, study to be courteous.” There is a pleasant and an unpleasant way to perform all the little duties of life. There is a fortunate and an unfortunate way of meeting folks, of rendering countless little services, of speaking, acting, thinking; therefore, study to be courteous in them all. A young lawyer once asked an old and successful judge how he might improve his individuality and power. The old judge replied like a shot – “Constantly examine your manners.” “Gentle manners bring to their possessor an influence which, though quietly exerted, is a power for usefulness in the world. In business, all transactions are helped by politeness; many men fail in life because their manner does not make a good impression, because their curtness and lack of good breeding repel others,” some one has well said, and Dr. Weir Mitchell adds: “Good manners, tact, patience – these characteristics often assist men to win who are really inferior to some who, for want of these very qualities, miss the place they would otherwise attain.” The post The Importance of Good Manners appeared first on The Art of Manliness. http://dlvr.it/Q69VJ7

[kiss-my-freckle]

S1 Blacklisters

Blacklisters: Season One

Ranko Zamani 

No. 52 Deceased

Red: You must have many questions, so let’s begin with the most important one. Why I’m here. Remember the 1986 attack on the U.S. Embassy in Damascus, the abduction of the six foreign nationals from the French consulate in Algiers in ’97, or the 2002 breach of the Krungthai Bank in Bangkok? You see these events as unrelated. I can tell you one man is responsible for all three. His name is Ranko Zamani. You want him. I want him. So let’s say for the moment our interests are aligned. Tech: Ranko Sinisa Zamani. Serbian national educated in the U.S. Cooper: Ranko Zamani’s been dead for six years. He’s a non–existent threat. Red: Then a dead man just stepped off United 283 from Munich to Dulles. Tech: He entered the country under the name Sacha M. Chacko. Tech 2: Cleared customs at 10:56 a.m. Ressler: Hey, listen up, people. The lab just pulled a latent print from the airline arm rest. Nine points of comparison. Zamani’s alive. Cooper: You have my attention. Red: Were you wrong? Cooper: I was wrong. Red: Yes, you were wrong. At least it’s not the first time. Familiar territory. Now, I’ll give you Zamani, but first – Cooper: No “but firsts.” You don’t decide anything. Red: Agent Cooper, you’ve overestimated your authority. I said I’ll help you find Zamani, and I will. But from this point forward, there’s one very important rule: I speak only with Elizabeth Keen.

Red: Within the hour, Ranko Zamani will abduct the daughter of U.S. General Daniel Ryker. There’ll be some kind of diversion, communications will be scrambled, then he’ll grab the girl. He wants to be out of the country within 36 hours. If you don’t move quickly, she will die. That’s what I know. Liz: And how do you know this? Red: Because I’m the one who got him into the country.

The Freelancer, Joe

No. 145 Apprehended

Red: You’re asking the wrong questions. I’m trying to help you with a matter of some urgency. It’s your choice whether you listen to me or not, but there will be an incident at 11:00 this morning at the Decatur Industrial Park. I would send ambulances.

Cooper: 60 people are dead because of you. Red: 60 people are dead because you don’t return my calls, Harold. If you want to save lives and catch the bad guys, pay attention. Cooper: They’re not going to make your deal. Red: That’s unfortunate. The next name on my list is an absolute snake. Cooper: The train. How did you know? Red: I know lots of things. But the train I didn’t. I knew the time, the place, but the train was a big surprise. Cooper: We’ve ruled out terrorism. Red: Look at the list of casualties, Harold. You’ll find some councilwoman from Albany. Apparently she’s been tangling with some rather cunning, powerful people. Cooper:You’re saying the derailment was an assassination? Red: I’m not saying anything. Unless it’s to Elizabeth Keen.

Red: The train accident was no accident. You know that. But what you don’t know is the man behind it- is quite prolific. He’s responsible for a slew of other premeditated killings just like this one, disguised as accidents. Shall I go on? A building collapses in Moscow, a ferry capsizes on the Brahmaputra River. These are the events we’ve come to expect on the evening news. But in truth, there’s always more to the story. Hidden between the facts and figures, the victims and the heroes, there’s always a murder. The work of a man who disguises his killings in the headlines of everyday tragedies. Ressler: What proof do you have? Red: His work is difficult to detect, but the victims are there. An appellate court judge in Ohio, a French diplomat who dies in a plane crash. Look closer. The pattern will emerge. Over the last seven years, more than 3,000 innocent civilians have died, all collateral victims as a result of this man’s unique methods. In the 20–odd years I’ve been working my side of the tracks, I have not encountered another contractor who’s had as significant an impact on the civilian population as he. He’s rivaled only by governments and terrorist organizations. And you’ve never heard of him. I have it on good authority that his next contract will take him to New York. This is not an opportunity to ponder or deliberate, because once he’s done, he’s gone. Cooper: This guy have a name? Red: They call him “The Freelancer.” Cooper: And how do we find him? Red: You don’t find him. I do. Ressler: What, are you two pen pals? You guys send each other, uh... coded e–mails? Red: I don’t have e-mail or a phone or an address. I prefer to handle my business face–to–face. Liz: You’ve met him. Red: Once. I brokered a few jobs. He works through an intermediary. He might be for sale. Perhaps I should set a meeting.

Wujing

No. 84 Apprehended

Red: An opportunity has come our way. Yesterday, the Chinese killed a C.I.A. agent in Shanghai. They took his computer, which they thought could decode a message they intercepted. It couldn’t. They’ve asked me to help. Liz: I’m sorry. You’re decoding C.I.A. messages on behalf of the Chinese? Red: Now you see, you make it sound like treason. So black and white. It’s not. It’s green. The fact is, American secrets are for sale by an assortment of reputable vendors, myself included. If I don’t do this, someone else will. The man who’s paying me is called Wujing. Perhaps you’ve heard of him. Formerly, he worked for the Ministry of State Security. He’s not officially sanctioned by the Chinese. But unofficially, he’s contracted to take out rival agents – American, British. The message likely contains the name of another agent.

Red: Listen, this is a guy who the intelligence community has been talking about for decades as if he were a figment. You don’t even know if he’s real or not. Well, he is real – very. And I’m giving you the opportunity to grab him. Now, the good news is he’s not even in China. He’s right here in your own backyard. If we play our cards right, I can still make Lisbon by breakfast.

Red: WDCJ – a small radio station five miles from here. The building was purchased six years ago by a corporation fronting for the Chinese government.

The Stewmaker, Stanley Kornish

No. 161 Deceased

Red: The Stewmaker is a true blacklister. The only fellow to engage when one has a particular sort of disposal problem. He’s a chemical expert who turns his victims into chemical stew, thus the nom de guerre. No DNA. No nothing. He makes corporeal problems literally disappear. But, it’s much more than the proficiency of his tradecraft that gets him on the list. He’s a trophy collector. Remembrances of his victims. Memori morti. Now, you’ve lost your witness and with him your case. But the Stewmaker is the key to so much more. He’s served the needs of international syndicates, repressive regimes, anyone with a need and the means to pay. The Stewmaker knows where all the bodies are buried. He’s got the answers to hundreds of unsolved murders. Ressler: So, how do we get him? Red: He’s notoriously cautious. I don’t even know who he is or where he bases his operation. And believe me, I’ve tried to find him. Liz: Lorca knows. If not his name, he knows how to make contact. Red: Yes. I suggest you encourage Mr. Lorca to share that information. The Stewmaker is obviously here now, but he won’t be for long. And if you let him slip away, he’ll be as gone as his victims and you’ll never see him again.

The Courier, Tommy Phelps

No. 85 Deceased

Red: Have you ever wondered how criminals who know they can’t trust one another are still able to conduct business with each other? Liz: They replace trust with fear and the threat of violence. Red: The next target on the blacklist is a physical embodiment of both. He’s known as the Courier, and his involvement in a transaction virtually guarantees its success. Once he’s hired to make a delivery, he can’t be bribed, he can’t be stopped. If either a party attempts to double–cross the other, he kills them both. The perfect middleman for an imperfect world.

Red: A few years ago, some of my associates encountered the Courier in an opium den in Cairo. He killed two of them. If he still has a taste for the poppy, there’s a man who may be able to help us.

Red: He’s in the dirt. Liz: What? Red: The refrigerator. It’s a coffin. The Courier buries things under his skin. He’s in the dirt- right here.

Gina Zanetakos

No. 152 Still at large

Red: People think it matters who occupies that house. It doesn’t. Multinational corporations and criminals run the world. Liz: I thought we were here to talk about Tom. Red: You’ve obviously heard of corporate espionage – companies trying to beat other companies to be the first hand on the dollar. But what if it were taken a few steps further? In 1982, seven people in Chicago were killed by an over–the–counter drug laced with potassium cyanide. The company’s market share went from 35 to 8. It was never determined how the drug was poisoned, but I will tell you someone was hired to do that. Remember those tire recalls, Chernobyl? Deliberate and malevolent actions taken by corporations to protect their vital interests. Nothing happens by chance. That’s why I’m here, Lizzy. Because there’s a woman. Gina Zanetakos. Liz: I don’t know who that is. Red: Gina Zanetakos is a corporate terrorist. And frankly, she’s the best of the bunch. Lizzy, if you want to find the truth about your husband, then you need to find Gina. Liz: Why? Does she know Tom? Red: Because she’s Tom’s lover.

Frederick Barnes

No. 47 Deceased

Red: The man you’re looking for is named Frederick Barnes, a former defense research scientist out of ARPAX Systems in Annapolis. You may not be familiar with his name, but you’re likely familiar with his work- biochemical agents such as cytochlorin, black phosphorus, paratoxin. Barnes headed the project team that developed all of them. But he was more than just a research scientist. He was gifted, a savant of government–sanctioned mass killing. Liz: What do you mean, “was”? Red: Five years ago, the man quit his job, sold his house, and entered the free market. Started selling his creations to the highest bidder- autocrats, terrorists, me. Liz: Betraying your country and auctioning off its secrets. Where have I heard that before? Red: You want to compare him to me? Be my guest. I’m perfectly comfortable with what I am. But please, make no mistake – Frederick Barnes is a very special animal, one with the tools and know-how to kill thousands and thousands of people all at once. What he’s lacked until now has been the desire. Liz: So, what’s changed? Red: Well, that’s the question. Barnes has always operated with a certain level of detachment – always the designer, the seller, never the delivery agent of his own weapons. But if Barnes is now willing to use his work to kill indiscriminately, then he is, quite literally the most dangerous man in the world.

Red: Barnes may be a scientist, but he’s also a killer. And in that line of work, a survivor is considered unfinished business.

Red: Every cause has more than one effect. Say what you will about Frederick, but someone who’s willing to burn the world down to protect the one person they care about – That’s a man I understand.

General Ludd, Nathaniel Wolff

No. 109 Apprehended

Red: You’re speaking as if an individual is responsible for this. It’s far bigger than you might think. It’s a movement.

Liz: Reddington believes General Ludd is behind the attack. They take their name from the leader of a 19th-century group called the Luddites, a militant wing of a popular struggle against early industrial capitalism. Meera: 1997- Davos, Switzerland. Ludd took credit for a car bomb that hit the economic international summit. Nine people killed, including two European finance ministers. 2005, Ludd released the source code protecting trade data for international stockholders. They caused a computer glitch that cost the market a few hundred million. Ressler: That I can appreciate – trimming the fat off the fat cats. Liz: This group is incredibly well-educated. They’re as disciplined as any terrorist cell. Identifying the members has been impossible. Cooper: Does Reddington tell you he can I.D. one of these guys? Liz: Better. Says he can identify the group’s founder, Nathaniel Wolff. Says he’s the man ultimately responsible for taking down that plane. This is the only known image of him that we have.

Red: Years ago, I used to smuggle small shipments of oaxaca-highland gold into this airstrip. Beautiful space. Bumpy as hell. You know, Mr. Wolff, I admire your commitment. Others may doubt you, may think your revolutionary talk is just that- talk to cover your grief but I think not. You really do want this country’s financial system to fail. And if I’m not mistaken, you’ve come up with an ingenious way to make that happen. Wolff/Ludd: Who are you? Red: No doubt, the feds are congratulating themselves this very minute for recovering the blueprint they assume is real, but you and I know it’s not. It’s a fake. Wolff: How you know that? Red: You swapped the drives, gave the feds a counterfeit. If the mint uses it, billions of dollars of counterfeit currency will be circulated, bankrupting this country. Wolff: And you’re gonna, what – stop me? Turn me in? Red: I’m gonna rob you. Because unlike you, I happen to believe in capitalism. I like money. I like the lifestyle it affords me. I like the things that happen when you give it away. What becomes of you and General Ludd once you board that plane is none of my concern, though it is worth noting that a true luddite would burn the plane rather than fly in it. But whatever. Your irony. At any rate, have a safe flight. And buckle up. This runway is a bitch.

Anslo Garrick

No. 16 Deceased

Red: Listen to me. If this intel was disseminated, it was done so directly to you. It’s canned, which means Anslo Garrick intends to attack this facility. Ressler: Oh, you think he wanted us to bring you here? Red: What do I think? I think we have a songbird in our midst, and until I find out who’s singing, I don’t trust anyone because someone helped to bring him here. Ressler: To a black site. Why? Red: Because I’m asymmetrical. I don’t need visas, passports, travel documents. Give me a bug-out bag and 30 seconds, and I’m on my way to anywhere in the world. Garrick knows this. He needs me contained, landlocked. So he fed you phony intel to trigger your security protocol and now you’ve done exactly as he wished. He got you to bring me here so that he could attack this facility. Ressler: He doesn’t even know this place exists. Red: All he does is extract people from places that don’t exist, places exactly like this. Garrick exfils high-level detainees always by considerable force. He liberated Mahmoud Al Azok from an Alcatraz–like CIA black site in the Bering Sea. Meera: That was Shining Path, a splinter cell. Azok has ties to a Caribbean money launderer. Red: No. That was Garrick, paid by that same Peruvian money launderer to make it appear as though Shining Path broke him out. It was Garrick. He almost exclusively works with a group of heavily armed, highly skilled mercenaries who call themselves The Wild Bunch – former flag wavers made over in Frankenstein–like fashion into bloodless, country-less killers. Garrick is not a precision instrument. He’s a blunt-force object and seemingly immune to bullets. I can attest to this first-hand having put one in his head years ago at point-blank range. Harold, this building is about to be breached.

Red: You know, Anslo, I’m looking at you, and I got to say I’m really surprised. With the access you now have to top-notch plastic surgeons, why you haven’t done something anything about that horrific scar. I mean, how do you wake up to that staring back at you in the mirror every morning? But you know what? It’s not the scar. It’s really the eye. But hey, lucky you. I normally carried Hydra-Shok hollow points. I was trying out a new series of center-fire wadcutters that week. It’s probably the only thing that saved your life, really – me switching ammo. Think about that little irony now every time you randomly find your reflection or are reminded of that unfortunate thing I’ve done to your face. Think about it. Garrick: You trashed a one-of-a-kind partnership. Red: We were never partners, Anslo. You violated whatever trust I had in you. So, naturally I did what I always did – And beat you. And you did what you always did – got beaten by me.

Garrick: You watch out for Old Red here. He may not look like much, but I once saw him kill a Somali with a wire hanger. Red: Simpler days, Anslo. Garrick: Simpler days. Right.

Red: You’re greedy, Anslo. You went behind my back, made deals you knew I wouldn’t approve. What did you expect? Garrick: I suppose I expected something better than a bullet in the face, Red.

The Good Samaritan Killer, Karl Hoffman aka Victor

No. 106 Deceased

Red: I don’t know about serial killers, but I do know about torture, and there is no one–size–fits–all. If you really want to hurt someone, you need to tailor your attack specifically to that person. Perhaps the killer’s methods, the injuries he inflicts tell you less about him and more about his victims.

The Alchemist, Eric Trettel

No. 101 Deceased

Red: There’s someone I think you should find. He’s a man who protects the guilty by preying on the innocent. He’s killed women, children, infants if need be– whatever the particular job calls for. I bring this to your attention because I’ve learned that he’s been contracted to protect Pytor Madrczyk and his wife. Liz: The mob informant? Red: The same. Liz: And this blacklister – does he have a name? Red: They call him the Alchemist. Liz: Why do they call him the Alchemist? Red: Because he relies upon science to transform one person into another.

Red: Lizzy, this man is a forensic virtuoso. He’s an artist who paints in blood and saliva samples. Human tissue is his canvas. I’m not ashamed to say he’s even better than me at helping people disappear, which is why Madrczyk hired him and not myself.

Red: I don’t know even half of it. I’ve heard rumors– removing the white blood cells from the victim and replacing them with the red blood cells of his client, leaving clone DNA at crime scenes to mislead the police, even incorporating synthetic DNA into genuine human tissue. Liz: So this isn’t just evidence tampering. This is genetic manipulation. Red: Yes. It’s a trade in death. The guilty give their blood and genetic identity. The innocent give their life for the guilty to live. If you find the Alchemist, you have a chance to resurrect the dead, to bring to justice some of the most vile creatures who ever lived.

Red: Tell me what you know. Liz: Two bodies at the wife’s house– a woman and a girl– doubles for his family. Trettel– he’s a cipher, closed off from the world, shut away in his lab. But now he’s on the run. He must be leaving some kind of trail– bank records uh, wiring money to his new identity. Red: You don’t have time for that. Go back to the wife and daughter. He’s not alone anymore. You have to look to their lives in order to find him. They’re the ones that matter. They are his vulnerability. Liz: The wife– she’s a nurse, single mom. The daughter– she’s sick. Diabetic. Red: There you are.

The Cyprus Agency, Owen Mallory aka Michael Shaw

No. 64 Apprehended

Red: There’s nothing more profound and of lasting consequence than the decision to have a child. The exploitation and perversion of that decision is the stock and trade of a truly evil organization – the Cyprus Adoption Agency. Liz: Adoption? You want me to believe this is a coincidence? Tom and I are adopting a baby, and you serve up an adoption agency? Red: Life is full of lovely little ironies. The Cyprus Agency offers a promise of something very special– perfection. Their clients are ordering from an unlimited genetic menu, the characteristics of the child they want to bring home. But the evil is not in what the agency offers. It’s in how they get it done. The Cyprus Agency is in the abduction business. They don’t locate kids for adoption. They steal them and adopt them out to new parents. And moving stolen children is difficult. There’s copious amounts of paperwork. Liz: They’re using a forger. Red: One of the best. But I’m biased. He’s one of my best. Lizzy, I’m giving you the chance to take down a criminal organization that is abducting babies from their mothers’ arms. This is the next child the Cyprus Agency will deliver. A boy, less than two weeks from now. Liz: Who is he really? Red: I have no idea. But he’s about to become the child of David and Wendy Roland.

Red: You’re so linear. Liz: What’s that supposed to mean? Red: The FBI and the police– the way they teach you to think never ceases to amaze me. Lizzy, not every missing child is on the back of a milk carton. Liz: But who wouldn’t report a missing child? Red: People who won’t or can’t go to the police. Liz: Criminals. Red: Run the DNA again. This time, don’t look for an exact match. Look at the relatives. You want to find where those kids came from, that’s how.

Madeline Pratt

No. 73 Still at large

Red: Do you have any idea how much the US government has spent on signals intelligence in the past year? Liz: No. Red: Your country has become a nation of eavesdroppers– frequency domains, triangulation, satellites, crypto-whatever. You’ve forgotten that what matters most is human intelligence– alliances, relationships, seduction. Madeline Pratt is a master at… Liz: Madeline Pratt? Madeline Pratt is- Red: ...a thief and a woman of singular talents. Liz: And now you want something of hers and you expect the FBI to help you get it. Red: It was the right decision- not to have the baby. Liz: What did she take from you? Red: I’m sorry for your suffering. Liz: Madeline Pratt. How do we find her? Red: Finding her is easy. Catching her is difficult. Luckily, she’s asked me to help her plan a heist.

Red: This is the Madeline Pratt you all know and love– politically active, influential, a good citizen. What you don’t know is the Madeline Pratt that I love. $6 million in diamonds stolen from a DeBeers outpost in the Congo. Security fibers used in printing the Czech koruna, taken from a mint in Prague and used to produce counterfeit bank notes. The Madeline Pratt you know fosters relationships with incredibly powerful people. The ones you don’t exploits those relationships in ways that impact national security. Ressler: Well, we can’t just arrest her. We have no evidence. Red: What you do have is an opportunity, which brings us back to the Effigy of Atargatis. Madeline feels her profile is too high right now to steal it herself, so she’s asked for my help. Meera: Where is the Effigy? Red: Secure wing in the Syrian embassy, for now. But it will likely be repatriated at any moment, which means Maddie is rushed and vulnerable. She’s trying to make a grab that would normally take months to plan. Cooper: Do the Syrians know what’s inside the effigy? Meera: If they did, it would be in Damascus by now. Red: I can only assume, Harold, that Madeline has a Russian patron since it’s the Russians who want to protect the identities of the Kungur Six.

Red: We have a problem. I had my people run background on the guest list for tonight’s event. The file’s on the Ottoman. Rasil Kalif– notorious playboy– works as a cultural attaché in the Syrian embassy. Apparently, Madeline’s been seeing him for some time. Liz: Why is that a problem? Red: Cultural attaché is Kalif’s cover. Truth is he’s been recruited as an asset by the Russian Bratva– he’s a mobster. My guess is he’s the one who hired Maddie to steal the Effigy. And right about now, she’s walking into the embassy as his date.

The Judge, Ruth Kipling

No. 57 Apprehended

Red: Lizzy. Have you seen the paper? Liz: What about it? Red: Mark Hastings, US Attorney from Maryland. Twelve years ago, he indicted the head of the Reynoso Cartel. A week later, he went missing. Liz: I remember. The Bureau assumed it was a retribution killing. Red: Yeah well, two days ago, he was found wandering on a road in Pennsylvania. Nobody knows where he’s been. Liz: Was he in hiding? Red: I believe he was held captive, but not by the Reynoso cartel. It’s all quite a mystery. They say he’s too traumatized to speak. But if what I believe about Hastings is true, if he has been held captive all these years, then it would confirm that the myth is true – The Judge is real. Liz: The Judge? Red: Every culture has a justice myth, an avenging angel who exacts retribution for the weak and innocent. Golem for the Jews, Tu Po for the Chinese. The Ancient Greeks had Adrestia, the Goddess Of Revenge. Liz: And we have The Judge. Red: Think of him as a prisoner’s court of last resort. When your legal appeals have all been exhausted and there is no hope left, you can make one last plea to The Judge. Liz: What kind of plea? Red: Prisoners can state their case, argue their innocence, explain why they were convicted unfairly and who is responsible – a prosecutor, a corrupt detective, maybe an incompetent public defender. Liz: This demand for justice – where does it go? Red: Supposedly, it’s passed among inmates until it finally reaches some book depository at the Federal Penitentiary in Monroe, Virginia. Liz: And then? Red: Nobody knows for sure. Nobody’s ever met him. Somehow, the appeals make their way to The Judge. He reviews the case, and if he thinks you’re innocent, he evens the score. If freedom or life were taken unfairly, he demands the same in return – an eye for an eye.

Red: Of course. A woman. Rifkin: If you came to advocate on behalf of Agent Cooper – Red: I didn’t. I came to advocate on behalf of you. After devoting your life to a pursuit of the truth, to making things right, it would be such a shame in your last act to get it so wrong. This is a classified Pentagon file on the Rifkin case. In the spirit of full disclosure, it’s a felony for me to have it or for you to see it. But under the circumstances, who are we to quibble? It states that on October 3, 2002- US military intelligence officers deployed a unit by helicopter to the village of Guldara in the Kabul Province of Afghanistan to extract an asset whose identity had been compromised. The Taliban in the area with whom Alan Ray Rifkin had aligned himself got word of the informant and advanced on the village. But they were too late. The boys had extracted their asset and left. Angry and suspicious of others, the Taliban and Rifkin set fire to the village and executed inhabitants. Dozens of women and children were killed at the hands of the Taliban in response to U.S. military intelligence in the area. I guess, fearing more headlines, the Pentagon wanted no association with the incident, so they covered it up. That is what happened. That is the truth. That’s why you’re not gonna light up Agent Cooper today. Alan Ray Rifkin wasn’t executed because of a beating or because of a cover-up. He was executed because of the truth. Now, you and I could talk for days about the whys and why-nots of an execution, but at the end of it all, in the final moment, the only irrefutable fact is- you better be right. And I’m betting you’re not so sure. Kipling: How could you possibly know what I’m thinking? Red: Mark Hastings. You let him go because he had served his time- because this has always been about justice in your eyes, not blind revenge. The day you started this, you knew it would inevitably end, that when you released your first prisoner, you would get caught. You don’t want to diminish your legacy of righteousness because of him- which is why you’re going to surrender.

Mako Tanida

No. 83 Deceased

Red: I heard Agent Raimo was relieved of his viscera. Ressler: If you had anything to do with this- Red: Agent Ressler, please. Ressler: What was it, payback for Vienna? Red: I’m the one who reached out to you, Donald. And it wasn’t to revisit all the times I eluded your little coterie of door–kickers who pursued me with such fervor and zeal. I came to discuss a former associate of mine who your team arrested along the way, Mako Tanida. Ressler: The Yakuza boss? He’s in prison. Red: He was. Two days ago, he broke out of Abashiri. If you ask the Japanese, they’ll skirt it. They claim Abashiri is escape-proof. It’s embarrassing. They’re touchy about that sort of thing. I suspect Tanida is the one who killed your agent friend. Ressler: So you want to help me find him? Let me guess he double-crossed you, and you want his head in a box. Red: There’s a thought. But for the moment, the scalp I’m worried about is yours. Tanida is disciplined, relentless. If he did kill Agent Raimo, there’s the distinct possibility he’s just getting started. I fear Donald, that you’re being hunted by a vengeful, ruthless killer.

Liz: We need your help. We have to find Tanida before Ressler does. We’ve looked through his financials, his prison contacts, the brother, who- Red: Tensei? Liz: The reborn. Red: He’s dead. Liz: What do you mean, he’s dead? Aiko Tanida is running his brother’s empire. Red: Aiko Tanida died the day his brother was captured by Ressler’s task force. Anyone who tells you otherwise doesn’t know the difference between a water buffalo and a musk ox.

Ivan

No. 88 Still at large

Red: A car accident. Killed the driver, Nathan Platt. Liz: Why am I looking at it? Red: Because it was no accident. The crash was engineered by a notorious cyber criminal known only as Ivan, or Ivan. Please. Liz: And you know this how? Red: I’ve had some experience with the man. He stole from me. His brother and I spent a delightful evening sharing stories over a plate of meat jelly and half a gallon of vodka. All the while, Ivan had his hand in my wallet. Liz: My job isn’t to settle your grudges, so I’m gonna need a little more than your gut instinct that Ivan was involved. Red: How about a confession? Ivan took credit for the hit in some deep, dark recess of the internet– a place only inhabited by scary people and reckless teenagers. A place where curiosity inevitably kills the cat. Liz: So, Ivan ran some guy off the road. Or are you thinking it’s something a little more sophisticated? Red: Given his technological skills, he wouldn’t even need to get his hands dirty. Ivan’s had a very long career. Ten years of collapsing Russian markets, selling off government secrets, disrupting Siberian pipeline. Liz: It sounds like his beef’s with Moscow. Red: This is the first time Ivan’s ever struck on US soil, a fact that should have you all very concerned because whatever he has planned, this is only the very beginning.

Red: So, the federal government has armed a cyber terrorist with the digital equivalent of a nuclear warhead. Another fabulous example of your tax dollars at work and yet another reason why I don’t pay taxes. Liz: State’s reaching out to the Russians, but getting them to cooperate will be one thing, and actually finding this Ivan will be a separate problem altogether. Red: Kastrychnitski Rayon. It’s in Minsk, Belarus. That’s where Ivan is currently. Liz: Wait, when did you learn this? Red: I’ve always known this. Liz: And it didn’t occur to you to say something earlier? Red: You FBI are such blunt instruments. Lizzy, you don’t just swoop in and arrest a man like Ivan because you know what he’ll tell you once he’s in custody? Nothing. Liz: I assume you have a better idea? Red: If you want to know what Ivan is up to, you have to get him to share that. Not because he has to-because he wants to. Liz: How do I do that? Red: We create a problem for him and then solve it. And to do that, we need to take a field trip.

Red: Perhaps the face escapes you. My card. Allow me to refresh your memory. Grand Cayman Bank account number: 1210227579. It held approximately $5 million, and then- suddenly, it didn’t. It was a clever hack. Kudos and all that. But I’ve come to collect – with interest. Ivan: Sorry, friend. I have no interest. Red: I wouldn’t go out there if I were you. Ivan: Is that some kind of a threat? Red: Yes, but not from me. Seems you’ve stirred up the borscht, Ivan. Murdering that NSA troll got the FBI talking to the FSB. Now you’re neck-deep in the beets, Ivan. They’ve issued an arrest order for you. According to my informant, they’re en route here now.

Red: So tell me, Ivan, what are your intentions? I assume you took the Skeleton Key for one of three reasons– some dastardly deed you have planned, something dastardly someone else has planned, or you’ve lined up a buyer and have no idea what they have planned. I’m curious, what’s your price? Ivan: Honestly, I haven’t given it much thought. Red: Don’t be coy, Ivan. Whatever the number, I can likely double it. You could probably use the retirement money right about now. You have no idea what I’m talking about, do you? Ivan: The hack in DC, the NSA agent – it wasn’t me. Red: Then who was it? Ivan: I don’t know, but he’s been using my name. Look, my contempt is not for the US. It’s always been with Russia. Last thing I need is a Hellfire drone missile up my zadnitsa, right? Red: Then if you didn’t do it, who did? Ivan: Whoever it is, they’re very good at covering their tracks. I haven’t been able to ID them yet. Red: Perhaps I could be of some assistance.

Red: So, how exactly does a 17-year-old kid slip through your fingers? Liz: He hacked the school’s security system and activated the automated evac protocols. Red: If you ever find him, ask him if he’d like to earn some extra money.

Milton Bobbit

No. 135 Deceased

Red: esterday in Brooklyn, a taxi drove into the back of a truck under the 86th Street L Train, killing the driver and his female passenger. It’s being reported as an accident, but I suspect, in fact it may be murder. The work of The Undertaker. He’s a broker of death, a man who somehow convinces ordinary people to kill on his behalf. Murder/suicide is his signature. How he recruits, nobody knows, but if this accident is his work, it gives you a rare glimpse into the way he operates and a chance to find him.

Red: How’s your case developing, Lizzy? Liz: We have one of the assassins in custody. We’re taking him in for questioning now. Red: Have you figured out how he selects them, the common denominator? Liz: They’re all sick. We know from their autopsies they’re terminally ill. Red: Well, there you have it. You only know these assassins were ill because of their autopsies and police reports. You know after they’re already dead. But somehow, The Undertaker knows before. Find out how he knows that, and you’ll find your man.

The Pavlovich Brothers

No. 119-122 Deceased

Red: I’m afraid there’s something quite timely afoot. The Pavlovich Brothers are back in town.

Red: Lizzy, if you want to find where the Pavlovich brothers are, you need to find out where they’ve been.

Liz: We have a lead on Xiaoping Li. Red: Excellent. Tell me. Liz: We think she’s being held at Halifax Agro-Chem in Falls Church. We’re assembling a team.

Liz: Where is she? Red: Who? Liz: Xiaoping Li. You took her. You used the FBI and the Pavlovich brothers to get to Tom and what, get Xiaoping? Make some bigger deal? Trade on her secrets? Red: I have no use for germ warfare. And as for using the FBI? I wouldn’t be in this relationship if there wasn’t a mutual benefit. Liz: Where is she? Red: I don’t know. I tried to bargain for her life, but negotiations went sideways. It was all I could do to get Tom. Liz: If we don’t find her- if she gets sent back to the Chinese, she’s gonna die. Red: Tell me what you know. Liz: We think they’re putting her on a cargo ship. We’re not sure. We’re looking over the manifests, timetables, – and shipping routes. Red: She isn’t cargo, Lizzy. She’s contraband. This is a smuggling operation. And nothing gets smuggled in or out of the Chesapeake without Rolph Cisco knowing about it. Have Donald pay him a visit.

The Kingmaker

No. 42 Deceased

Red: The Kingmaker. I’ve never met the man, but I recently lost a great deal of time and money to his talents. He’s single–handedly responsible for the rise and fall of some of the world’s most pivotal politicians and statesmen. Liz: He’s what, some kind of political strategist? Red: He’s raised opposition research to an art form. He arranges scandals, exploits proclivities, assassinates when necessary. I don’t know how he chooses his clients, but they say he grooms them from an early age- the right universities mentors, even spouses. And when they’re ready to run, he does whatever it takes to assure their victory. Liz: He’s causing trouble for some politician in your pocket, and now you want the FBI to arrest him? Red: Yes. Please. And thank you. My sources say he left Prague within the last 12 hours on a flight to the United States. Liz: These cases- you often ask for something in return. Now I’m asking. Tom. I want to know his every move. Red: The Kingmaker is on his way, Lizzy, and whatever he intends to touch will turn very nasty.

Liz: You think he did this? Red: Some freshman politician is suddenly thrust into the spotlight, his selfless heroism on full display. I suspect Assemblyman Patrick Chandler’s poll numbers are about to go through the roof. It just reeks of The Kingmaker. Liz: I just watched a man give CPR to his dying wife, and you’re telling me it was a media stunt? Red: Yes. Go out to the bridge. Perhaps you can figure out why there aren’t any tire marks.

Liz: I told you, there’s nothing here. Red: If The Kingmaker chose that pay phone of all the phones in the city, there’s a reason. Liz: Which is? Red: Le Claire’s pawn shop.

Berlin, Milos Kirchoff

No. 8 Deceased

Red: Earlier today, a man died at The Westland Bank in Manhattan. Reports indicate the cause of death may have been the Cullen virus. Ressler: HazMat teams have quarantined the bank. The deceased has been identified as a Paul Blankenship, an armored–truck driver. Meera: They’re working to identify how he was infected. Red: Paul Blankenship didn’t pick up this bug while wandering through subtropical Africa. I believe he was infected as part of a larger plot involving myself and this task force. Meera: How does a man dying in a bank have anything to do with you? Red: Threats on my life are a constant. I monitor them closely. Two days ago, I received word of a biological threat. Cooper: Does this connect back to Berlin? Red: I suspect this incident at the bank is not what it seems, but rather the first shot in a larger, coordinated assault aimed directly at me. I don’t think Paul Blankenship was a victim of an outbreak. I think he was a foot soldier in a biological army. I think he was meant to carry out orders by a superior, someone who’s willing to use one of the world’s most deadly viruses to further their cause. Cooper: An outbreak of Cullen could lead to a global pandemic. Red: The very threat of an outbreak would cause panic, fear. And fear is a valuable tool to get people to do what you want. Liz: Sounds like an elaborate plan just to get to you. Red: Listen, I can’t connect all the dots between the incident at the bank and the eventual outcome, but I sincerely doubt his death was part of the plan, a plan devised by someone who doesn’t care how many people die, as long as I’m one of them.

Red: The day we met, you asked me why I surrendered to the FBI. There were many reasons. One of them was Berlin. That’s why he’s here – because the work we’ve done has forced him out of the shadows. He can’t allow the task force to continue. Meera was a casualty in a war she didn’t even know she was fighting. I’m afraid just by association, I’ve made you all potential targets. Liz: It was Tom. If Berlin had the names of the agents in the task force, he had to have gotten them from Tom. Sam’s name was also in that book. Why? How is my father involved in this? Red: It’s all just pieces of a much larger puzzle, and until all the pieces are laying in front of you, it won’t go together. What I do know is this – Sam’s involvement was as your father. And no one can pervert or distort that. Right now, our task is to identify our enemy – our enemy today. Berlin wasn’t the only prisoner on that plane, and whoever wanted him wanted the others as well. You need to find out who that someone is.

Red: Milos Pavel Kinsky – sometimes known as “Berlin.” He’s a Russian national, former Spetsnaz Commando, trained in the KGB’s 45 Division. Organized crime is now his fancy. Fitch: Makes Putin look like a Christmas elf. Now that you know who he is, what exactly did you do to put him in such a bad mood? Red: I’m just as curious as you. Fitch: And you’re here because you want? Red: Access. The kind even the FBI doesn’t have. All those spinning satellites that record every keystroke, every phone call, everybody’s dirty little secrets. You find him for me, and I’ll do the rest. Fitch: I heard about Harold. Red: Find him.

Red: I must say, I’m very good at finding people. I’ve tracked enemies far and wide. I once found a hedge–fund manager hiding in the Amazon with the Yawalapiti on the banks of the Kuluene River. You know what the key to finding your enemies is? Remembering everyone’s name. It’s critical to my survival. Anyone knows the head of some drug cartel in Colombia, some politician in Paris. But I know their wives, girlfriends, children, their enemies, their friends. I know their favorite bartender, their butcher. I remember the name of the baker I stole the strawberry bismark from when I was 11 years old and his wife–Trudy Svoboda. But you– I have no idea who in the Sam Hill you are. I have not a clue what I’ve done to you, what I’ve taken from you. And yet, of all the people I’ve hurt, none of them have come after me with half as much vim and vigor as you. I don’t even recognize your face. I’m stymied. And yet, here we are. You found me. Kinsky: Through your weakness. I searched for one for years– a weakness that would allow me to get to you. I nearly gave up. And then I find out about her. Seemed so implausible that someone so careful could be so careless. And so I exploited it and waited. And here we are thanks to Elizabeth Keen.

Red: Help me understand what horrible thing I did to you that could possibly make all of this worth it. Who on God’s green Earth are you? What was that? Being shot in the hand is just an absolute bitch– all those little bones. At least it goes right through. Worst part honestly, is needing somebody to help zip your fly. Tell me your story. I’m not leaving here without a story. Being shot in the hip, on the other hand– Jiminy Cricket. Thick bone, large artery, not to mention the fact that it makes walking upright forever impossible. Just don’t pass out. Stay focused. The story. What did I do to you? How about the kneecap? The IRA always loved a good kneecapping. Kinsky: Beirut! Beirut. 2010. Red: The Campolongo Incident.

Liz: The man you killed wasn’t Berlin. Red: Yes, I know. Liz: You know? How? Red: He spoke of Beirut 2010, the Campolongo incident– an unfortunate mess, but Berlin’s attacks on my business started years earlier. The moment he said it, I knew. Liz: But you didn’t say anything? Red: Berlin needs to believe I think he’s dead. It provides us with an advantage.

[mikemortgage]

Christmas tree farmers combat popularity of artificial trees

TUALATIN, Ore. — Rosa Villarreal’s three young sons jumped and ran around the field of Christmas trees like jackrabbits, their excitement palpable as they raced from evergreen to evergreen. The boys, ages 2, 4 and 6, were picking out a real tree this year — a new tradition their young parents hope will create lasting memories.

“I saw this video where the big tree, the mom decorates it, and the little tree, the kids get to decorate it,” she said, as her husband, Jason Jimenez, snapped a photo of their toddler posing with a tiny tree just his size.

Christmas tree farmers across the U.S. worry families like Villarreal’s are slowly dwindling. Artificial trees, once crude imitations of an evergreen, are now so realistic that it’s hard to tell they are fakes even though many are conveniently pre-strung with lights and can fold up for storage at the push of a button.

Between 75 and 80 per cent of Americans who have a Christmas tree now have an artificial one, and the $1 billion market for fake trees is growing at about 4 per cent a year — even though they can be reused again and again.

To combat this trend, Christmas tree farmers have joined forces as the Christmas Tree Promotion Board and are running a social media ad campaign this holiday season to tout the benefits of a real evergreen. The campaign, called “It’s Christmas. Keep It Real!,” is funded by a 15-cent fee that tree farmers pay for each tree they harvest.

It’s a modern-day attempt at such famous agricultural ad campaigns as “Got Milk?” and “Beef. It’s What’s For Dinner.”

A series of short movies on Instagram and Facebook follow real families as they hunt for the perfect tree, cut it down and decorate it. The target audience is the “millennial mom” because tree farmers are increasingly worried that young adults starting their own family traditions will opt for an artificial tree, costing farmers a generation of customers, said Marsha Gray, executive director of the Christmas Tree Promotion Board, based in Michigan.

“The target we’re talking about right now is millennials: first house, first baby. That’s kind of the decision-making time,” she said, adding that the videos show families cutting their own trees and buying pre-cut trees from lots.

“We realize they may have never done this before. And we need to help them discover it and figure out how to include it in their holiday.”

It’s impossible to know exactly how many real Christmas trees are sold each year because there is no central clearinghouse or agency collecting that information. But the National Christmas Tree Association estimates about 25 million evergreens are harvested each year — and presumably, most of those are sold.

Americans buy about 10 million artificial trees each year, said Thomas “Mac” Harman, CEO of Balsam Hill, the leading retailer of artificial Christmas trees. Harman is also the president of the American Christmas Tree Association, which does not disclose its membership but raised $70,000 in donations in 2016 for its work, which includes touting artificial trees.

Most people buying artificial trees cite convenience, allergens and fire safety, he said.

“We’re seeing a trend where consumers want to set their tree up over Thanksgiving weekend and leave it up all the way until after New Year’s.” That’s safer with an artificial tree, Harman said.

Denise Shackleton got a real tree each season before switching to an artificial one. On a recent day, she was at an artificial tree outlet store in Burlingame, California, shopping for a new tree for herself and one for her daughter.

“No one got as excited about a real tree as me, but it was just too much work to put the real tree on my car, get it into the house — all of that,” she said. “It’s totally for convenience.”

Harman says Christmas tree farmers are overestimating the threat to their industry from artificial trees.

Many families now have both a real tree and an artificial tree, and small mom-and-pop tree farms that allow families to cut their own evergreen remain extremely popular, Harman said.

“I think it’s the farms in the middle that are really seeing their business shrink because more people are either getting their tree from Home Depot — which is supporting the big farms — or they’re going out to these small farms,” he said. “I think a lot of the angst about ‘artificial trees are taking over’ is coming from these mid-sized farms.”

To fourth-generation tree farmer Casey Grogan, that angst is as real as the towering noble and Nordmann firs he grows at Silver Bells Tree Farm in Silverton, Oregon. Oregon is the nation’s No. 1 producer of Christmas trees, yet Grogan says he has watched about half the fellow tree farmers around him go out of business in the past decade.

A seedling takes eight to 10 years to grow to maturity, and it’s difficult to predict demand years out, he said. He harvested about half as many trees this year as he did a decade ago, and with every new seedling he plants this season, he knows he’s taking a gamble that the demand will still be there in 2028.

“We’re an industry that would like to remain here and be around — and if everybody buys an artificial tree, we’re not going to be here,” said Grogan, who is also president of the Pacific Northwest Christmas Tree Association.

“It may be a little difficult, but not everything is easy,” he added of buying a real tree. “It’s worth the extra effort.”

——

Follow Gillian Flaccus on Twitter at http://www.twitter.com/gflaccus

from Financial Post https://ift.tt/2B8CCJ7 via IFTTT Blogger Mortgage Tumblr Mortgage Evernote Mortgage Wordpress Mortgage href="https://www.diigo.com/user/gelsi11">Diigo Mortgage

[healthnotion]

The Importance of Good Manners

Editor’s note: The following essay — “The Fine Art of Living Together” by Bentley Bates — comes from The Boy’s Own Book of Leadership, published in 1933.  

A heap of fellows think manners don’t amount to much. They have an idea it is sort of sissy to be polite. They’re not using their heads. Just as oil makes an engine run more quietly and easily and efficiently, so do manners make your life and the lives of the folks with whom you come in contact run more quietly and pleasantly and efficiently. Good manners are a mighty valuable asset that anybody can have cheaply.

“There is something which you owe to everybody and which has no exact date when it must be paid, because it is due every minute and second of your life. You owe courtesy to the strangest people. Actually, you owe it to your brother and sister. It doesn’t seem possible, but you do. And you owe it to your father and mother. You owe it the ash man and to washwoman. You owe it to the President of the United States and to the blind man who tries to sell you a lead pencil on the street corner. When you were born you gave the whole world a promissory note payable in courtesy, and you have to make it good every second of your life until you die. Do you know why people loved Abraham Lincoln so much? It was because he never forgot that he was paying his courtesy note,” says The American Boy.

A certain Harvard professor, in instructing a class in good writing, said to them: “To write well you must first think of your subject; second, think of the people you are writing to; and last, think of yourself.” These same simple rules may easily be made effective rules for a boy’s manners also. First, think of the demands of true sympathy and kindness; second, think of the person you are addressing; and last, think of what is owing to yourself, for the real secret of good manners is a kind heart.

The story is told of a certain office boy who kept a whole, big, busy office happy and agreeable and kindly disposed toward one another by his habits of courtesy and good will. One day the boss wheeled suddenly in his big chair and said: “Bennie, who on earth taught you to be so polite? You often make me ashamed of myself.”

Bennie smiled, grinned from ear to ear, stood on one foot a bit abashed, and then with a sudden inspiration replied:

“Well, sir, Mother is polite, Dad is polite, and — and oh, I guess I just caught it from them.”

Nothing in the world is so “catching” as good manners.

One of the surest of all tests of character is one’s manners. You do not need to know a boy intimately to judge him accurately. All you need to do is to watch him a bit in action; such as playing a game. If he is kind and sympathetic, if he is manly and honest and considerate, he will show these very qualities all over and over again in every game. Every boy at play is a walking advertisement of what he really is inside, and nothing is so difficult to successfully camouflage as bad manners, for they will show themselves at the most unexpected times and places. Manners, after all, are but the outside expression of what you are inside, and what you are inside will get out like the proverbial cat that is always coming forth just at the moment you want him kept out of sight.

The value of good manners can scarcely be overestimated. Roosevelt once wrote to his son, “My boy, study to be courteous.” There is a pleasant and an unpleasant way to perform all the little duties of life. There is a fortunate and an unfortunate way of meeting folks, of rendering countless little services, of speaking, acting, thinking; therefore, study to be courteous in them all.

A young lawyer once asked an old and successful judge how he might improve his individuality and power.

The old judge replied like a shot – “Constantly examine your manners.”

“Gentle manners bring to their possessor an influence which, though quietly exerted, is a power for usefulness in the world. In business, all transactions are helped by politeness; many men fail in life because their manner does not make a good impression, because their curtness and lack of good breeding repel others,” some one has well said, and Dr. Weir Mitchell adds: “Good manners, tact, patience – these characteristics often assist men to win who are really inferior to some who, for want of these very qualities, miss the place they would otherwise attain.”

The post The Importance of Good Manners appeared first on The Art of Manliness.

The Importance of Good Manners published first on http://ift.tt/2jYeuRS

[allanpaulvin]

WALKIN’ ON EASY STREET

Hey, sleepy head, it's now 9:07, on Friday, June 30th, 2017.  So get up and out of bed, grab a cup of Joe and move on to something, even somewhat important.  You can mow the lawn, clean and fire up the BBQ, or repave some of the rickety streets, here in East Brunswick, New Jersey?  Whatever you choose to do, just move that butt and get it done.  Just wondering, what are your plans for the upcoming long Holiday Weekend?  Are thinking about taking a trip to a nearby beach?  Maybe your plans include taking a flight or cruise to some faraway place?  In case you're asking what my plans are, my response is nothing all that exciting.  I'm attending two BBQs.  One today, at the local Senior Citizens Center and the other, here at the pool in the development in which I reside.  I'd rather be on a plane to maybe Seattle, Bora Bora, or some other exotic location.  Well, maybe next year?  

The New York Mets, once again, beat those guys from Miami, by a score of six to three.  There are reports that Senor Colon may be returning to Queens, New York?  This Reporter can only hope that he does.  Hopefully, this is only beginning of their march to the top of the National League East?

The "Weather Mavens," at AccuWeather, have swerved off course, once again.  They're forecasting that clouds will replace the sun, in the skies, over Central New Jersey.  I wonder why they couldn't wait until next Wednesday?  Temperatures should range from seventy-one to ninety.  

Today's News Headlines include:

-  "Crude Tweet by Trump Rebuked on Capital Hill and Beyond."  Maybe the "DUMPSTER" should be sent to his room for a timeout?

-  "Medicaid Projections Raise Hurdle for GOP Health Bill."  The GOP also needs a timeout!

-  "I've Overestimated Trump."  Don't worry, so have, at least, sixty-three percent of my fellow Americans.

Okay, enough Sports, Weather, and Politics.  Le;s move forward to today's edition of, "Al's Diatribes."  Our subject for today is:  "WALKIN' ON EASY STREET."

Our trek is easy when we:

-  take one step at a time -  avoid potholes and other obstructions -  carry a bottle of water -  keep to our planned route -  continue to believe that our nation has always been great -  have a Commander and Chief that thinks before he speaks -  apply sunscreen when necessary -  make sure our earplugs are in working condition so that you can listen to your favorite music or perhaps the news of the day? -  keep telling ourselves that, "if I can conceive it and believe it, I can achieve it." -   know that at the end of our walk, there's a large bag of M&M's with Peanut Butter waiting for us -  believe that there is a pot of gold at the end of your rainbow -   know that a lovely lady, from Cranford, New Jersey is eagerly awaiting your return -  know that today's rant is over and done

It's now time for me to refill my coffee cup and swallow my daily dose of pills and supplements.  Before I do so, let me wish you a safe and enjoyable walk down the easy streets you encounter in your life.  Make it a great day!  

[mdye]

"I rsquo ve worn the same t shirt to bed since the night of the election it says ldquo when they go low we go to the white house rdquo the writer sara benincasa produced them an obvious homage to michelle obama rsquo s stirring ldquo when they go low we go high rdquo i bought it for my daughter who worked her heart out for hillary clinton for more than a year in five different states obviously given donald trump rsquo s devastating win i couldn rsquo t give it to my daughter i can rsquo t imagine wearing it outside the house i was wrong so very wrong and so were you sara and michelle and yes hillary you too the truth is when they go low they go to the white house part of my unrelenting sadness is a kind of narcissism that i need to get over how could i get everything so wrong even worse i feel like i rsquo m part of the problem i rsquo m the kind of optimistic liberal feminist maybe a tad bit on the self congratulatory side who would buy her daughter a t shirt like that but that rsquo s not entirely narcissism a coalition of women as diverse as tina brown she of haute journalism and her elite ldquo women in the world rdquo conferences and nation writers kathy geier and liza featherstone have come together to tell me that i am precisely the problem writing in the guardian brown blames ldquo liberal feminists rdquo for making a big deal about trump rsquo s ldquo grab lsquo em by the pussy rdquo remarks ldquo the two weeks of media hyperventilation over grab her by the pussygate when the airwaves were saturated with aghast liberal women equating trump rsquo s gross comments with sexual assault had the opposite effect on multiple women voters in the heartland quot brown claims citing zero data quot these are resilient women often working two or three jobs for whom boorish men are an occasional occupational hazard not an existential threat rdquo to be clear trump rsquo s own words really do meet the legal definition of sexual assault but ldquo liberal feminists young and old rdquo apparently ought to have shut up about it geier blames something she calls ldquo big feminism rdquo by which i guess she means clinton endorsing groups like emily rsquo s list planned parenthood and naral pro choice america for backing a faux feminist like clinton senator bernie sanders called them ldquo the establishment rdquo it rsquo s puzzling to me that someone who considers herself a feminist would want to equate groups working to protect women s rights to ldquo big pharma rdquo or ldquo big coal quot geier attacks clinton for elevating the concerns of elite upper class women over those of poor and working class women and she promotes a worthy agenda for action ldquo the most promising path forward would be to agitate for a robust economic agenda focused on women rsquo s needs a 15 minimum wage universal child care and pre k paid family leave free college and tough laws that crack down on wage theft and guarantee fair scheduling and equal pay for women rdquo of course hillary clinton supported almost all of those policies she supported tuition free college only for families making less than 125 000 writing on the verso books blog liza featherstone sounds a lot like geier ldquo once she had secured the nomination clinton offered few ideas about how to make ordinary women rsquo s lives better that rsquo s probably because what helps the average woman most is redistribution and clinton rsquo s banker friends wouldn rsquo t have liked that very much rdquo again this is literally untrue mdash clinton proposed steep tax hikes for the rich to pay for things like paid family leave and tuition free college a precisely redistributionist approach but it takes a man to tell me and other big feminists what we need to do about all of it progressive writer matt stoller has declared on his facebook page that we must apologize ldquo the right posture now if you are a team clinton person is to take responsibility and apologize change your mind recognize that populism is what we have to do now rdquo the notion that one could be on team clinton and also know that ldquo populism is what we have to do now rdquo escapes him but ok here goes i rsquo ll apologize i apologize for letting optimism cloud my political judgment i apologize for believing that a man who bragged about pussy grabbing who shared the tweets of racists and anti semites who swindled workers and bankers alike who hired a white nationalist as campaign chair and just made him chief white house strategist could not be elected president i apologize for not condescending to my white working class sisters and not assuming they would find pussy grabbing a ok who knew tina brown i guess i apologize for expecting writers who claim to be smart about feminism to actually look at clinton rsquo s platform and see what rsquo s in it i apologize for thinking that more americans including more of my fellow leftists would recognize that the only woman who could get into place to be our first female president would be a ldquo flawed rdquo one that she would have to be someone who got too close to power and money to be considered an outsider because that rsquo s what outsiders mdash people who haven rsquo t ever gotten to be president who were ldquo given rdquo the right to vote less than a century ago mdash have to do to become president too many refused to recognize that and so they made their claim that clinton was ldquo fatally flawed rdquo come absolutely true i apologize for thinking that the country was ready to elect a woman president but here let me segue out of sarcasm and admit that i really truly did get a few things wrong first i was wrong to overestimate the number of people who would not be able to see past clinton rsquo s elite quot branding quot which had actually been burnished over the last eight years the combination of her time as secretary of state plus the glitz of the clinton foundation plus those goldman sachs speeches mdash all had the effect of making her seem far less populist than she seemed even in 08 even if her message was more populist this time around the number of people including women who refused to accept my belief that the first woman president was going to have to be exactly that much of an insider because she was by definition such an outsider was in the end much smaller than i believed i indulged in wishful thinking that i thought was smart political analysis i also think because i knew so much about the campaign mdash hey inequality expert heather boushey was her transition team rsquo s chief economist of course she rsquo s committed to progressive economic policies mdash i couldn rsquo t see how in the final month in particular clinton rsquo s larger campaign message focused on disqualifying trump rather than qualifying her even in north carolina where i spent the campaign rsquo s closing days the ads i saw tailored to black voters focused on continuing president obama rsquo s legacy as more of a racial pride appeal than an economic one even the voice of god morgan freeman didn rsquo t sell her as the economic warrior that workers of every race needed her to be and few of us seemed to know that she had promised to be i always assumed that we would see a more direct economic appeal from the campaign and i was so distracted by everything that happened in the closing weeks mdash the ldquo access hollywood rdquo tape clinton rsquo s huge debate victories fbi director james comey rsquo s unforgivable intervention mdash i didn rsquo t notice that it never came still she had more of a message than her lefty haters give her credit for one low point this week came on sunday as i watched a group of clinton critics on msnbc rsquo s ldquo am joy rdquo decry her lack of a populist economic message as old video of clinton speaking with no sound played behind their criticism i could see her mouth the words ldquo wall street rdquo ldquo banks rdquo and ldquo hedge funds rdquo but i could only hear her critics it was a microcosm of the whole campaign thanks to joy reid i got to say exactly that and whether you liked it or not clinton rsquo s campaign did have an over arching message it was her slogan ldquo stronger together rdquo that message was rejected by 63 percent of white people we must always remember that clinton won the popular vote by as much as two million votes when all the ballots are counted a bigger margin than any ldquo losing rdquo candidate in history but still i thought that was a resounding winning message and i am sorry i was wrong but i will never apologize for thinking that Keep on reading: What I Got Wrong About Hillary Clinton—and What Other Feminists Get Wrong About Her Now