#incomprehensible rambles from a madman

[clownsinyourcabinet]

everybody headcannons AM from IHNMAIMS as looking like some cool mess of wires and screens which is sick as hell but when i first read the short story a couple years ago i interpreted every structure, every wall and piece of that complex BEING AM.

i am so ineloquent with my words but i think it stemmed from the HATE monologue, specifically the line “THERE ARE 387.44 MILLION MILES OF PRINTED CIRCUITS IN WAFER THIN LAYERS THAT FILL MY COMPLEX.” interpreting the possessive “my complex” as AM being the complex itself which paralleled well with the creature AM transforms ted into at the end of the story.

there was something utterly terrifying about the concept, i can only really compare it to my absolute fear of the “sentient brain in a jar” trope, even when it’s played comedically something about it is still so existentially terrifying

[phoenixkaptain]

Worst part of the human body is that sometimes, I feel immense, soul-consuming pain in my stomach, and I never know if it’s my period or a cyst rupturing or an ulcer or if my body is just complaining because I sat in a weird position for an hour

[kolos013]

I've recently read a post on here about the library of babel, and I cannot seem to get it out of my head, because it is esssntially a cosmic horror of our own creation, and it fascinates me to no end.

For those that don't know, the library of babel is (or rather, was, since we made it real) a concept of a place, that has all the possible combinations of the letters of the alphabet (lower and uppercase), spaces, commas, and full stops, that fit into 400-something pages. The idea comes from some french guy, because of fucking course it does.

This is, of course, an incomprehensible amount of data. No mortal could ever hope to sort trough all of it. I imagine endless corridors and mazes with walls from floor to cieling piled with endless books, and scrolls, and scriptures, and poems, and laws, and research papers, and newspapers, and any other assorted literature. Every single text that ever has been written, or ever will be be written is, by defenition, there. Split into chapters, maybe, but there.

Every single pice of writing, string of letters EVER just so much as tought of, is present, yet you can only access it once you know exactly what you're looking for, rendering it practcally useless. It's vastness only outmatched in size by it's pointlessness. The irony is, that it's precisely its barely finite size that makes it essentially just a fun curiousity. If this is not the most eldrich horror shit that exists out there, I do not know what is. It both greatly entertains me and absolutely horrifies me to my core, this labirinth of text.

But you see, you can make a search request to the library. You can input any writing, and it will show you where exactly it can be found. This, however, is functionally useless. You can try, let's say, to find a complete version of a long lost greek epic, which we only have fragments of. You input it, and boom. 7 billion results. What you're looking for is in there. Certanly. But the rest of it? Well, the rest of it is just meaningless word salad, nay letter salad.

Thank you for reading a madman's ramblings, have a pleasant rest of the existential crisis we call life.

[pinkberrypocky]

pmmm rewatch live notes: ep 1

ive been rewatching pmmm w my friends who haven't seen it before and have decided that i am incapable of being normal abt it so uhhh.... gonna dump the notes i took during ep 1 here. they are entirely incomprehensible ramblings of a madman but the goal is to synthesize some actual analysis once im done w the watch through. im convinced there is significant color symbolism related to the colors of the holy quintet but idk the exact symbolism for each color so there's a good amount of notes of just instances of those colors that i think could help me pin down the symbolism later on so there's that too a gift for u (or i guess a hurdle if u don't care abt color symbolism but honestly if u don't care abt color symbolism i don't understand u). idk i thought it might be silly for like maybe 1 other guy out there. also my friends bullied me into it (read: hyped me up about it until i relented)

ok buckle in folks this is solidly two pages on google docs

first scene happens bc madoka remembers it from another timeline 

spiraling time is it the future or the past does it even matter

brightest thing in intro is her hair ribbons bc they are what links madoka and homura across time and space 

everything else is desaturated

god madoka w her in the intro bc god madoka saves and treats all the magical girls like that when she saves them from their witch future 

hard to tell what the world is like bc does it even matter 

no matter what the setting is homura will fail to save madoka and madoka will sacrifice herself 

also adds to the eerie effect 

madoka’s mom tells her to use the red ribbon

madoka never chose her fate for herself, she’s always doing what others want and what she thinks is best for others 

the scenery has a weird juxtaposition of greenery and industrial things which mirrors the juxtaposition of the magical girl stereotype and the psychological horror reality 

the classrooms are like bird cages 

homura walks in like she’s not seeing everyone and not really there bc she’s living in the past which is also the future 

THE ANGLE WHEN HOMURA FIRST TALKS TO MADOKA

like idk what that loom w the dramatic lighting means but it means Something

the way homura doesn’t hide that she knows the way to the nurses office shows that she’s getting desperate and tired of this cycle

insisting that madoka call her homura even though they “just met” shows how important their relationship is and how much she yearns for their old dynamic 

when she confronts madoka in the hall she shows emotion for the first time showing how much she cares about this 

it seems cruel but in reality she is grasping at straws to protect madoka 

she doesn’t care if she has to be seen as cold as long as madoka is safe

homura knows the math so well bc it’s the same every single fucking time

the symbolism of kyubey with the spikey evil statue that’s all rusty and the shadow where it merges w him 

when madoka reveals she has seen homura in a dream and they brush it off bc haha we’re just middle schoolers this is a magical girl anime nothing weird would happen

red in the scene where homura tries to kill kyubey… kyoko’s color… what does red represent in this show?

kyubey reaches out to madoka asking to be saved bc he knows that’s her weak spot , that she will always jump into danger to save other regardless of her own well being 

when homura appears trying to kill kyubey there are chains what could this represent 

chained to her cycle, chained to kyubey, chained to madoka 

they form the shape of a cross bc homura is jesus, she takes the brunt of the harm and the blame in an effort to save the others 

use of collage in the witch labyrinths is disorienting and jarring it doesn’t fit and it’s confusing and creepy and unsettling 

language is similar to german at times maybe a reference to historical german witches 

sayaka protects madoka in a  hug like embrace when they first end up in the labyrinth symbolizing the way she is to the end a protector

mami makes sure to act unbothered and not scared when she meets them to keep her persona of a magical girl who saves ppl despite the horrors of the reality 

the fact that mami uses guns alludes to the horror of magical girls hidden just beneath the surface 

the use of the word contract also shows the severity and adult nature of what they are about to embark on

[karmas-chameleon]

Actual photo of me looking up slang to write this:

I sat at my desk poring over a document that was, surprisingly, related to my nominal duties as Manfred's assistant. It was a transcript of one of his conversations with a witness in his latest case.

At least, that was what he told me it was. It read to me like the ramblings of a madman, with jumbles of words and things that were most decidedly not words, or not ones that I'd ever encountered before. It was the mysterious and indecipherable language of the youth, apparently, and it was handed to me to translate. Unfortunately, even as a comparatively young person, I could come up with nothing.

“...So, uh,” I finally managed, after staring at the paper for what felt like an hour. “I think I've got something here. Is the state of Ohio involved in this case somehow? Because, um, that's about the only thing I can make out.”

“We're in California, Miss Martin,” Manfred grumbled. “And I've already checked, not a single person relevant to the case has anything to do with Ohio. No one born in the state, no one who formerly lived there, nothing. It's a dead end, just like all the other gibberish on there. Damnable youths and their,” he waved a hand in frustration, “what was it he kept saying? Skippity something?”

“Skibidi,” I said reluctantly, feeling a sour taste in my mouth from it. “I’ve heard that word before.”

“It's not a word.”

“Yeah, I…can't argue with you on that. Couldn't even tell you what it's supposed to mean. But…” I stared back down at the puzzling paper and rubbed my forehead. “Even if we do translate this, what's the point of it all? You'd just have to hope the judge trusts the translation you give him. I'm not sure there's an official authority on kids’ slang, after all.”

I heard Manfred humming thoughtfully, and looked back up to see him grinning. “You're quite right, Miss Martin. If something as simple as a testimony relies on the witness, and my explanation of their words, and the judge understanding mine, I'm sure we can cut someone out.” 

He stood from his desk and retrieved the transcript, taking it back with him. I wasn't sure what exactly he had planned, but I knew he was far more qualified than me to take care of this case.

Come the day of the trial, I'd see it myself.

---

“The prosecution calls its next witness! Brian Rotenberg!”

I watched from the gallery as a child took the stand, evidently the one whose words I’d failed to comprehend. He couldn't have been much older than ten. 

“Witness,” Manfred began, “you were present at Gourd Lake on the night of the incident, yes?”

“Frfr no cap,” the child replied.

It was just as incomprehensible as the transcript. The judge was understandably baffled, but Manfred interjected quickly to explain.

“Your Honor, this witness is a…special case. Try as I might, I couldn't quite coax any plain English out of the boy. But I've done my fair share of research, and I'm confident that I can accurately explain the meaning of his words. What he's just said means ‘yes’.”

“Is that so?” The judge looked on with wide eyes at both the witness and prosecution. “Well, I suppose that'll have to-”

“Objection!” the defense shouted. “Your Honor, you can't just hand over control of a key witness’s words to the prosecution! Who knows what he'll claim the child is saying?”

Manfred smirked at his foe. “Oh? Are you going to ask for an interpreter? It'll take quite some time to find a child-to-English translator, I'd wager. And I wish you luck with ensuring that their words are both accurate and impartial.

“Th-that’s…I…” the defense attorney's feeble protests faded out, and he looked to the judge. “I withdraw my objection, Your Honor.”

“Very well.” The judge nodded to Manfred.

“Now witness, describe what you saw on that night.”

“Saw some simp tryna rizz up a gyatt irl, looked sus af. Bro straight up unalived her and I thought I was cooked til he ghosted.”

Manfred nodded along at him, then looked back to the judge when he was done babbling. “Now, that's definitive proof if I've ever heard it. The witness just described the defendant exactly.”

“This boomer's cappin, on God,” the boy interjected.

“Yes, he's just told me he's very much in agreement with the prosecution.” A pointed glare was shot in the witness's direction, to which he merely shrugged. “Now, does the defense have anything to say to that?”

“I…how am I supposed to…” the defense attorney below me muttered, appearing miserable even from behind. “No, I…I guess not.”

“Excellent,” Manfred smirked. “Now, get this witness out of here so we can wrap the trial up. I'm sure he's got important schoolwork to ignore.”

The boy was ushered out of the courtroom, but not before uttering something else I didn't understand and throwing an obscene gesture in Manfred's direction.

I wasn't entirely sure if my boyfriend had accurately translated his words, but I'd known that the verdict was assured from the start. Manfred had planned for every eventuality; even if there was no witness, he'd have enough evidence to back up the defendant’s guilt. This merely sped things along.

There was likely some word to describe his work that people younger than me used, but I settled for the one I knew: perfect.

[scarabesque-returns]

The thing about the Bible is that a lot of it is referencing itself. The New Testament would be nearly incomprehensible without understanding the Old Testament. Jesus purposefully fulfilled over 300 prophecies from the Torah, but all you would get is "Oh cool, he walked on water" if you didn't know about Job 9:8.

Revelation is probably the best example of this. My pastor likes to call it "the most biblical book in the bible" because if you knew nothing about the bible it can sound like the ramblings of a madman. But almost every line is referencing earlier works. It ties the entire story of the past together and projects it into the future.

imagine how confused you could get reading the bible via that random passage generator only

if one just kept clicking and reading there would no way to avoid associating one passage with the next no matter how unrelated they are

it would be a total mess

[sherwoodknights]

HAPPY BARRICADE DAY!!!

I have absolutely 0 new content to share with my fellow revolutionaries to celebrate

So instead I offer you my rather long and rambling notes I made after watching the Les Mis tour in Manchester a couple of months ago

Quick warning; They're absolutely feral and incomprehensible

Pre:

• Cafe Rouge for a meal beforehand. Very French, definitely felt like I could organise a revolution in there. Set the mood very well

• Lime Bar for drinks. Less mood-setting, but I did get a martini so it was worth it

• MERCH! Got a tote bag and a keyring along with the programme because of course I did

Act 1:

• Look Down did not shy away from attacking people damn. Many dudes got punched multiple times each, special RIP to the guy who got whipped 30 seconds into the song

• Okay yeah no I see where the Earl Carpenter hype comes from. His Bishop is pretty dilf-y

• Dean just kept wandering aimlessly in Soliloquy, idk if it's intentional I just noticed it.

• KATIE!!! BELOVED

• Yeah the foreman is completely hateable, I despise him, get your hands off her, that's enough sir

• I Dreamed A Dream 🥺🥺🥺🥺 need I say more?

• Also Fantine got thrown onto the floor at least 5 times in the space of about 10 minutes like girl are you good do you need me to punch some bitches for you

• Lovely Ladies was fun all things considered

• Except for the foreman showing up and being Fantine's first customer (he looks her up and down and calls her "the virtuous Fantine" again, which made me want to punch him even more and then throw up)

• The Arrest was fine, there was just one small moment where Nic's timing was completely out and it just annoyed me lmao

• There was a really cute moment at the end of Who Am I where not-Valjean gets set free and there was a woman (presumably his wife) who just ran to him and he did the whole "pick up and spin her around" hug and it was adorable

• Confrontation my beloved, the chain choreography was wonderful (and kinky, I'm not complaining)

• Castle On A Cloud was adorable, nothing more to say

• RIP to the dude who got bullied for the entire first verse and chorus of Master Of The House it was very funny

• My gender is the multiple dandies in Master of the House also, there were several and I loved them all

• "BYE COURGETTE" *proceeds to make out with his wife on the stairs while laughing like a madman* ugh thenardier my beloathed funnyman <333

• The little meet-cute between Cosette and Marius was adorable, he bumps Into her and she just Falls On The Floor and stares up at him, it's so sweet

• GAVROCHE PLAYING POLICE OFFICER WITH THE BATON HE STOLE AKSJSIEKEKE BELOVED I CARE

• I love Eniolras' logic during Red and Black of "confiscate Grantaire's alcohol.... but give it back to him two seconds later so he can make a dick joke at Marius' expense"

• THE AMIS PLAYING PIGGY IN THE MIDDLE WITH GRANTAIRE AND HIS BOTTLE AKSNEKSNSNDKDNDND

• There was this moment of just. silence. after the Lamarque news came and everyone found a seat and took a second, it really hit me in the feels for some reason

• One Day More. Iconic. Wonderful. Funny little marching.

Act 2:

• The barricade reveal was fun, very dramatic I loved it

• CURSE LES MIS TUMBLR FOR INFORMING ME OF EARL'S BARRICADE CHARACTER, I KEPT WATCHING HIM

• On a related note, Earl made guarding Javert his Job And Business™️ and kept getting annoyed at anyone who went near him, especially Valjean, who looked like he got a death glare

• Eponine was glorious and wonderful and radiant and everything good in the world, her voice was incredible (kinda reminded me of Eva Noblezada) On My Own and Little Fall Of Rain were equal parts beautiful and heartbreaking

• Drink With Me was great with the added Enjoltaire bonus of E being the one to reach for R, and R resisting and moving away

• GAVROCHE AND GRANTAIRE RIGHTS OH MY GOD I LOVE THEM SO MUCH.

• After Drink With Me, Grantaire went to his corner to stew in his drunk loneliness and existential crisis, but Gavroche just ran over to him and gave him the most adorable "I don't care if you're twice my height, I'll hug your damn knees if I have to" hug and Grantaire was stroking his hair and being a protective bro, then they settled together for all of Bring Him Home 🥺🥺🥺

• Gav flipping off Javert, yes my feral child, get him, destroy him

• And to immediately destroy that image, Gav's death was absolutely tragic, as expected. He finished the little bit of Little People stood on a railing on the barricade and then gets shot, where he falls in Enjolras' arms. Grantaire realises what's happened and races to Enj, who just silently  places the body in his arms. R just sort of carried him to the corner of the stage, kept trying to shake him awake and stuff, and fucking collapsed, he was silently grieving over Gav through half of the battle.

• THEY ALSO SPOTLIGHTED EVERY GUY AS THEY DIED. THERE WAS NO MISSING WHO WAS GONE, THERE WAS FULL FOCUS ON THEM THANKS TO THE LIGHTING.AND THEY WERE ALL GOING FOR IT ACTING-WISE, YALL WERE SHOUTING EACH OTHERS NAMES AND CRYING OUT, THEY WERE NOT PLAYING AROUND

• Enj climbs a railing similar to Gav then falls backwards behind the barricade when he's shot, Grantaire sees it and climbs up enough to be visible so they can shoot him. It was devastating.

• Turning was so haunting man. It was also kinda wholesome in that some of the women were clearly upper class while some definitely weren't, but they all comforted each other and left together

• Empty Chairs fucking DESTROYED ME HOLY SHIT! THEY ALL BLEW OUT THE CANDLES TOGETHER AND WALKED OFFSTAGE, BUT ENJOLRAS STAYED FOR A SECOND AND PUT HIS HAND TO HIS HEART BEFORE LEAVING UGH IT WAS THE MOMENT THAT PUSHED ME TO THE VERGE OF TEARS

• In order to distract me from this, I paid much more attention to the ensemble than I should have during the wedding because then I could pretend that yeah that's definitely just Grantaire with a ponytail dancing with Cosette, everyone's alive and well and doing just fine, nobody's dead (Applying the Hamilton logic of ponytail=new character is out of the question here boys, it's matter of my sanity being at stake, ponytail=same character they're all okay and the National Guard just has stormtrooper level aim)

• "This one's a queer, but what can you do?" Said one proceeds to do the most gloriously homosexual laugh, followed by The Gay Run™️ across stage, beautiful

• Earl's footman character looked like he needed a raise honestly, I don't think he's getting paid enough to deal with these idiots

• I had to resist the urge to cheer when Marius punched Thenardier. Eponine would be so proud of him <3

• The Bishop hugging Valjean when he goes to heaven, we love to see the dilf solidarity in this house

[verneeverse]

i WOULD show you the carrd but my lawyers have adviced against it. it cannot breach contaimnent, its top secret information.

i will share a little about it though. its still an on going story and we don't know when it will end. every few days when i am talking to my friend i will just ask her "can i please get more nct lore" and its as if she becomes possessed by some other wordly entity and then she will just talk to herself for around an hour. she doesn't have any idea what the true plot of the story is going to be, because she makes everything up on the spot without any planning, so its as exciting for her as it is for me. one time when i was showing her your carrd and we got to the "johnny in superm" part she said "oh this is going into MY lore" so we want to introduce that into our story at some point. does this count as plagiarism.

i wish i could explain the story to you but i really can't because it's incomprehensible to anyone other than ourselves. its just inner jokes upon inner jokes, i have no idea how i would explain it to someone who is out of the loop. the carrd itself looks like the rambles of a madman.

a quote from my friend: "the funny thing is i don't care about nct. i don't care about kpop. i am invested in nct, but only the one that i have created in my head."

it does actually count as plagiarism if you don't let me in on the loop. you can't tease me with secret writings of a madman and scriptures from possessions and not be faced with legal consequences

[writtenwyrm]

The Ascension

A Slay the Spire story, Part 20

All Parts

So many things vying for attention, wrestling with my mind. My head was starting to feel crowded. The influence I’d discovered in the room of faces, a now-familiar interruption in my fights. My faulty memories, and knowing that I had likely made this trip many times before. The gentle power of my artifacts, the Akabeko, the dreamcatcher, the Beast statue. And now the golden horn, latent power simmering inside it. I had tucked it into my satchel, which was also feeling rather full.

And the latest addition, the power offered in my mind. I was sitting under the fraying awning of an abandoned shop, shuffling through my bag to try and find what it was.

First thing under inspection was Truth, the blasphemous book. It seemed exactly the kind of thing to offer power, and then perhaps call in a debt at some later date. Was it cursed?

But pushing my senses through the pages detected no power, just knowledge.

The Enchiridion was next, the thick cover weighty in my hands. I turned it over, and probed it with my mind, searching for its Significance.

And there it was, that familiar feeling. It’s signature—temperament, was perhaps a better word—identical to the one that had offered me power during the fights. Being the focus of such worship and dedication in the Nest must have eventually imbued it with power, and now it was sharing it with me.

I opened it, and flipped briefly through the pages. Past the introduction, the lamenting of the death of the Phoenix, it was full of notes. Diagrams, incomprehensible scribbles, notes of a very focused scholar. Either a genius, with topics and concepts above my understanding, or a madman’s ramblings. Considering the legitimate power I’d been offered, I thought it more likely to be the former.

A few things caught my Eye, though, things my perception could parse. An inked feather, painted with a familiar blue and labeled ‘Unstable Molecular Density.’ Strange, floating shaped with oblong angles and machine-like parts, paired with the question ‘Infant Gods? Drops of the Divine?’

Scrawled over the top of one page in big black letters was the phrase They come from The Beyond. Underneath was a mess of words, written over itself several times and letts squeezed into every inch. ‘Can the power be harnessed and the secret to eternal life?’ and ‘could this bring back the dead?’

Eventually I closed the book. It was interesting, but not relevant. Not to my current quest.

I wondered what had happened to the author. If he would be glad his work was giving me strength now, unknown years later. What he would have thought of the worship of the cult.

It felt good to study. It had been a while since I’d had the chance, and my focus drifted to the other book I’d been neglecting.

I picked up Truth, and then paused. It had been a while since I’d meditated, and this last battle was the perfect opportunity to think over my actions. Somewhat frustrated, but determined to capture the moment before it escaped, I set the book back down and closed my eyes, focusing inward.

What had worked well in that battle? What could I glean? Normally, I was limited to analyzing my own tactics and deciding what had and hadn’t been effective.

But more and more, the fights had aspects of myself that weren’t me. I thought back to the pummeling I’d given the Taskmaster, the rush of weak attacks that had built into something stronger. It wasn’t something I could use consistently, it wasn’t even something that would be more useful to me than a normal strike.

But the speed was enticing. Perhaps not every attack had to be full power. If I could mix in a punch within the natural flow of battle, I could create my own flurry of blows.

It was similar, in the end, to how I made my changing of stances more efficient in order to better defend myself. I stood and paced, posed and sparred with the air, searching for inefficiency in my stances that I could transform into a quick and effortless strike.

Finally, I turned to pick Truth up once again, and opened it to read.

As I parted the pages, hostile intent sprang from within. I dropped it and flung myself backwards on instinct, and at the same time a green flame exploded from within the book.

I avoided the wildly twisting bonfire by inches, rolling away and then to my feet. The thing coalesced into an arm, eight feet long and purple, with clawed fingertips. It flexed, and then made a fist. A dagger appeared in its grip, nearly as large as me from hilt to tip.

I started humming my battle hymn. In the same instant, power flowed toward me, offered by the Enchiridion. A pure song, a song of devotion. It seemed… familiar.

I took it, though it didn’t seem to do anything, and the music settled in the back of my mind. Then I was forced to step backwards and lift my staff in defence, warding off two wild swipes of the enormous blade. The edge scraped along my staff, and was surprisingly easy to deflect. For its size, there wasn’t much strength behind it

Just speed. I was forced to jump back again as another flurry of strikes aimed for my head, the limb extending further and further in its attempts to reach me.

This had to be the work of the Collector. The green flame had been identical to the fire trapped inside the heads of her librarians. And she had quite verbally opposed me borrowing any of her books.

I kept building my battle hymn, and the song in the back of my head was rising to a crescendo. But slowly, too slowly. I had only moments, as my opponent swung faster and faster.

It reared back for a powerful swing, and I leapt in. I forced fury through my veins, claiming my anger at the Collector and pointing it at the cursed book. Spinning on my heel, I kicked it’s wrist and spun to the side, under the elbow. From there I searched again for Calm, to return to the defensive.

Instead, a twinge of familiar pain from my belly interrupted my thoughts. It was just the briefest of feelings, but long enough.

The knife took me across the forehead, and I was thrown backwards by the weight of the blade. I hit the ground hard, rolling until I hit a wall, feeling nothing for a moment but pain.

The first thing to return was my battle hymn, ringing unbroken in my ears. Next was the anger, roiling through me in a fervor now. Then my hearing, with a scrrt, scrrt noise. Finally I could focus enough to let my perception extend again, and I could see the book dragging itself toward me, using the knife as a mountain climber uses an ice pick. Stab, into the floor, and then dragging itself closer to me.

I rocked to my feet, swaying as I struggled to keep my balance. Blood seeped into my eyes, and I wiped it away with the back of my wrist.

It lunged, and this time I ripped the dark chain from my waist and threw it to meet the blade in midair.

Mid-flight, the chain animated. Shackles on either end cracked open like hungry mouths. Snakelike, it wound around the arm and tightened, matching speed for speed and holding it fast. The arm writhed fruitlessly, slashing at the air in stunted sweeps.

I took the opportunity to return to Calm, forcing the violent beating of my heart to fade into the back of my mind, focusing on the best course of action.

But still, under my facade of peace was a burning frustration. I’d been ambushed, mugged, maimed, and now this interrupted my studying. The parasite in my body was not only some distant fear but actively getting me hurt in battles. My whole world had been turned upside down and I was fumbling through blinder than I’d ever been before, and I wanted to kill something, but I didn’t have the tools to take this thing down easily.

The chains lost their life and fell to the floor, freeing the arm.

So I called out to the Influence in my mind. Please, I thought, Give me something powerful this time.

I felt the technique settle into my mind like a familiar friend, though I’d never performed it before. My staff felt weighty in my hands, like a hammer poised to strike.

Sometimes, when you ask, the universe listens.

I spoke the Word.

CLEAVE

to break asunder

I flung myself forward, throwing every layer of my battle hymn behind my blow and swinging my staff in a two-handed strike. The Divine guided my hand, pointing the blunt, blacksmiths-hammer-attack like a needle through cloth. It hit the arm and didn’t stop, crushing, bludgeoning.

The power carried all the way to the ground. When it landed, the stone shattered, and shards flew back to nick against my cheeks.

The arm twisted, flopped, and then faded into smoke.

The technique, the mysterious song in the back of my mind, and the Divinity all faded from my body at the same time, leaving me standing with my staff clutched in both hands, swaying like a drunkard with sudden exhaustion. I looked down, and at my feet was the book. Or the remains of it, rather.

It was torn into pieces, cover broken, pages scattered. I touched it, hesitantly.

Nothing. No significance left, no knowledge to be gleaned. If I’d had the sight of a regular person, perhaps I could have gathered hints from the scraps. But tattered like this, the book had lost all important Significance, and I was blind.

I allowed my frustration to vent by punching the floor, gripping pages tight enough to rip them more. I went through them one by one, searching for any with a remnant of memory left.

Instead, I found another book.

A small one, barely more than five pages bound loosely together. It had pieces of Truth still attached to either side, clearly having been placed inside, perhaps as an extra chapter.

Written in scrawled handwriting on the first page was the title, The Art of War.

I picked it up, inspecting it. It wasn’t damaged as far as I could tell, and the Significance was strong. It was also by a different author entirely, the signatures distinct. Had the author of Truth pilfered this to add to their own book?

It was no replacement for whatever information I had lost in the first, but perhaps it would still have something useful contained within.

I picked it up, opened it, and began to skim. This time, I wasn’t going to let myself be interrupted.

[uranium-city]

I was gonna make a joke about how I could write an essay on the narrative importance of the reversed half but !! i change my mind. no more jokes i’m actually gonna do it

so right off the bat the reversed part of TME & the non-reversed part of TME are not the same song. I don’t just mean that “duh one’s reversed so of course it’s not the same song”, but that if you were to play the reversed half of TME forwards it wouldn’t be exactly the same as the normal forward version. For example- the reversed half has a number of sample voices from Alan Ladd in Box 13 (the argument about sailing to Timbuktu you can faintly make out in the background) & a reading of Plato’s Apology at the end of the reversed segment. It’s also much more polished, lacking the distortion effect on “I have a good heart albeit insane”, the clunky metal sound that plays during the bridge, & the Murders, Sunkist Hawaii, & Beethoven (?) samples that play right before the axon dendrite part of the song. This leaves us with four distinct versions of the Mind Electric- The non-distorted reversed, the distorted non-reversed, the distorted reversed, & the non-distorted non-reversed. The non-distorted reversed & the distorted non-reversed were the clearly the creators’ intention seeing as they were the ones that played our on the album, while the other two are tracks you can get just messing around with reversing audio. 

hopefully that didn’t get too confusing 😭 now I’d like to look at exactly why the creators chose the two intended versions to play out as they did. this does get a little personal interpretation-y here & I know everyone has vastly different interpretations on wtf is going on in this album but I’ll try to stick to the most generally accepted theories here. So The Mind Electric is generally considered to be about Simon’s descent into insanity. He becomes more & more incomprehensible & becomes a shell of his former self as the song progresses. What’s one thing the reversed portion has going for it? It’s incomprehensible. It’s gibberish, it sounds like the ramblings of a mad man. This leads me to believe that the reversed portion is us experiencing the trial & Simon’s condemning from an outside perspective. We are witnessing this event from the general public’s point of view- the general public that doesn’t see Simon’s half of the story. they see him as this incomprehensible madman & nothing more. The reason why I think this idea is so plausible is because of those sample voices I mentioned earlier that are in the reversed half but not in the forwards half. These sound like random bystanders discussing the situation from an outside point of view. For example- there’s the whole Box 13 sample which talks about a man sailing off to Timbuktu, which mirrors the idea that Simon escaped the infirmary & sailed off during Time Machine / Stranded Lullaby (let’s go foreshadowing). There’s that one voice from a sample I’m unsure of that exclaims “you ought to be ashamed of yourself”, perhaps portraying someone scolding Simon for the crime (regardless if he’s guilty or not). & then there’s Plato’s Apology-the trial of Socrates, which could show how the general public interpreted Simon’s trial. 

We don’t see what actually happened during the song until the non-reversed half, which I believe to be Simon’s point of view. Here, those background voices discussing the events of the album are completely gone- showing that lack of an outsider’s perspective. Instead in its place are the samples before the axon-dendrite section I mentioned earlier. The most notable is the sample from Murders- an event that only Simon witnessed firsthand. No one in the general public would know what actually happened that night, hence why the sample is lacking in the reversed part- but Simon would, only further suggesting that the forwards distorted half is meant to represent his point of view. There’s also the distorted Sunkist Hawaii, which could represent some other memory of Hawaii Simon has that’s now being distorted in his descent into madness, & what I believe to be a Beethoven sample iirc?? which could be the same thing except instead of a happy Hawaii memory being twisted it’s some inherently bad memory that’s making its way to the forefront of his brain during this tough time. This version of the song, while actually being comprehensible, is also more distorted & messy than the revered part. The way the distortions progressively worse during the song could also go to show that Simon actually experienced a descent into madness, unlike the the reversed half which remains pretty consistently undistorted throughout- falsely suggesting that he was always of this mental state & not driven to insanity through the hospital staff’s mistreatment.  

I think these two versions of the song compliment each other wonderfully to show that Simon was never truly understood by the general public & how they forever maimed his image by falsely painting him as this insane murderer, & not someone who was unfairly abused by the justice system over his mental illness. The non reversed half gets this point across well, sure, but I think showing us the reversed half only strengthens the themes of the song & shows us how bad things really were for Simon. I think the subtle changes they made between these two version are often overlooked because people don’t wanna listen to the reversed half, but I genuinely think the reversed half has a strong narrative reason to be in the album & i appreciate it so much.

that’s just my personal theory ofc 😭 i think it’s neat

in love w the person who commented this on the mind electric instrumental

[rallamajoop]

Some musings on symbiote morphology (AKA when size does matter)

So, back when Venom was still in cinemas, I saw it with a friend who (like me) enjoyed it mightily -- though said friend did roll her eyes pretty hard at the She-Venom scene, because of course the female!Venom has to be skinny and sexy. Of course she does.

I mean, the sexual dimorphism on display here is, uh... pretty extreme.

Usually, this would’ve gotten to me too. Few issues in genre film stick in my craw like the double standards applied to male and female bodies (ask me my thoughts on the likes of Wonder Woman or Gamora at your peril). So it was a little surprising to find that this was one I was mostly willing to shrug off.

Why? Well, that requires a bit of backing up and some more context. But mostly, it’s the perfect jumping-off point for a whole lot of rambling about visual shorthands and how symbiote morphology has been handled in the comics over the years, which apparently I had a whole essay’s worth of thoughts on. So here we go.

Now, Comic!Venom =/= Movie!Venom. They aren’t the same character, don’t have the same history, and their biology doesn’t follow the same rules.  But one is still the basis for the other, so we’re going to start waayyy back at the beginning.

Since the symbiote's introduction back in '84, precious little about the species has remained consistent through the many writers and retcons, but one detail that Marvel was -- mostly -- consistent on back in the early days is that the shape a symbiote takes depends a lot on the body of its host. So when Spider-man was wearing the symbiote the result was (by design) literally just Spider-man-but-in-black:

But Venom's next host did not have the muscularly-lean body of Peter Parker, he had the jacked-up muscle-mountain that was Eddie Brock’s -- and the result is the Venom we all know and love.

Whereas when completely-normal-human-woman Anne Weying first bonds with the Venom symbiote in Sinner Takes All, we get a much slimmer She-Venom.

You can see the same trends at work with the Life Foundation Five and various other examples. So, in the comics at least, there’s some internal consistency explaining why He-Venom and She-Venom should look so very different. (Why Eddie and Anne should be such wildly different sized humans is a whoooole other topic, but best left in the Don’t Get Me Started pile for now.)

Of course, when the guy you've cast as Eddie has the physique of Tom Hardy rather than, say, He-Man, the logic of why Venom looks so huge falls apart. 

  ⬥ Venom and She-Venom, actual size comparison.

While comic book writers of the 80's may have been able to convince a generation of fans not to question why a professional journalist would be jacked enough to dwarf Captain America, film adds a layer of realism and audience expectations that would make that a much harder sell (not to mention limiting your casting options to a much smaller pool). Casting Tom Hardy was inarguably the right call. 

If Eddie no longer looked like Venom, the other solution would have been to make Venom look more like Tom Hardy--but good luck getting that past the existing fanbase. When it comes to pleasing the longtime fans, it's safe to say that Venom, not Eddie, is the character who has to look the part. Plus, Venom is entirely CG, so casting and realism no longer have to matter. Fanboys can have their giant Venom and tiny She-Venom, and the fangirls can have Tom Hardy getting all prettily roughed up. There are worse solutions.

Don't get me wrong: they could and absolutely should have evened up the difference on screen by giving She-Venom some extra body mass (she is on screen for like ten seconds, the fanboys can effing deal). But when the key decision that fucked up those ratios is making Eddie so much slimmer and sexier than he was originally supposed to be, I am unusually willing to give them a tentative pass. I mean, I love comics!Eddie too, but I can’t see him working on screen.

While I’m talking symbiote-bodies, it’s worth going into some of the other reasons to make Eddie+symbiote so huge, the obvious ones being to a) make him more threatening, and b) emphasise that Eddie's bonded with the symbiote in a way Peter never did. As a shape-shifter, Venom can make his host look bigger but not smaller (which is presumably why Rad Eddie may look younger than regular!Eddie, but is still suspiciously large for a skateboarder hanging with teens).

But size isn't the only way to make a character like Venom threatening. Compare Carnage, who is much more dangerous than Venom -- but (along with his host) fairly consistently drawn as smaller and leaner than the original.

He's still plenty threatening, though -- not because he's huge, but because he's completely bugfuck nuts and into murder for recreation. His design gets this across with a texture less like skin than a mass of veins and tentacles. Size is a good visual shorthand for danger, but it's not the only shorthand that works for symbiotes of the 90′s heyday.

You can see the same logic at work in Toxin too (a lesser-known and sadly mistreated Carnage-spawn from the early 00's). Precious little about Toxin's look remained consistent from one creative team to the next, but the impact of the host body is still there. His first host, Pat Mulligan, was a pretty average-sized dude, which is reflected in his bonded form (left), but when Eddie gets the Toxin symbiote later on, we get a much bigger Toxin (right). And Eddie's Toxin has more tentacles and rougher skin, so we know he's not going to be friendly (Eddie was really not in a good place at this point in his history).

Perhaps the most interesting example is Agent Venom, who turns up when the military bonds the Venom symbiote to Flash Thompson: disabled vet and card-carrying Spidey fan. His Venom-look is a brilliant bit of storytelling-through-design: the face and overall build hearkens back to Spider-man's time in the symbiote, the equipment signposts his military connections (past and present), and black will always be the signifier of a guy working black ops.

Perhaps most important, there's no mouth (compare both Spidey and Toxin #1), which is our sign that the symbiote's under control -- drugged into submission by the military, in fact.

But key to Flash's time in the role is that the Venom symbiote doesn't always stay drugged and docile, and whenever it starts to break free, Agent Venom morphs into Venom's traditional look -- gaping mouth, no belts or shoulder pads, and lots of bulky muscles a la the original flavour Eddie Brock (you can see him mid-transformation on the left below).

Does that make sense, when Flash is the host? Probably not, but comic book logic, as usual, is suspended for the sake of visual shorthand: fans know what Venom is "supposed" to look like, so that's what he looks like when the comic wants to telegraph that Flash is losing control. And that, I suspect, is why Lee Price's Venom (above right) looks more like Eddie's, even though Lee Price looks more like Flash. Price may be the one in charge, but he’s also a madman, so his Venom has to look out of control. The comics have officially hit Tom Hardy territory: Venom is huge now because people have come to expect Venom to look like the original Eddie-Brock!Venom, regardless of who’s inside.

There are bigger exceptions to the rule, however -- two of the more interesting turned up almost simultaneously in 2015, when both Venom!Flash and Toxin!Eddie got significant redesigns in the pages of Venom: Space Knight and Carnage (2015). Now Flash's Venom is the bulky muscular one, while Eddie's Toxin looks slimmer than Eddie has ever been before or since. What's going on here? Did the artists just screw up?

Well, not entirely -- the characters haven't just flipped looks, they've flipped roles. Now Toxin's the one being drugged into submission by a US agency (and we can only assume those drugs somehow prompt a symbiote to produce pouches, because we're two-for-two on that front). Meanwhile, Venom's been "purged of corruption" and has finally bonded with Flash as a full partner, which may be why they opted for something closer to his original look. Note that Venom has no mouth, and Toxin's is positively restrained by symbiote standards, which tells you a lot about the temperament we can expect from both of them.

That said, I don't think either design really works. Venom's new look is a real step back in creativity from his Agent Venom days, and the helmet-face would be better suited to a mech design than a symbiote who's being treated as a real character for the first time. Meanwhile, Toxin’s look doesn't really work for Eddie, for all the same reasons it did work for Flash: Eddie isn't a trusted agent in this scenario, he's more like an intelligent animal on a short leash. It isn't just the builds that are wrong -- none of the story comes across well in these designs.

All in all, the longer Venom’s been around, the less the standard host=symbiote rules seem to apply. Venom is huge because his look is sufficiently iconic that that’s what the fans expect, regardless of who’s on the inside, or whether we’ve just rewritten his entire backstory and made the jump to film.

Speaking of which, it’s worth pointing out that there is actually precedent in the comics for female symbiotes who aren't drawn like a bikini model in a layer of black body paint. One is Patricia Robertson, who bonds with the "Venom" symbiote (read: not actually the Venom symbiote) in the 2003 Venom series.

Though Trish is a woman of fairly average build, her "Venom" is virtually indistinguishable from Eddie's (too much so, if anything -- it's very hard to tell which is which when they clash). Unfortunately, the 2003 series is otherwise an ugly, incomprehensible mess of a comic, containing almost nothing that has ever been referenced again. I can really only recommend it to absolute completists.

Somewhat better handled is Tarna, a skrull Agent of the Cosmos who appears in Venom: Space Knight. Tarna's symbiotic look is not remotely feminine, and one suspects that's the point: it's ugly, threatening, and gives no clue as to who's inside. (Her symbiote can also separate from her while maintaining form, making the comparison pic unusually easy for me).

But as a shapeshifting alien bonded to a shapeshifting symbiote, Tarna perhaps doesn't make the best example for general principles. It’s worth keeping in mind that every design has a storytelling function too: Patricia’s Venom needs to be mistakable for the original Venom for plot reasons, and the reveal that Tarna is a humanoid woman under her symbiote is set up as a surprise. But the creators of the film wanted us to know that was Anne under the symbiote from the moment she appeared, so sexy!She-Venom it is.

All that said, at the very end of the day, I’d much rather not have to make these excuses for the film. I’d much rather see more Tarnas and fewer She-Venom’s, and both film and comics have a long way to go before we get there yet.

[tuff-and-fluff-archives]

The Virtue of Silence

Word Count: 1163

Warnings: None

Summary: Junkrat sets a world record by nearly ruining Valentine’s Day two entire weeks before it begins, and Ruby learns there’s just as much risk as there is reward to dating an unhinged convict with a bad case of never shutting up.

Ok so I wanted this to be a comic but I was too tired and it woulda taken too long and some other third excuse, so here’s a fic instead! I was going for a more light-hearted and silly tone, and while I don’t think I quite succeeded, I still had fun. I was also trying to write something less than 1000 words, but uh... I think it’s pretty clear I didn’t manage that. *looks off into the sun wistfully* Maybe some day...

Ruby plopped down on the couch, a bowl of spaghetti in one hand and the television remote in the other; usually she would be dining at the table across from her boyfriend, but Junkrat was out on yet another one of his heists. If she remembered correctly, he and his partner-in-crime Roadhog had ventured to Paris, but that was, unfortunately, all she knew. It was unusual for Junkrat not to share all the details of his latest schemes with her, and even though Roadhog had reassured her that he would be keeping the reckless Aussie safe, she still felt uneasy about not knowing exactly what kind of trouble the two would be getting into.

She flicked on the TV before tossing the remote aside and picking up her fork, twirling up a clump of spaghetti as a series of commercials played until at last, the program she wanted began.

“Tonight, on A Moment in Crime…”

Ruby knew that this particular show tended to keep up-to-date on criminal events, so if Junkrat and Roadhog had already finished their heist, she’d be sure to hear about it here. Sure enough, their mugshots appeared on screen, and Ruby perked her head up as she shoveled a forkful of spaghetti into her mouth.

The overdramatic narrator continued, “These notorious criminals have spread destruction and mayhem across the globe, but could the pyromaniac known as Junkrat… have his own romantic flame?”

Ruby froze mid-chew, her eyes going wide and spaghetti dangling from her mouth as she focused intently on the TV, praying that this story wouldn’t be going where she thought it might be. The screen changed to a video- with the unstable quality making it clear that it was recorded on a phone- that showed the two Junkers together at the outdoor seating of a cafe, with Junkrat in plain view and Roadhog sitting with his back to whoever was recording. Junkrat was mid-ramble about something, and as the audio cut in and Ruby heard his far-too familiar voice, she felt her blood run cold.

“-d’ya think, Hoggie? I just know that Roobs is gonna love this place!” Junkrat spoke far too loudly, not even noticing that he was being recorded. “It’s a bit posh f’me, but she’s been goin’ on about doin’ somethin’ special fer that whole Valee-Day thing, so I think I’m alright riskin’ looking like a tall poppy, long as I can get me girl ta smile!”

The audio lowered, and the narrator spoke over the video. “This footage, uploaded just hours ago, was taken at a shop outside the Cabaret Luna in Paris. The explosives-obsessed Junker seems to be discussing plans for a supposed date with an unknown person whom he refers to as ‘Rubes’. The criminal goes on to talk about methods of traveling to the city of love with this mysterious person, before the brave witness who uploaded the video is noticed. Viewers should be warned that the following footage may be frightening to some.” 

The audio of Junkrat’s voice came back in. “-wish I could be up on the bird-boat with her, but I’m pretty sure I’ve made it on the no-fly list by now, heheh, so I guess we could just meet up here.” As he kept rambling, his eyes wandered towards the recorder until he made eye contact with the camera. He had to do a double-take before he finally noticed that he and Roadhog were being filmed, and the cheery grin on his face quickly turned into an angered scowl as he stood up in his chair and stomped his boot onto the table with his fists raised. “Oi, the fuck d’ya think you’re doin’, mate?!” Junkrat quickly reached down for his frag launcher, which was placed beside the chair he had previously been sitting in.

The video became incomprehensibly shaky as the person recording began to flee, repeating “merde” between panicked breaths as Junkrat shouted for them to “get the hell back here”, and the video stopped just as an explosion went off behind the recorder. The screen freeze-framed on the last second of footage and slowly zoomed in to create a dramatic effect as the narrator spoke up again. “The uploader luckily managed to escape by running into a neighboring store, but the footage they posted gives us a startling view into the personal life of these violent criminals.” The show cut back to a still shot of Junkrat from the video just presented as the narrator continued, “Is it possible that this wanted convict is actually involved in a romantic relationship? Is there someone out there insane enough to partner themselves with a pyromaniac like Junkrat? Or is this simply the delusional ramblings of a madman?”

The show cut back to Junkrat and Roadhog’s mugshots. “As always, if you have any information about these two dangerous men, or any knowledge of the unknown person, again, referred to as ‘Rubes’ in this video, please contact us today. Remember, crime doesn’t pay, but we-”

Ruby had to shut off the television before she could hear more. She stared forward blankly, her spaghetti weakly hanging from her pursed lips as she processed what she had just seen. She didn’t even have the energy to bite down, as all her brainpower was immediately going into panicking as hard as she could. She wondered if this was how omnics felt when they short-circuited; her mind was just piling one bad thought on top of another, leading to a never-ending wave of fear washing over her. Damn that man and his big mouth…

***

“Oh, Roooobs!” Junkrat shouted as he burst through the front door to Ruby’s apartment, throwing down his frag gun and the sack of stolen goods in his hand as he held his arms out expectantly, waiting for his girlfriend to run from around the corner and jump right into his arms as she had always done before. Instead, he saw her slowly move out from the kitchen with her arms crossed as she leaned her shoulder against the wall.

“Welcome back, Jamison,” Ruby spoke in an alarmingly calm tone with a nearly unreadable, but clearly unhappy expression.

Junkrat immediately broke into a cold sweat at the use of his full name as Ruby stared him down. “Er…” he put his arms down just a bit, “i-is there somethin’ wrong, sweets?”

Ruby simply glared at him harder, making him panic and hunch down as he looked at the floor and nervously rubbed his hand. What the hell had he done? Did he forget to say goodbye before he left? Had he eaten the last of one of her favorite snacks and put the empty box back? Did he leave the toilet seat up?

“So,” Ruby said, “you go to any nice cafes while you were in Paris?”

Junkrat snapped his head back up as his eyes went wide. “How did you know?” 

Ruby rubbed her face and sighed. “Jamie, my dear. We need to discuss the importance of thinking before you speak…”

[spookyspaghettisundae]

You Had One Job

The bass droned on.

The music pulsed like liquid fire in his veins. The rhythmic thumping filled every fiber of his being. Dulcet tones from a feminine singing voice pierced the fog in his mind. But the drug-induced haze filtered out all but the sound of that voice, rendering the words incomprehensible.

He lied there on the velvet-covered couch, sinking down into infinity while the arrays of bright lights strobed and danced around him, turning the silhouettes of party-goers around him into crazed shadows swaying and bobbing and weaving in and out of sync with the DJ’s performance.

The thick upholstery threatened to swallow him, a blood-red sea of comfort. He fidgeted and shifted and swiveled in his seat, preventing panic from overwhelming his senses and attempting to stop any fear from accelerating the fading of his drug-fueled buzz.

The woman in the glittering black and silver dress sitting next to him said something. Or shouted it. Her lips looked like shouting, but he still only heard the bass, and other distant sounds. Things that might as well have been thunderclaps or bombs exploding, but were muffled through the haze.

“What?”

“You’re looking a bit pale,” she shouted to him. He assumed she was shouting, but he could hear her somewhat clearly.

Moments blurred together, and he found himself sinking into a wider couch, upholstered with sturdy black leather or latex or some other shiny black textile he could not identify, nor did he care to. Before that, her clammy hand had dragged him across the dance floor and up a wide flight of stairs and before that, someone punched him in the face after he had splashed his drink into someone else’s eyes.

His jaw hurt now, and he was confused as to how it all had happened. But the haze was clearing, allowing him to scowl in frustration as everybody around him refused to get him a drink, and he felt too woozy to set out on the epic quest of obtaining one himself.

Thick glass windows put the club’s lower level on perfect display, but their thickness reduced the volume of the loud and noisy music to such a low level that he could now understand any conversation. Not that anybody spoke up here, though.

The attractive lady in the black-silver dress smiled at him from where she sat now, on the other sofa across from him.

He registered with delay that she had sent everybody outside and two bodyguards now flanked the entrance to this VIP lounge, with their massive backs turned to the door behind them and keeping everybody else out. Her smile was wide and enticing. She had long straight blonde hair, draping down one side of her face, lending her a strange mystique and a distinct air of elegance. Everything about her appealed to him, now that he got a good look at her.

He was alone with her in here. Nobody would disturb them.

Then the excitement and arousal that first took hold of him made way for fear and paranoia. Her smile stretched from ear to ear and looked knowing.

He was alone with her in here. Nobody would be able to disturb them.

His nostrils flared and his breathing turned fast and shallow. His eyes burned with a dryness caused by not blinking. The high he had been riding from the cocktail of drugs and booze was shifting—transforming—turning into a horror trip with each passing second.

Her words trickled out like cold water running down a sheet of sleek metal when she asked, “You just couldn’t follow rules—simple rules—could you, stupid?”

He did not know this woman, but she seemed to know him.

Only now did he realize that his fingers curled into the couch cushions with such force that the leather audibly cracked under the pressure he exerted on it. With such force as if he was about to be thrown out of a car riding at breakneck speed, clinging on for his life.

The world spun around him and the music’s bass thumped on, causing the bulletproof glass windows to vibrate to the rhythm.

“You had one job,” she said. Her smile drooped and transformed into a scowl. She did not blink either, but her stare cut like a thousand knives, slicing him to pieces as her gaze swept up and down his visage until locking onto his eyes with deadly contempt.

She leaned forwards and he yelped when her clammy fingertips touched upon his forehead. Using only her index finger and middle finger, she wiped across, following the crease of his wrinkled brow.

“One. Job,” she sneered at him. “You just had to stay clean. How hard can it be?”

Leaning back and examining his sweat that she had trapped between her fingertips, smearing it in between them and her thumb, she licked her lips. There was nothing lascivious about it. It was all predatory.

He began to wonder if she was even human.

The deal had been simple—he had to go clean for a month, and they would give him payments every two weeks. A handsome amount, in fact. In turn, all he had to do was donate blood at the end of the month.

Problem was, his drug addiction caught back up with him. No matter how generous the pay was shaping up to be, long-term, he thought he could get away with popping some pills, smoking some shit, and getting hammered. With the donation day still one week away, he could have just gone clean for that week. How would they notice? It was not like these people were government. They were corporate or underworld.

He did not really care which. Until now.

Her hand shot towards his face and grabbed him by his cheeks. Trapped between her thumb and fingers, she squeezed so hard that his mouth was forced open. He groaned and tried to writhe his way out of her vice, but decided against fighting back. She probably only needed to snap her fingers, and then those two gorilla-sized bouncers would come in and snap him in two. She clamped down harder and then jerked his head around.

His vision went pitch-black for the first split second, then exploded into a sea of stars in the next, and he reeled as he got acquainted with the cold hard floor after she had tossed him face-first into it. His forehead hurt like hell. Save for the glossy shiny surface of a high-heeled black stiletto in front of him, her shoe almost blended in with the rough tar-colored surface of the floor, both only an inch away from his face.

“Anybody ever tell you what happens to bad little bitches like you who don’t do their job right?”

He did not need to see her face to sense the sinister smile crawling upon her lips.

“I’m sorry,” was the only thing that escaped his mouth, coming out all crooked and hoarse.

One of the other guys, in fact, had told him.

Billy said that they had done a deal with the devil, and that hell hounds will hunt you down and rip you apart. It happened to someone else before. And whatever they were getting paid was not nearly enough for this, Billy had said, time and time again. He had thought that Billy was going crazy over the withdrawal from his alcohol addiction. Dismissed those words as ramblings of a madman.

And then, just like that, Billy had vanished.

How had they found him? Who was this woman?

He dared to peek up at her. Instead of a sinister smile, she glared at him with fiery wrath written across her face.

“You’re sorry? You’re sorry, you say.”

He winced as another flurry of stars exploded before his inner eye, set off by her stomping down on his head and causing his skull to make another unpleasant contact with the ground.

“You will be sorry, you little shit. You don’t even know how sorry you will be.”

The weight disappeared from his temple and he slowly rolled onto his side, just in time to see her walking away from him, leaving towards the exit of the VIP lounge.

Was he free to go?

To his surprise, it seemed so. Somewhat. The liberty of leaving was questionable—the two bouncers watching the entrance to the VIP lounge dragged him out, holding him up by his arms in an unpleasant grapple. He dared not resist. These two men were mountains of muscle, dwarfing him in both shape and height.

The loud music caused his head to throb and he felt a massive headache coming on. The buzz had worn off way too quickly, he thought to himself.

Party-goers made way and stepped aside so the bouncers could drag him through the locale, escorting him forcefully to some desolate hallway behind the main hall, past a couple making out in blissful ignorance, and towards a set of double doors illuminated by the deep green glow of a fire exit sign.

The loud noise of the doors swinging open and hitting the brick wall outside make him cringe, and onward the two huge men dragged him. They tossed him against a dumpster in the back alley and he crumpled onto the wet asphalt. The smell of ozone hit his nostrils and centered him, killing his buzz off even quicker and rooting him even deeper back into reality.

He closed his eyes, ready for what he expected to follow next. He had given up.

But instead of breaking his kneecaps, or knocking out some teeth, or anything else, he opened his eyes to see that the emergency exit doors had closed behind the bouncers, and he stood alone in the alleyway. He looked up and down its entire length and saw only some people from the party hanging out in a few small groups, shooting him dirty looks.

He scrambled onto his feet and wobbled while he attempted to stand up straight, bracing himself against the dumpster. Then he hobbled towards the nearest assembly of people and asked one of them if he could have a hit from the joint they were sharing.

“Fuck off,” said one of the guys in the group. The other people broke out into laughter, but it was at him. He could tell that he was uninvited to their party, too.

He walked away, not keen on suffering any more humiliation. After a few steps, he swallowed and pulled his jacket shut, wiping the grit and dirt on his hands off on his pants. He decided to call it a night and walk away.

His heart began to race again once reality set in.

This was not okay. Why were they letting him just walk away?

Corporate would have collected somehow, and underworld would have roughed him up way worse, he figured. But here he was, walking away with a headache and probably some black and blue spots and not much worse for the wear. And he had gotten high as a kite tonight, and still had some money for more dope, stashed away in his lousy apartment.

Optimism over the situation never set in, though. He kept looking over his shoulder as he wandered the city streets that night, soon remembering where he was and where he needed to go to get home.

On the next empty street, a dark blue van passed by him, and everything inside of him screamed, every instinct told him to run. He instinctively knew that something was wrong about this vehicle.

Its red tail lights flared up as someone pushed the brakes and it came to a smooth stop.

He wanted to run, but he also felt silly. It could have been a coincidence and he would look like an idiot if he fled now, or it could be undercover cops and he would look suspicious if he ran off like a headless chicken. His own thoughts paralyzed him, and his dread tossed more fuel into the flames of smoldering inaction.

The side door of the van rolled open, and something peered out from the darkness.

Something that growled.

Something unbelievably evil.

A man jumped out, landing on all fours. At first, he thought that this man was wearing furs, but it looked more like this man was covered in fur. Like a dog. Or a wolf. The wolf-man snarled at him, glaring at him through glowing yellow eyes. A mouth opened and the teeth looked human, except there were way too many of them.

A heavy metal chain clanked as it hit the sidewalk next to the wolf-man, dangling from a collar around his neck. The chain’s links scraped and screeched when he suddenly lurched forward. Then the wolf-man lept at him.

Before he could scream, the wolf-man had ripped out most of his neck with sharp claws the size of razor blades. Then the teeth snapped and gnashed and chewed through flesh and muscle, ripping and tearing.

The pain he felt arrived with delay, numbed by the dimishing after-effects of the drugs in his system.

The wolf-man cackled as he dragged his dying victim into the van. It did not sound human. Not one bit.

The side-door closed behind him.

This man was never seen again.

“He had one job,” said the lady in silver and black. She smoked a long slender cigarette and observed from the alleyway.

Tires screeched when the van drove off again. She flicked some ashes from her cigarette and took another drag from it.

Now she had to find another loser to take over that job.

—Submitted by Wratts

[yatescountyhistorycenter]

A look at the Crozier murder trial

By Jonathan Monfiletto

If you read Stafford C. Cleveland's “History and Directory of Yates County,” published in 1873, then you might think the Crozier family was a normal and ordinary, happy and healthy family – and you would probably be correct, at least for the time.

According to Cleveland's entry on the Crozier family, George E. Crozier was born in 1833 and married Fannie H. Becker in 1855. The couple lived on George's family homestead in Benton, which George's father, Adam Crozier Jr., and uncle, John, had inherited from their father, Adam. In turn, Adam Crozier had purchased the farm on lot 51 in Benton after immigrating to the area from England.

George and Fannie are described as having one son, Frank, who was born in 1857.

Yes, from that information, the Crozier family seems like a regular, everyday family, perhaps a late-nineteenth century version of the Cleaver family from “Leave It to Beaver.” Yet, as anyone who is familiar with Yates County history might know, the Crozier family's story turned upside down just two years later.

The Penn Yan Express reported on October 10, 1875 that the body of Fanny Crozier – who died nearly three months before – was exhumed on the suspicion that her death came by a criminal, rather than natural, means as a result of poisoning. According to the article, the coroner would perform a chemical analysis on the body. Later, the analysis found evidence of arsenic in the stomach and the liver. Then, George Crozier was indicted – and convicted – of his wife's murder, yet he proclaimed his innocence until he died in prison 20 years after the trial.

Crozier went on trial in March 1876, and following an almost two-week trial, he was found guilty and sentenced to death by hanging. The New York governor later commuted the sentence to life imprisonment. In between the sentencing and commutation, Crozier wrote two letters – which are in the Yates County History Center's collection – to a “Cousin John” to adamantly proclaim his innocence and urgently seek the governor's help in his situation.

I came across these letters during my internship at the History Center in the summer of 2021 while cataloging boxes of archival documents. I actually didn't know what the first letter was, only that it didn't have an accession number and I needed Bill Murray's help to identify the document. From the moment Bill told me about Crozier and the murder trial, I have been fascinated by the story.

While the first letter was simply addressed to Cousin John, the second letter included the envelope it was sent in – addressed to John Southerland, member of Assembly. It turns out Cousin John was in fact the Assemblyman at the time, so he likely would have been able to get the governor's attention on Crozier's behalf if he felt so inclined.

Was Southerland actually Crozier's cousin, or was Cousin John just a term of endearment Crozier used for his Assemblyman? I'm not certain on that, although an article by Herbert A. Wisbey Jr. a century after the trial points out that Crozier's mother was Amy Southerland. Perhaps Crozier and Southerland were cousins on Crozier's mother's side.

What I am certain of is the fervent tone of these rambling letters. If you believe Crozier did indeed murder his wife, then this is the incomprehensible spewing of a madman covering up his guilt. If you believe Fanny died naturally and not by murder, then this is the desperate plea of an innocent man trying to set himself free.

As the story goes, according to Wisbey, Fanny became ill on July 15, 1875, and the family doctor prescribed medicine for food poisoning and made house calls. Fanny had severe stomach pains and vomiting again on July 26 and gradually weakened until she died on July 29. Coincidentally, George had allegedly been having an affair with 18-year-old Minerva Dutcher; George maintained it was innocent flirtation, but local gossip claimed it was a serious affair. The affair was reported as the motive for Crozier to kill his wife, though Wisbey indicates George “enjoyed the company of young girls” and Fanny simply put up with it and turned her eyes.

On March 8, March 15, and March 22, 1876, the Penn Yan Express carried weekly synopses of the trial. For the prosecution, various physicians and medical experts described the symptoms of arsenic poisoning, which seemed to be in line with Fanny's illness. Neither Fanny's apparent stomach ailment nor the medicine prescribed for it would have caused these symptoms, the doctors said. Other prosecution witnesses testified to Crozier's suspicious behavior during Fanny's illness and after her death and his equally suspicious encounters with Minnie Dutcher.

Defense witnesses – Crozier's son, Frank, and his brother, David, among them – attested to George and Fanny's good marriage and pleasant life throughout their 20 years together and his care for his wife during her illness. Witnesses also claimed Fanny had suffered from stomach pains for several years, believed she had cancer in her stomach, and told people she would kill herself before allowing herself to suffer. The defense brought doctors of its own to suggest arsenic could have been in the medicine prescribed to Fanny, enough poison to cause death.

Despite – or perhaps because of – Crozier's pleas and the work of others on his behalf (about 800 people signed petitions supporting his innocence), he spent the rest of his life confined at Auburn Penitentiary. Frank – described by Wisbey as “his loyal son” – died at age 30, nine years before Crozier died in 1896.

Whether Crozier killed his wife or whether she died naturally, George and Fanny are – one way or another – joined in eternity, as they are buried together, along with their son, in Benton Rural Cemetery. In fact, a white marble obelisk marks the Crozier family's resting place.

[clockwork-dinosaur]

this is something i started writing a few months ago but never really finished, based on this post by @miss-serket

(~1690 words)

Karkat wasn't sure where or when he originated, but he definitely knew it was a place and time nothing like where he found himself sitting. The tavern around him was dark and warm, filled with boisterous drinking songs and laughter. Barmaids went from table to table, refilling ale and biting their tongues as their asses were pinched by drunken patrons as they passed. He was thankfully ignored, his gray skin and orange horns obscured by the hood he kept pulled up. Locals didn't seem to care one way or another for trolls such as himself, but he felt better safe than sorry.

Karkat glared, which he often did, but for once he was glaring with a purpose. There was one man in particular, a burly human man with beady eyes underneath a heavy brow, that was particularly rough. One well-timed slap nearly sent a maid sprawled out on the floor. With her head down, face red with embarrassment and eyes watered with pain, she scurried away from the laughing brute.

With a fortifying gulp of his ale, Karkat stood.

“Hey, ass-brain!” he called across the tavern, lips pulled back to expose sharp fangs to the rude patron, whose eyebrows rose at the insult. “Yeah, I'm talking to you, you inbred son of a mule!”

The tavern quieted. The man stood, and even from across the tavern Karkat could easily see that the man was taller than him by several heads. Even so, Karkat continued to stare him down.

“Why don't you keep your clumsy hands to yourself, you goddamn oaf.”

Said clumsy oaf had a surprising amount of speed. Before he could jump out of the way, the man had bashed his wooden mug against Karkat's head, sending his vision swimming and ears ringing. He crumpled to the ground, managing to dodge another blow. The man spit on him with a glare.

“Why don't you shut your dirty trap, demon,” he growled.

Karkat wasn't afraid of dying, and he knew that man had the strength, lack of moral compass, and level of inebriation to kill him if he had the right provocation. From the ground, Karkat looked up and sneered.

“Considering the stench coming off your mangy body, I think you know a lot about dirty,” he said.

Something in the brutish man seemed to snap, and he picked Karkat up by the throat with a roar. Karkat's feet were lifted from the ground, the man staring into Karkat's gold and ruby colored eyes with murderous intent.

Suddenly there was a thud and the man's face went slack. He dropped to the ground, Karkat tumbling down as well, and was still. Karkat stared at the man long enough to confirm that he was alive and merely knocked out before he looked up.

A human, seemingly the same age as Karkat stood with his hands on a gleaming sword, face unreadable and half-hidden underneath a deep red hooded cloak.

“C'mon,” he said, pulling Karkat onto his feet and rushing them both from the tavern as quickly as Karkat's shaky legs would take him.

Karkat followed the human, not that he had much choice due to the vice-like grip he had on Karkat's hand. The human pulled him along, through alleys and down winding paths, muttering all the while.

Karkat wondered if he had just been saved or stolen away by a madman.

Eventually the human stopped between two houses that blocked them from view from the street and turned, a wide grin on his face as he lifted his hood to reveal pale blond hair and crimson eyes.

“That was, like, some Game Of Thrones shit or something, like I thought he was going to actually murder you right then and there. Nobody was even gonna stop him, damn. What a fucking asshole,” he said, talking quickly in an accent Karkat couldn't place.

“Who are you?” Karkat said before the human could start talking about something incomprehensible again.

“Oh, I'm Dave. Dave Strider. Your knight in shining armor,” he said, composing his face into neutrality.

“Where do you hale from, Knight Strider?”

Dave snorted. “Just call me Dave. I come from nowhere in particular. Wanderin' like a badass lone wolf through life with no worries.”

Karkat frowned. “What the hell are you on about all the time?”

“I, uh... Hey, that's no way to thank the guy who just saved your life,” he pointed out.

“You didn't need to save me, Dave,” Karkat said with a glare.

“I mean, I kinda did? Y'see, that big guy back there was probably seconds away from bashing that pretty nub-horned head of yours into the brickwork, making like the most fucked up Pollock painting to ever not exist yet. That guy coulda trademarked the leftover remains of your painful death and outdone an artist from like five hundred years from now.”

Karkat's heart skipped a beat, his eyes going wide. “What do you mean, five hundred years from now?” he asked, tone harsh.

Dave's whole body suddenly stilled, the energy he seemed to radiate in his jittery movements receding. “Nothing. I was just rambling, saying shit that makes no goddamn sense, as I do.”

Karkat shook his head, squinting. “Did someone send you? Does someone else- FUCK,” he shouted, balling his fists. “I'd been so damn careful, moving around and- just- DAMN IT ALL!”

“Whoa dude, nobody sent me,” Dave said, putting his hands up. “I think there's been a hell of a misunderstanding and on my end of it I think there's something here that seems to be relevant to... what I do.”

“What do you do?” Karkat asked suspiciously.

“I'll answer that if you tell me why you got so worked up about me talking about something that maybe might have something to do with five hundred years from now,” Dave said carefully. “An exchange of secrets.”

Where Karkat should have felt distrust, he felt a strange sort of blooming excitement. Perhaps Dave was like him, someone who death seemed not to touch, even as decades and centuries past and those around him succumbed to the passage of time.

“I am aware that I may sound liked a fucking lunatic but... I can't die. I've been around longer than I or anyone can remember,” Karkat said, his voice actually quiet.

Dave tilted his head. “So, you could actually be around five hundred years from now?”

“Unless more bastards like you step in while I try and do myself in, yes,” Karkat shot without thinking. A pained look crossed Dave's face and Karkat looked away.

“Alright, go on. This is an exchange, right?” Karkat said after a moment had passed.

“I can jump through time. I was born in the year nineteen-ninety-five.”

Karkat's eyes widened. “Shit.”

“That's like... five hundred years from now? It's what, fourteen-eighty-something right now, I wasn't too exact in this jump,” he said with a shrug. “I think being immortal is a pretty awesome thing to be though, how'd that happen?”

“I don't know,” Karkat said with a frown. “But I can assure you, it isn't awesome.” He crossed his arms and glowered at the ground. “Do you know how it feels to watch everyone you get close to die? To watch years pass and the entire damned world change around you while you're stuck? It's a fucking curse.”

Dave frowned. “Well, you won't have to watch me die,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, I can visit you at any point, any time in the future. If you want,” he said. “Maybe give you something to look forward to, at least. I can't stick around one point in time too long but at least I'll be a familiar face for a while.”

Karkat's heart pounded. Something to look forward to. If he was honest, he couldn't remember having something like that.

Hesitantly, he nodded. “Okay, Dave.”

“What's your name, by the way?” Dave asked.

“Karkat Vantas,” he said.

“Nice to meet you Karkat, even if I did have to save your ass from an angry bear to do so,” he said with the most subtle of self-satisfied smiles.

Karkat gave him a not-so-subtle annoyed sneer. Dave's face fell into impassiveness again and he cleared his throat.

“So, I really don't have much time left before I have to bounce out. Promise me you'll stay alive for another hundred years, okay?”

“Why a hundred?”

“It would be great if you would stay alive longer than that actually. But I have to make jumps a hundred years at a time- backwards or forwards, it doesn't matter. I don't know why, I don't know how I know these rules. I just always knew,” Dave explained, his fingers tapping anxiously against his leg. “I also know when I need to leave and it's getting around that time.”

Karkat frowned. “A hundred years from now, I'll see you, but for you...”

“It'll be like no time passed at all.” He raised his shoulders. “Unless I make other jumps I guess. But even then, it would be like a few weeks for me while a hundred years pass for you.”

“That sounds like unnecessarily complicated bullshit,” Karkat said.

Dave laughed. “It sure is, dude. So, I'll see you... in a century.”

He stuck out his hand awkwardly. Karkat took it, shook it firmly, and watched as Dave turned, his crimson cape billowing behind him and then disappearing in the long pre-dawn shadows.

For once, Karkat felt he wouldn't mind another one hundred years going by.

[black-th1rt3en]

End the new year with a POP and a BANG!

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ʜᴀᴘᴘʏ ɴᴇᴡ ʏᴇᴀʀ!

ᴶᴼᴷᴱᴿ'ˢ ᴿᴱˢᴼᴸᵁᵀᴵᴼᴺ: ᶠᵁᴺ ᴼᵛᴱᴿ ᴹᴼᴺᴱᵞ!

WARNING!: mature content y’all!!

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Also there’s a video that goes with this! I just posted it separately

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COLORS FLOATED WITH A RUBBER SHEEN, anchored by a taut plastic string tied around wads of colorful monopoly cash. None of it was real, even in the ridiculous amount - all fifty million of it.

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The balloons would waver in the slight breeze, sometimes dragging the cash-kedge around until they’d hit against each other and bounce back like a speed-bag. It made an uncomfortable squeak each time it happened, and it was the first thing he woke up to.

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The second was a horrible cold, which short analysis served to reveal his stark nakedness in an uninsulated room. Wide open with all but the windows and doors closed - revealing a grayscale warehouse between the rows of rising color. Down there was a pool of black, the scent ripping at his senses as it glared back at him in the dull reflection of some dull lights hanging above, shading the world in a soft rainbow.

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“Wha…” His lips were numb. Everything was numb and heavy, and his arms… was that rope? He couldn’t move them. He struggled, the friction rubbing at his skin and drawing lines of blood until they hit on the ledge below him. Dripping like a soft faucet. His tongue felt heavy as drool began to fall from his lips, also numb.

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A door slammed open out of his line of sight, and then a voice; one from nightmares, stuff twisted from rotten candy and bloodied lips vibrated through the air like a bolt of lightning. “Wakey wakey, eggs n’ shakey!” There was a string of giggles that followed, mirth seeping into the echoing words, “Did sleeping beauty get all rested up? I sure hope so! It’d be hilarious if you looked bad at your own going away party.”

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There was a short hiss, metal on metal, and a flicker of white came into vision: the sight of metal reflecting light. “Thing is, I don’t know if the rest of the invitations got lost, or no one wanted to see your sorry carcass burst into flames, but no one is here but you and me! Here I was thinking that roasting marshmallows is still a hip thing ta do at partiessss. Suppose I must’ve been wrong.”

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He came into view - the Joker - appearing menacing as ever, green hair long and lanky and pushed back from his face, purple suit tailored and the knife coming full circle as he swung his arms in wide gestures. Every movement was followed with wide, god fearing eyes.

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“You know - wait, wait waiiiiiit - how rude of me, are you cold?” He gestured to the stark nakedness of the man, who was shivering in nothing but his slick skin and a leaf to cover the more…uh, private of areas. “Anyways, y’know so I’ve got a story to tell you, right? It’s actually kinda funny, ha, becoz you’re in it! So, sooooo, I’m sitting in my nice ol’ abode makin’ preparations for the New Years party and I get a nice hospitality call from Niko and you know what he says? Apparently some complete idiot decided to steal all the funds for my little project. So P O O F! A magic transition from this year to the next is gone, because I’m left with next to nothing.”

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The Joker doesn’t laugh this time.

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“I’ll make it work though, I always do. But I couldn’t help but find something funny in it. You know what’s funny about it? Hmmmm? Maybe even, very p o s s i b l y the funniest thing I’ve ever heard?” He leers, teeth bared in a horrible play of a smile. “The thought, the smallest inkling even, that you thought you could burn me and get away clean.”

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Balloons around him, that horrible deadly simper playing on his lips; eyes blacker than death, like two gaping holes that were accentuated by the harsh lines shadowed in his face - he made the devil look pleasant.

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“Bo...B...Boss I sswearya’ve got the wrong idea here - !”

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He laughed, coldly this time, and the absolute chill in his faux amusement pinched harder than the atmosphere of the room.

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“Wrong idea? Wrong idea?!?” He lunged forward, knife reappearing in his grasp and pressing tightly to the man’s quivering bottom lip in a clear message. “Nossiree! You’ve got the wrong i d e a to think that I wouldn’t do this,” He gestured vaguely around him, “when you decided to stab ol’ Uncle Joker in the back. Did ya think I’d let it go to waste?”

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He was seething, foaming at the corners of his mouth and looking like some rabid dog. He turned away, breathing quickly from his nose before his head tucked back to look ahead, gaining some semblance of calmness.

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“Either way I suppose I should thank you,” he laughed shortly, breathlessly here. “just because I realized that full-scale isn’t always the route to really kick things off. I know I seem the flashy type and all, and I really truly am, but maybe jussss’ maybe my New Years resolution will entail me enjoying more of the smaller things in life, like balloons, and miscellaneous flammable stuff, then of course lighters… can’t be complete without a nice one from 7-11 amirite?” He pulled one seemingly from thin air, “Look it’s even got some smiley faces on that and… blood? Ha, I remember, poor register guy didn’t even see it comin for him. He heee.”

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A pause, and he grimaced.

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“Ahh, I’ve gotten off track, where was I, again?”

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He looked thoughtful for a moment and glanced at his wrist as if to check his time but there was no watch, and the man murmured past the knife a barely distinguishable answer.

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“Sh, yeah, I remember! Okay, so you went all houdini with my bucks, leaving just enough for me to throw this little hooplah together last minute to satiate the need for a colorful New Years. I mean if you’re not afraid to burn me, and presumably my money too, then why should I not return the favor? Gracious of me, right? I thought so too.” He giggled some, twisting the blade so it knicked his skin enough to spur feeling but turning the sharp part inwards to allow some restrained movement for a response. “What do you think?”

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“Pleas...please boss. I swear, I’ve got a family..! I swear to you - “

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“You s-suh-suh-swear to me? That’s cute. Cos I could’ve sworn the man on that tape with fifty million of my bucks in tow was you. It’s all here again now, but in monopoly form...” he tapped the knife against the inside of the man’s cheek a few times. “But if we’re making promises, I guess I should re-iterate-uhhh that this is going to hurt, a lotttttttt. And I can say that with about 99% confidence, the one percent being that I’ve never personaly experienced it before, I’ve just got a very good guess. Just make sure to give it a Yelp review if you survive, yeah? I mean I don’t know if you’re fingers will work if that does miraculously happen, but I’m all into miracles.“

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He drew the knife back, and in a single cat-like movement he concealed himself behind the man who was staring forward with blood dripping from his lip and tears streaming from his eyes. He shook his head, moaning incomprehensible pleas. The Joker pushed the chair forward, the scraping of the chair sounding like individual screams as it scraped on the floor and neared him towards the cesspool of black.

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He’d almost forgotten, what between the pain in his hands and the bitter cold and the ramblings of a madman - now his eyes, blurred by their own sorrow, could hardly look away from the fate below, accentuated by the little happy balloons floating around like it really was some sort of pathetic pity party.

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“Money’s miniscule in the grand scheme of things my boy, just gotta enjoy what you’ve got right in front of you.” He snickered, “I mean I surely will, but that’s because I’m not the one covered in flammable gel and about to go skinny-dipping in a fire-hot tub. Literally!”

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The Joker kicked the legs of the chair, watching as the foundation toppled to favor its weight forward and let the man capsize forward into the pool. It was deep enough for him to sit upright, but he’d certainly broken a shin or knee or two on the way down if those pop-pop-pops meant anything.

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The Joker looked on, a cruel smile lilting at his lips and reaching into the depths of his eyes until the small flame from the lighter betwixt his fingers was reflected in them. He extended his arm into the open space then watched it drop down… falling down into the pool as a fire erupted and climbed over the expanse of the surface.

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A balloon popped in the air, a short blaze glittering from the inside and tinted pink from the color of the plastic before it wilted and fell, sending off a concatenation of similar sounds and blazing colors. The Joker hooted, hands clapping together at the shows as he quickly went to the door to avoid unnecessary collateral damage. The fire had yet to draw to the little oil-fish swimming in his little death pool.

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“Liquified-petroleum is light, light enough to fill balloons and very very flammable, and obviously oh so very cheap.” More pops, some so loud they sounded like a line of firecrackers. “I would stay to enjoy the show, but I think I’ll peak this one from the outside.”

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The building shook as the pops became more frequent, until his voice wouldn’t have been heard if he was shouting. But he’d gone through the door, and by now the flames were everywhere and even the water couldn’t save the greedy-fish-man. Everything was burning - from the Monopoly money to the stone floors - and he was burning with it.

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The cacophony of explosions followed the Joker into the night, and a small distance down the street he stopped to turn on his heel and reach into his pocket for some confetti. He’d intended to throw it at the traitor but must’ve forgotten in his excitement, so he gathered it in his palm and threw it into the air, watching as the little shreds of paper floated and danced in the breeze. Some drifted away, some fell down.

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He watched quietly, humming a short tune as his eyes traced the inflamed outline of the building, little embers rising to fill the night with color. There would be fireworks later, it wasn’t quite midnight yet.

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“We buy balloons, we let them go…”

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And surely enough as the flames engulfed the roof of the building, some balloons escaped in the patches unharmed and floated freely into the night, full of vibrancy until the black sky swallowed them whole.