#it sends largely the wrong message about women’s worth in the eyes of the sport

[yesterdayiwrote]

I just saw someone say ‘Grid girls are okay actually because women sexualise the drivers’ and… if you can’t see what the difference is between men being hired based on their abilities and people then finding them attractive and women being hired based purely on their looks to serve solely as decoration, then I’m not sure there’s much hope for you?

[adowbaldwin]

Overworked and not even paid

@sazmags requested after i forcefully mentioned i wanted someone to request Gallowglass. “21st Century Gallowglass run ragged by Baldwin”

FYI - ABIT OF SMUT AND IT COVERS A TOPIC THAT MIGHT BE ABIT SENSITIVE TO SOME PEOPLE, SO APOLOGIES IF YOU’RE OFFENDED BUT READ AT YOUR OWN RISK okay thanks

“Gall, oh god” she whimpered as he rolled his hips into her “Don’t fucking stop” her head tipped back, burying her face into his forearm that was caging her frame

His hips beat into hers making delightful friction, he was so close and she was even closer. He grunted “Mm come on sweetheart let it go” it may have seemed cute that he called her sweetheart, but in all honesty it was just because he couldn’t remember her name. He had learnt, calling women by a pet name was far better then getting their actual names wrong; they can be so touchy sometimes.

“FUCK” He bellowed, emitting an animalistic growl followed by various other profanities in different languages

The woman thought this outburst had been a result of their current friction “I know” she whined as she felt her end nearing

Suddenly, he pulled free of her bounding out of the bed scrambling for his clothes, mumbling absentmindedly to himself “Sorry sweetheart, you best get dressed and quickly” he started throwing various pieces of clothing at her as he scrambled to put on his own

Sometimes he wished he could murder his Uncle, especially in this moment. He had heard the footsteps of oxfords smashing against the stone flooring before he’d scented the woodfires and abruptly stopped fucking the delightful woman before he walked in on the situation.

He had managed to tuck himself in half looking presentable when the bedroom door flung open to a angry looking, copper haired demon “Uncle” he beamed sarcastically “how good of you to join us”

The woman almost fainted from embarrassment of being caught half naked by a stranger, and gladly left fully clothed five minutes after the interruption. She’d happily finish herself off at home to save face.

“I sent you to Ireland to keep close watch, not wet your wick with THE FUCKING HELP” Baldwin screeched, fuming that his nephew had been so blaze about his orders

“Oh come on now, there’s got to be some perks to the job” he hadn’t quiet grasped the complicated situation arising between Ireland and England, and Baldwin often wished he could clone himself so there would be other dependable people in the family

He stepped closer to Gallowglass, matching him in height and brawn “if I send you somewhere for work, you work” he growled “if I wanted you to catch an STI I’d of sent you to Ibiza”

He held his hands up in mocking surrender “Alright calm down, what’s the big deal anyway? Who cares if Ireland want reunification and to leave Britain, doesn’t every country they’ve raped an pillaged?” the Scott could sympathise with the growing cause, having fought in almost every battle of Scottish independence

“I couldn’t care less if Ireland decides it wants to become a state of America, what I won’t see is petrol bombs and innocent lives being taken” he stepped as close as he could, distinguishing any power Gallowglass may have held “now do your job, or ill have your head” he turned on his heels and made a point of slamming the door on his way out

What a delight he was.

 Gallowglass ran his hands through his wiry beard as he honestly wished he’d killed his uncle that day. why on Earth he had sent him on this job and not Matthew was perplexing. The 1980’s should have been a good time, women in leather trousers and the rising ‘House’ scene meant Gallowglass got to prowl the nightclubs and always had a warm blood in his bed at the end of the night.

The Hacienda club had some particularly wonderful woman with questionable morals. He liked that.

Instead, he had spent a majority of it infiltrating the ‘IRA’, preventing what attacks he could, delivering messages to headquarters via Scotland and keeping tabs on every influential figure in the ‘organisation’. He felt pushed and pulled in all directions, and on more the one occasion thought he had been rumbled.

He shook what little hair he had now as he pulled it free from his helmet, ruffling his hands through the messy locks. He had been wired up for the last meeting in Belfast, and now had to relay what he had uncovered to a woman called Sandra (whose name definitely wasn’t Sandra).

Sometimes, between all the spying, preventative measures and travelling he’s often forget what he was supposed to relay. Was he meeting with another Doherty? Was she an agent from MI5? Is she the Queen of Sheba? Lord only knows at this point. He’d been following the footsteps of multiple families since 1975 and now couldn’t decipher anything anymore.

He took his seat opposite the woman, nodding politely at the waitress whom had brought him over coffee with a small (large) dash of whisky in it. He handed her over the transcripts bunched up between ‘The Sun’ and they began to talk lowly as if he wasn’t handing over important information.

“So, Scotland lost against Ireland yesterday” She smiled meekly in his direction

“Aye they did, Rugby fan are you lassie?” he sipped the murky brown substance steaming in the cup, and if it weren’t for the extensive whisky he’d of chucked it out the window

“Aren’t we all?” she sighed, digging around in her purse. Moments later she had pulled out two cigarettes, pointing one in his direction “Smoke?”

He nodded, taking the Camel Blue from her “Need a light?” he pulled his free from his leather jacket pocket, sparking hers first then his own.

That sat puffing away, breaking into small talk every now and then as to not look too inconspicuous. After all, he had just delivered Her Majesties government the last plotting details of the ‘M60 gang’ that should hopefully see the end of the Doherty’s.

 He had found through the extensive chain of communications he had set up his information had given the SAS a full picture of the movements of the M60 gang, leading to a successful trial. He was positively spent, no energy left to work and for the love of God wished his Uncle wouldn’t send him anywhere else.

He had a meeting with the devil himself that afternoon, and knowing he only had a few hours before his next orders would arrive all he wanted to do was rest.

He lazily threw his jacket on his sofa and sunk down into the leather. His eyes closed for a moment, and he delighted in the perfect piece he had finally found.

Faint noises of cars speeding by outside had sent him into a daze, and if it weren’t for his keen senses he wouldn’t of heard the front door opening

Peculiar he thought, Baldwin wasn’t due home for another few hours “Uncle, is that you?” he couldn’t smell his familiar scent, instead what had wafted through was the strong odour of tobacco and rolling paper.

He peered up from his comfortable position, shocked to have met the eyes of ‘Sandra’. He thought, possibly she had been a double agent like he had, and was here to kill him “If you’re here to kill me lassie, you are in for a big shock” his hand involuntarily gripped the small knife he kept at all times, though she was human and he wouldn’t need of such weapons to dispose of her

She smiled darkly “I’m not here to kill you, Eric” she licked her lips wantonly “I was just curious about the most illusive of the De Clermont bunch” she had begun to remove her jacket, each pop of the button perpetuating her words

“Oh no, my Uncles gonna go spare. He’ll be here soon” truthfully, he was far too tired for a fight with his Uncle, despite how tempting she was having ten bells knocked out of him wasn’t worth it.

She smirked, dropping to her knees running her hands up his thighs “Oh, you needn’t worry” she chuckled “He sent me on behalf of Her Majesty’s Service to thankyou for your aid” She winked knowingly as her hands sought to free him from his jeans. She wasn’t particularly a fan of the double denim he was sporting, but was never the less intrigued by the biker.

He looked down at her, and she peeped up with the most innocent doe-eyed expression, and it was the most beautiful sight he’d seen in a while.  

Thank God for Uncle Baldwin he thought as her tongue swirled his tip. What a legend.

[hotoffthepressfics]

Broke But Not Broken

MASTERLIST

Part I

Previous | Next

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Word Count: 2,629

Summary: The Reader escapes a horrific past. She meets new friends, but will she be able to trust them?

Warnings: Angst, implied physical and sexual abuse.

Inspiration/Chapter Soundtrack:

“Broke But Not Broken” - Artist vs Poet

“All The King’s Horses” - Karmina

A/N: My first fic ever. Still not complete but I’m going to finish writing this out and post it before I post anything else. ❤️❤️❤️

The Greyhound bus lurches to a stop, the massive vehicle hissing as the brakes are released. You jolt awake grasping the cracked seat in front of you for balance. Panic laces itself around your heart as your sleep addled brain attempts to orient itself.

Where am I?

You glance up at the message board and watch as the destination slowly loops across the screen.

3765: Brooklyn, Smith St.

Okay, so you’d made it to... Brooklyn? Isn’t that the stop you’re supposed to get off at? You run shaky fingers over your mussed braid of hair. The tight denim skirt you are wearing didn’t have pockets so you had resorted to keeping the ticket in your bra.

Trying to discreetly pull it out, you pull the slightly crumpled ticket out and check the city name on it. Yes. Brooklyn.

Clenching the ticket in your hands you get up and stumble towards the front of the bus. You keep your head down low, walk down the steps and onto the dark street outside. You stall, unsure of what to do now. Other people getting off the bus try to move past you, some pausing to glare or give you disgruntled looks. One elderly man nudges you between the shoulder blades.

“Get a move on, girl!” He grouses.

Startled, you shuffle to the side and out of the way as the remaining passengers exit. There is a chill to the night air. You shiver and hug your arms close to your body. The short sleeved, rather revealing blouse did nothing to protect you from the elements. Neither did the skirt. The ill-fitting, borrowed sneakers you wear are beginning to pinch now that you are standing instead of sitting in the bus chair. You didn’t care. You were finally beginning to feel it.

Freedom.

You breathe in deeply, hold it in for a moment, and release it. The air reeks of motor oil, stale cigarette smoke, and urine. It should bother you as it probably would most people. You watch the passengers as they head off to the depot or parking lot, some meeting family you supposed, others alone.

You began to follow where most of the people went, walking apprehensively down the sidewalk and passed the depot. The noise of the buses rumbling and faint talking gave way to more urban sounds.

Cars drove by, brakes squealed, a police siren is either coming or going from where you are. You weren’t too sure. Someone was throwing trash out in an alley as you walk by, causing you to jump when something like glass broke once it hit the bottom of the dumpster.

You’re beginning to shiver again, although this time it wasn’t from the cold. You had initially been elated stepping off that bus. However, getting on and off that bus had been your only goal in the wee hours that morning. You had left with two hundred dollars, now a little less than that after purchasing the bus fare.

You had no idea where to go from here or where to stay. You were safe only in the sense that you were miles away from where you ever wanted to be again.

There came a faint sound of a woman laughing. You lift your head up and see a small cluster of women, all in various revealing apparel, watching disinterested as cars pull up to the curb. You halt as one of them came up to a sedan and stuck her head in to talk to the driver. They had a short exchange and then she opens the passenger door and gets in. The sedan drove off with its newest occupant. You falter, attempting to decide if you should continue walking ahead towards them as you were doing or to turn and go another direction.

In your contemplation you didn’t hear the man’s foot falls coming up behind you.

“Hey there, sweetheart. How much to spend the night here with yours truly?” The man sidles up to you and snakes his arm around you middle.

You squeak and try to shove him off. In your attempts to extract yourself the man adjusts you in his arms until your facing him.

“Aw c’mon babe. I ain’t gonna bite ya... much.” He winks and guffaws, the acrid scent of beer and halitosis making you want to gag.

Balding and sporting about a day’s worth of beard growth the man gives you a particularly nasty, yellowed, toothy grin. He’s a good foot and a half taller than you, and although he didn’t look strong, as the spare tire around his middle suggested, he certainly has a vise grip on you.

You whimper and shake your head, wanting to scream the word ‘no’ but it feels like your throat is closing off. You gasp in short bursts trying again to shove him away.

No, no, no. This can’t happen again. This won’t happen again.

The man began to pull you further down the nearest alleyway. He backs you up to the rough brick wall and begins to paw at your breasts. You screw your eyes shut and try to push him back, placing your hand against his jaw and forcing his head back. He ducks and peppers your neck in kisses. You feel him slide something between your cleavage and hear the unmistakeable sound of a zipper. His hand trails up your thigh, under the skirt. The tightness in your throat finally snaps.

“NO!”

You rear your hand back and swing it out and across his face in a satisfying slap. He stumbles back, releasing you and clutching the side of his face. Your fingers claw the brick behind your back as you gasp out sobs.

The man stares wide-eyed at you, pulling his hand away from his cheek. Blood collects in the corner of his mouth. He reaches back up to swipe at it and looks back at his hand. When his eyes snap up to you all the drunken humor is gone.

“You bitch! What’s the matter with you?! I paid ya, didn’t I?! Now I’m gonna get off-“ he comes at you again. You cry out cowering against the wall as he grasps a fistful of your hair.

You shut your eyes again and wait for the pain to begin... but nothing comes. You hear a loud thwack and the man’s hand loosens its grip in your hair. Strands of your messed up braid fall across your face as you look up to see the man doubled over with a slim, dark woman standing over him, a rather large handbag slung over one of her denim clad shoulders. Her pose exudes confidence and power, as does the crystal studded bustier under a cropped denim jacket. A form-fitting, hot pink, latex mini skirt is wrapped around her hips ending in long, cocoa colored legs.

“I do believe the lady told you no. And when a lady says no, she means it.” She says in a feigned high feminine voice. She turns and walks away when the man rolls to his side and mutters,

“Bitch..”

The woman whirls around and gives a swift kick to his groin with her stiletto heel. His groans double in volume.

“Who you callin’ bitch?!” The woman’s voice drops several octaves into a decidedly masculine voice.

She adjusts her cropped jacket and slings the handbag back over her shoulder. The woman glances down at you and offers her other hand. You hesitantly accept it with trembling fingers. Your eyes dart from her back to the moaning man on the ground.

“Now honey, if your gonna take a man’s money and then stiff him on the goods you gotta learn how to make a quick getaway.”

You gape at her, eyes wide and glassy. You shake your head vigorously attempting to force words out, but you could feel the words stick in your throat before they made it out of your mouth. She studies you for a moment. Eyes narrowing, she asks, “You ain’t from around here are you babygirl?”

Again, you can’t manage more than a shake of your head. The woman takes another appraising look.

“Word of advice? Dressing like… that will send the wrong message to folks ‘round here.” You look down at yourself and hunch forward, trying to cover as much of yourself as you can. The wind picks up and you shiver.

“Well then,” the woman says as she struts back down the alley. She turns on her heel and cants her head towards the street. “time to put you in some new digs hun.”

•••

Cici, as you learn is the woman’s name, takes you to a local thrift shop to find more suitable attire for the late fall weather. The store clerk looks a tad disgruntled as the two of you stroll in ten minutes to closing time. However, he doesn’t seem too put out as CiCi begins to pile some shirts, pants, and coats into your arms. Guess he can’t pass up a chance to make a buck. Every now and then she pulls out a top, clicks her tongue, then holds it up to you for inspection. Sometimes the shirt goes into the pile, other times back on the rack.

As far as you could tell CiCi was by all accounts physically a man, but for the present time wished to be viewed as a woman. You wonder a bit as to why being near her wasn’t becoming a stressor when the man in the alley and even the store clerk were making you want to crawl into a hole and hide. Perhaps it was because all she seemed to want from you was to have a dress-up doll.

Another pair of pants make it into the pile. Did she have a hobby of picking up random people and making them shop with her?

“Alright baby,” CiCi turns back to you as you make it down the small aisle of clothing racks and towards the back of the store. Situated between a men’s hat display and a small section of woman’s scarves sits a makeshift fitting room. Which was simply PVC pipes connected together and black fabric looped around all sides. She parts the fabric and stands by, “go on ahead and try them on. See what you like.”

You shuffle passed her into the small space. CiCi lets the curtain fall behind you. Inside there’s a full length mirror propped up against the back wall. Next to the mirror stands a small, fold out chair. You discard the pile of clothes onto it, a few errant pieces falling onto the floor. Slowly, you glance towards your reflection.

It had been a while since you’d seen yourself in full. Sure you could look down at your own body and had occasion to see your face in mirrors before, but this was the first time since your life had become the horror it had been for the past three years. In the stark fluorescent light of that shop it was like you had finally awoken and could see clearly. It was as though you looked upon a stranger. You were much thinner and paler than you could ever remember. Even the structure of your face seemed wrong. Much too boney and sharper; too dark circles ringing your eyes. They looked alien, much too round and large. You look back into your reflected eyes and see… nothing. No life. Just a defeated, broken thing that was barely clinging to life by the fingertips.

You stifle a sob that threatens to break from your lips. Reaching down and picking up a discarded dress from the store floor you drape it over the mirror. It wasn’t long enough to completely cover but at least now all you can see is the lower half of your legs and feet. Taking a moment to steady your breathing you start to try on the clothing. You find disrobing difficult. Hard to make yourself feel vulnerable in a foreign place when that was all you’d known for so long. Yet, you knew you didn’t want to remain dressed in the clothes that he picked and forced you to wear.

Bolstering your courage you quickly shuck the blouse and skirt off your body and sift through the pile, looking for what will cover you the most. Thankfully, CiCi had snagged rather modest clothing. You try on a series of long sleeved shirts; a few that you rejected for being too low cut or falling off the shoulder. The pants faired better though most were too long and went past your feet. You bent and rolled up the cuffs, satisfied when they reached just to your ankles.

After trying on everything CiCi had given you, you settled on three of the long sleeved tops, two lightly worn jeans, and a tan trench coat. Opening the curtain you meekly shuffle out in one of your newly chosen outfits. You knew you probably needed to take the outfit off in order to purchase it but you just couldn’t bring yourself to change back into the clothes you’d come in. They remained in a crumpled heap with the other clothing.

With one long finger hooked under her chin CiCi assesses the outfit. After she finishes her inspection of you she nods her head once.

“Now don’t you look as pretty as a picture? Shall we go on ahead and buy these and get outta here?” You dip your head low and roll your shoulders forward. CiCi tsks.

“Oh honey, none of that now. We’re gonna have to work on that.” You flush, and hunch over even further. Cici merely shakes her head and begins back down the aisle to the front. As you follow her you glance up to the racks of clothing. Among some of the shirts labeled large you notice a light gray cable knit sweater peaking out, warm and inviting. You pause for a moment then set your items down and reach for it. It feels soft and thick. Pulling the sweater off its hanger you put it on. The woolen quality made it feel a little heavy, but that brings you relief. You feel… safe. This too would make it out with you. When you reach the cash register you hand over the clothes in your arms to the clerk.

The clerk eyes your attire with suspicion, as though you would try to make off with something without paying. He quickly glances towards CiCi, who simply reaches over and commenced plucking the tags off everything you now currently wearing. You tense a little as she does so. Finished, CiCi places the tags upon the counter between you and the clerk one eyebrow quirked in challenge.

The muscles in the clerk’s jaw twitch but he begins scanning the tags. As he totaled everything up you realize you’d have to get your money out to pay. Money that was still tucked away in your bra. You turn to begin fishing out the bills when he clerk says how much it all cost.

“Don’t worry baby, this one’s on me.” You look back over your shoulder and watch as CiCi drops the money into the clerk’s expectant hand. You marvel at her, standing there stupidly as the clerk hands you a plastic bag with your things. Suddenly a lump begins to form in your throat making it hard to breathe. Tears make your vision swim. CiCi pats your arm and rubs it soothingly.

“Now, now. There’s no time for all that nonsense. I am starving. Let’s you and I go get us something to eat.”

So you and CiCi once again make your way out onto the street. Your new clothes, the first real possessions you’d had in a long, long time, in tow.

EVERYTHING TAGLIST:

@booktvmoviefangirl @lowkeybuckyb @prettyyoungtragedy @mrsdaamneron @xxashy999xx @c-ly-g @coal000 @rroguebones @ghostlyrose2 @part-time-patronus @emelielwh @peaceinourtime82 @buckysforeverprincess @geeksareunique @amnahs9695 @v-2bucky @scarlet-skywalkers @lokilvrr @thisismysecrethappyplace @sacre-bluhm @tatertot1097 @until-theend-oftheline @amoonagedaydreamer @marvelouspottering

BUCKY BARNES TAGLIST:

@bloodiedskirtts @igotkatiepowers @misplacedorphan @superwholockwannabe @moonstruckhargrove @ladysergeantbarnes

BBNB TAGLIST:

@imaginecrushes @that-bearshark @jademox @theraputicwritings @marvel-fanfiction @aubri1313 @xcriminalmastermindx @regulusirius @ghostlyrose2 @jacquelineisawkward @lostinspace33 @directionerfae @rainbowkisses31 @marie-is-in-the-dark @msgrungie @mrsbarneswillseeyounow @getmedeacon @owhatshername1 @drunkinthemiddleoftheday @mizzzpink @aveatquevale- @sweetlydecaf @absolukeyrh

[radthursdays]

#RadThursdays Roundup 05/02/2019

Part of an article in Interrupt 10, published in April 1970. "…Good technological solutions take time to develop. Otherwise they create side effects which may be worse than the original problem. DDT got rid of insects (for awhile until they developed a resistance). Now how do we get rid of DDT when almost all that was ever sprayed is still concentrating itself in the food chain? How do we get rid of the DDT in you and me? Phosphate based detergents (the 2nd generation detergents) solved the problem of biodegradability created by earlier types of detergents. But phosphate is a powerful nutrient for plant life. So now how do we keep it from mucking up the ecology of such rivers, lakes, and oceans as are still functioning? And how do we keep yesterday's dishwater from being tomorrow's drinking water? And what about the side effects of that marvelous solution to the transportation problem, the automobile? Is suburbia a solution to the housing problem? Maybe smog will be a solution to the population problem. So when the technologists announce the next great breakthrough, think twice. The solution may be worse than the problem." Source.

Issues

Lies, Damn Lies, and Abortion: "In the decades since Roe, a proliferation of restrictions has cast a long and intimidating state shadow over abortion care and its providers — and it works: There are now six states that have just a single abortion provider. In Texas, restrictions passed in 2013 swiftly closed nearly half the state’s clinics before they were struck down by the Supreme Court in 2016."

Selling Self-Defense: "A look at the history of women’s self-defense shows that complicated, conflicting ideas about race, gender, and vulnerability are embedded in the movement’s very DNA. According to Wendy Rouse, author of Her Own Hero: The Origins of the Women’s Self-Defense Movement, in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, when women first began to study boxing and jiu-jitsu for both practical and political purposes, white men justified the sports as a way for white women to protect themselves from men of color when they weren’t around."

A poem about Silicon Valley, assembled from Quora questions about Silicon Valley. Source. Why do so many startups fail? Why are all the hosts on CouchSurfing male? Are we going to be tweeting for the rest of our lives? Why do Silicon Valley billionaires choose average-looking wives? What makes a startup ecosystem thrive? What do people plan to do once they’re over 35? Is an income of $160K enough to survive? What kind of car does Mark Zuckerberg drive? Are the real estate prices in Palo Alto crazy? Do welfare programs make poor people lazy? What are some of the biggest lies ever told? How do I explain Bitcoin to a 6-year-old? Why is Powdered Alcohol not successful so far? How does UberX handle vomiting in the car? Is being worth $10 million considered ‘rich’? What can be causing my upper lip to twitch? Why has crowdfunding not worked for me? Is it worth pre-ordering a Tesla Model 3? How is Clinkle different from Venmo and Square? Can karma, sometimes, be unfair? Why are successful entrepreneurs stereotypically jerks? Which Silicon Valley company has the best intern perks? What looks easy until you actually try it? How did your excretions change under a full Soylent diet? What are alternatives to online dating? Is living in small apartments debilitating? Why don’t more entrepreneurs focus on solving world hunger? What do you regret not doing when you were younger?

Technology

Disabled people don’t need so many fancy new gadgets. We just need more ramps: "Stair-climbing wheelchairs are an excellent example of the overlapping problems with disability dongles; people with mobility impairments know that there’s a problem (stairs), and they’ve repeatedly articulated solutions. But those solutions are not new gadgets. The problem here isn’t that most wheelchair users find stairs challenging. Rather, it’s that most built environments rely heavily on stairs, and that while elevators and ramps both exist, many designers choose not to use them."

'It's not play if you're making money': how Instagram and YouTube disrupted child labor laws: "They open boxes, play with toys, pull pranks and make slime. They sing, they dance, and they remember their lines: 'Subscribe to my channel!' […] But while today’s child stars can achieve incredible fame and fortune without ever setting foot in a Hollywood studio, they may be missing out on one of the less glitzy features of working in the southern California-based entertainment industry: the strongest child labor laws for performers in the country."

Part of an article in Interrupt 13, published in December 1970. “We don’t have democracy in our workplaces. Rather, we are part of an alienating class structure, that we, by working, support and enforce. Quitting work is not the way to remove the structure. We must understand the nature of our work in order to change it. We don’t have democracy because we are part of a labor force that is told what to produce and how to produce it by a capitalist class. What’s wrong with capitalism? Take a look at the increasing abundance of consumer goods that give decreasing satisfaction and fulfill less and less human aspirations, emotions and needs. Look at the unsolved contradictions between the wasteful standard of living in the rich countries and the impoverished conditions in the rest of the world. Look at the international monetary problems, the current trend toward economic recession in the whole capitalist world, the repression of the working class (like the restrictions on free wage bargaining when Congress passes laws telling railway workers when they can strike and what they can earn). Look finally at the tremendous gap between what we could make of this world with the power that science and technology have given us and the destructive horrors of war to which automation is being applied.” Source.

The Right

Why Won’t Twitter Treat White Supremacy Like ISIS? Because It Would Mean Banning Some Republican Politicians Too: "At a Twitter all-hands meeting on March 22, an employee asked a blunt question: Twitter has largely eradicated Islamic State propaganda off its platform. Why can’t it do the same for white supremacist content?"

An Eye on ‘The Base’: Transatlantic Militant Fascists continue to interact: ‘The Base is a militant fascist network formed in July 2018. [...] The group has been called by it’s spokesperson “Roman Wolf” an “international fraternal network of survivalists” but content posted online tells a story of a militant white supremacist group that promote violence and aim to instigate racial conflict.’

Flipping the Switch: “Michael Hari’s story shows how our increasingly divisive, conspiracy-laden culture is pushing troubled people toward extremism and violence.”

Activism

Missing Piece Project: "The Missing Piece Project envisions a nationwide, coordinated, mass dedication of objects at the Vietnam Veterans Memorial of Washington DC (the Wall) by Vietnamese, Lao, Cambodian, and other communities still affected today by the legacy of the conflict in Southeast Asia, allowing these communities to reclaim their past experiences, history, and memories, on their own terms."

Direct Action Item

Do you enjoy making art, of any kind? Make some radical art and share it with us :)

If there’s something you’d like to see in next week’s #RT, please send us a message.

In solidarity!

What is direct action? Direct action means doing things yourself instead of petitioning authorities or relying on external institutions. It means taking matters into your own hands and not waiting to be empowered, because you are already powerful. A “direct action item” is a way to put your beliefs into practice every week.