#it will occur to you that you have become the victim of a skull fuck

[gonzodangerfeels]

It's popping that head in your asshole.

Then feeling your smooth rectum pushing against your G-Sponge

Wait...

Feels like your sponge is active

[meanbossart]

do you have any thoughts on cazador as a character? personally i really loved the parallels between him and astarion & the way that the master/spawn relationship is used as an allegory for cyclical abuse. the scene with cazador’s master’s skull where you find out that he was once victimized in the exact same way that he later victimized astarion was really a lightbulb moment for me re: what vampirism represents in this game.

BOY DO I, i don't think much of it hasn't already been said, though. He's a tragic character in his own right of course, not that that takes away from the awful man he is.

Me and my boyfriend make fun of him a lot, we call him "the best BG3 character" as a little inside joke between us and come up with ridiculous scenarios of things that might have occurred throughout those 200 miserable years the spawn had under his command lol. Maybe he had a month where he was really specific about the shoes everyone wore, maybe once every other decade he had a weird week where he tried to be "nice" only to become frustrated when his efforts weren't immediately met in kind by the rightfully-terrified spawn, maybe between all the torture and horrific-ness he just did some plain weird shit like making someone crouch by in his fainting couch and wait by open-handed for grapes that he dramatically chewed on and then spat right out since he can't actually eat them lmao

And that's hysterical but I think we also started doing that because when you meet Cazador, when you first hear his voice and see his demeanor in person your immediate reaction is probably somewhere along the lines of "THIS is the clown you were so scared of, Astarion?"

And the answer is, of course, yes. This embarrassing little man stuck in a cage of his making instills fear beyond comprehension in Astarion and all his siblings. This man who undoubtedly showed all these spawn, inadvertently, the strangest, most arguably "human" aspects of himself at some point or another during these two centuries they had together is also an absolute monster. And i really like that! I think its far more effective and fitting for his story than if he was, lets say, a Ketheric type.

(this got very long so, more under the cut)

Look at Ascended Astarion in the epilogue now, for example. Everyone agrees that he's an absolute fucking dork - and I think we all also agree that he will go on to destroy the lives of many people beyond repair, especially his own, until the day he is killed.

In the topic of vampirism as an allegory for abuse, I both agree and also don't, at least not exactly - i just think it's deeper than that. I've spoken about this in another post but i find it incredibly refreshing how, to me, it seems like Baldur's Gate 3 has no interest in painting vampirism as sexy or fun past a surface level. It's a curse that nobody asks for unless put in a situation where they feel as if they have no other way out, and it shapes and haunts you for the rest of your undead existence.

Even if you enjoy its benefits at first, that has a time limit. You will see your family and loved ones die, you will see culture evolve while you stay perpetually the same. You will experience so much hurt and pain because the only thing that makes life truly sweet is knowing that it is finite, and eventually it will wear down all of your humanity. And since you can't die unless you are scorched by the sun, staked, or dismembered, you must live with the knowledge that you will never have a peaceful death - and since you won't have a peaceful death, you better not die - and if you don't want to die, you better not be weak - and if you don't want to be weak, you must seek out power at all cost and slash things like love and friendship out of your life.

And what is funny, is that in his attempt to be more like a mortal - to eat, drink, walk the sun, such incredibly simple desires - Cazador (and Astarion, if he ascends) is accidentally only drawing further away from the person he supposedly once was, because that fear of weakness has already utterly corrupted his soul.

That's quite a grim way to look at it, of course. But I genuinely think that it is the natural conclusion of something like immortality.

That's why I quite like that, even after Astarion has found happiness, even after he finds his peace, he still doesn't exactly embrace being a vampire - because It's not something he should be expected to embrace. I think it's a very unique take on the trope.

I also want to leave here this message written by his character writer, which really got me thinking about him on a deeper level since i saw it months ago. It is specifically about the sexual aspect, but I think it branches beyond it too, when you think about it.

[zikadraws]

it takes four doug has "been through the system of 'several lives'"? do you mean he's been killed by the monsters and respawned a few times, and if not what did you mean? im always a fan of aus that incorporate the respawn mechanics that the games theyre for brush over :3c🍿

Oh man isn't that one hell of a question, that I was totally prepared for ! And since you asked it you're now legally required to sit through my painfully long take on this. Enjoy.

(Fair warning : Long post ahead. And you even get drawings. Click For Quality bcz phone pictures.)

Well it's actually relating to a theory/headcanon of mine that I came up to try for the respawn system to make sense in-game, because I too love when the mechanisms in-game are a thing that's accounted for and explained in the "world building*. And the respawn system in Dark Deception always left me perplex. Allow me to put the problem :

So we, as the player get a certain amount of Lives, represented by skulls, that we can use to try again from the last loading point before a Game Over (in which case I think you have to do the level since the very start.) We get more Lives the more we progress through. So far so good. It could not be accounted for and I'll be content enough with that, HOWEVER. When you die while still having 'Lives', Bierce pulls out a snarky comment like "Oh you got killed by a freaking statue, that's bloody hilarious". But, when you die after running out of Lives and get a Game Over, she will say "You died... HAHAHAHAHAHA" (like the sadistic asshole she is), and that, invariably and only in case of Game Over.

(And, very importantly : when you lose a Life, you don't lose your progress, you don't lose any Shard (depending on the difficulty ofc lmao.) So that means there is no time rewind for Lost Lives : it's a thing that's happening and counts as part of the trial. (The Game Overs, however, are on us.)

Which implies that she's somehow aware that the Game Over means Actually Dead, and that the other times was a "Oh dear, you got yourself fucked up again didn't you." and that we could try again. So this implies that the "several lives" system is something that just occurs with Mortals, and not only Doug since it doesn't phase her.

Now it's kinda infuriating because other than the Joy Joy Gang with the Game Over no one else really says anything about this, so. How would that system, that's implied to be acknowledged, be explained in the Dark Dimension, and why is it not talked about ?

Well I think I developed a plausible enough theory, and I believe the reason, for that and a few other mechanics, could be the Soul Shards. Allow me to explain.

-----

So we all know the Soul Shards right. Each of them holding power, and supposed to have once been an unfortunate Mortal that got ripped to bits in Malak's Realm. So far so good, however : "Soul Shard" implies that what we collect is only a fraction of the entirety of the victim's soul, which means the rest must be trapped in Malak's Realm. Enslaved, consumed or just wandering, you'd expect these poor sinners (those who did not cave or qualify into becoming Monsters) to want to do the best they can to help the next victim, with whatever power they hold as captive spirits.

So I believe they are the ones to give the Mortals more than one chance. How they do it is unclear, they might 'zap out' the corpse and reanimate it from a certain point of power, because this action takes a lot of their energy, and it needs for them to focus their collective power in certain emplacements -the Respawn Points for us. However, as it takes a lot out of them, they can only revive so many times. That's also why we gain more Lives through the levels : the more Shards we collect, the more people we get on our side to focus their energy to revive us.

As you can see I've given them a humanoid form because I felt they needed one. Anyways, they follow us around. (A lot because we're literally collecting them, I suspect.) When we die, the death screen advice is spoken by them, as pictured here.

I like to think they're also the reason why there is writing on the walls in certain locations (such as the Hotel, the Golden Manor and the Sewers), giving advice and warnings. I don't think it's blood, so it's probably something easier for them to produce. Those must be erased whenever they're spotted.

Anyways, they do more than that.

You see the chorus that you can hear in the background music ? Well I don't know if you ever noticed, but it appear to be singing warnings and injonctions, such as "Keep on moving" in "Maternal Instinct" or "Run for your life" in the teased ost "Silent Shopper" (I think). Here's my illustrated theory on that : Malak forces them to be the ominous background ambiance, so they choose to subtly try to screw him over and encourage us whilst doing so. (There is canonically whispering from the victims according to E, so I think this chorus might be part of this aspect of the lore.)

There are more than one type of Soul Shard, by the way. Depending on their level of spite, their energy, their personality and their desire to get back to their tormentors, they can sometimes appear as Stun Balls or Spotting Shards. Those are rare though, as most powerful souls are harvested ASAP. 

(They might also be the reason you don’t suffer from exhaustion from running, idk.)

Also, once they've been collected their spirits stick with us even through the levels they're not from and even in the Ballroom, which allows for scenes like this one.

(Sorry about the colors lol still figuring out the scanner)

Anyways, that was basically the long and the short of it, though assuming the spirits follow Doug throughout the entire thing, I’ve came up with a few bonuses. Plus some cozy Tammy thing for your comfort.

So yeah long story short this pretty much explains how come Doug has gone through more than one life. He’s more or less aware of that fact, but he’s a lot in denial of the whole process and pretend the deaths never happened in the first place and that the voices he hears are indeed the other victims crying out to him and nothing else. Each death makes him more cautious, more reactive, more alert, and also more impatient. He takes the advice and what help there is to take, however he tries not to talk to them. Too much to take in and he kinda has to focus on his own problems. It helps that Bierce seems to royally ignore them. They do *not* like Bierce, by the way.

In total, Doug has died about four times so far. He IS kind of lucky, in the end of the day. That or he might actually be talented, who knows.

-----

Okay, so that was my explanation ! Hope you had the patience to read through all of it, and that it makes sense to you. Also enjoy the Soul Shard content, I’ve done these a while ago.

Alright, thanks for your ask. You’re welcome and have a great night ✨🤗💖

[lumpsbumpsandwhumps]

I'm not sure if you're still doing drabble requests, but if you could do a scenario where Jonas gets kidnapped by a different whumper and Malik goes absolutely feral because how dare someone take his Jonie? *tears up* that would be swell

“Get in the fucking car, Jonas.”

Malik’s tone was far too dangerous to be dismissed, not unless Jonas was also looking to be on the receiving end of a tire iron to the skull. Yet somehow, despite the primal fear it instilled in him like a young lamb hearing a wolf’s growl for the first time, he couldn’t bring himself to move from his frozen position on the ground. His legs refused to listen to the demand and carry him to the passenger side door, his hands refused to wretch on the handle and buckle himself in, his eyes refused to look away from Todd’s swollen face when the tire iron came down on him two more times.

A part of Jonas wanted to be relieved that his second kidnapper had been stopped and…taken care of, so to speak. It was so easy to fall into the way of thinking that he had deserved it for being in this shady line of work anyways, for thinking he could waltz in and snatch up anything Malik deemed a prized possession regardless of what permission he has been given from Tucker. Who was to say he wouldn’t have been a worse tormentor, if such a status was even possible to reach at this point? And yet, who’s to say he wouldn’t have been better? Kinder, nicer, more willing to send Jonas home and remember a meal at least daily. That was the other part of Jonas that wanted to feel guilty, or just a touch sympathetic for the gruesome end Todd was met with.

He almost had to wonder if this was some kind of set up on Tucker’s part, not that he knew very much of the man to come up with any concrete theories to back the notion up. All Jonas knew was that Todd had been sent to the basement to ‘collect’ someone, had decided that the Belmont heir was that someone in particular, and Malik was not happy about it. There must have been some prior discussion if the brazen kidnapping occurred when Malik wasn’t around to stop it, or maybe it really was simply the result of poor planning and regretful assumptions that the killer wouldn’t mind losing his favorite toy to someone else. How vile it made Jonas feel that he was more upset over losing a chance at freedom under someone else’s cruel care than he was watching Malik snuff out the man’s life one brutal swing at a time.

When he had yet to obey Malik’s clear instructions, the older man turned around to fully face Jonas and God help him he was fucked. Malik was pissed. Malik was beyond pissed. Malik looked ready to tear anyone within a three mile radius apart with his own hands, the boy included. Naturally, the sociopath was not privy to typical emotions felt by most empathetic people. He could smile, laugh, cloud his eyes with tears, but it was never genuine. It was all for show, a way to convince people on the outside that he was certainly one of them. Even now, so full of an unbridled rage, his unmasked face conveyed something of deep annoyance rather than homicidal hatred for another person. But Jonas saw all the dangerous little differences. He saw the way Malik’s brow knit tighter, the way his jaw clenched, how his eye twitched. There was no bandana to obscure the rare emotions that managed to peak through his blank slate appearance. There was no show to put on for anyone else.

Malik was angry, and he wasn’t going to stop until he wasn’t angry. Jonas did not want to witness firsthand what methods it would take for him to calm down, nor did he want to leave himself out in the open lest the killer assume he wants to fall victim to his rage as well. His spindly legs had him clambering into the car and locking the door before Malik had a chance to tell him a second time, assuming it’d be a verbal warning over a physical one. Regardless, he was satisfied enough to carry on his beatings to what used to be his associate, well on his way to becoming more mush than man. If Jonas looked out of the side mirror, there was a clear view of the massacre happening only ten feet behind him.

He looked at the dashboard instead and did his best to mentally prepare for whenever Malik would slide himself into the driver’s seat. Would he still be angry, would it be directed at Jonas now? Would he be blamed for this? Would the older man instead be eerily calm, all of his limited emotions spent, and drive them both back to the Kelley Funeral Home in silence? God forbid, would his fury turn to lust as often was the case after particularly gruesome sessions, with poor Jonas still being forced to endure this turn of events?

Something snapped, then squished outside. He hoped Todd could cling to life a little longer so Jonas had a few extra minutes to himself.

[mxnster-ive-become]

“  i  don’t  need  to  be  saved.  ”

A scowl stretched across his stubbled face, eyes narrowing dangerously as those words left her lips. She didn’t need saving? His hands balled into fists as he paced around her like a beast ready to pounce. How could she be so fucking stupid to believe that she didn’t need help, that she was okay despite what was happening to her?

Billy had been one of that things little puppets for more than a year. He knew how hard it was to resist that mental assault, the compulsion to do whatever it asked seeming like sweet relief compared to the mental torture it put him through. And maybe that was why he was treated differently? He fought against its will to a point that maybe he impressed whatever the fucking thing was. It gave up a part of itself imparting him with gifts that no other pawn was given and in the end he was granted leave to keep his own body instead of becoming part of its meat monstrosity.

— and that piece of shit was just using him as an ally, not trying to murder him. Not like Max. Billy could feel it still. Could feel it every time that he was reaching across the void. His skin would turn cold, almost icy to the touch, before the dull pain started at the base of his skull almost like he was trying to reconnect himself to his mind, but couldn’t. He knew when he made a kill, could feel the swell of joy and excitement like it was his own and if he focused hard enough on that pressure he could get a glimpse of what he saw. He did it when that kid was killed, the newspaper didn’t go into much detail but he heard enough from his dad’s buddies to know what he saw was right. Extremities snapped at the joints. Eyes gouged out. Jaw broken at the base. All injuries occurring while alive - the real killing blow being the snapped neck which his friend said was the only mercy the psychopath gave his victims.

Mercy wasn’t in its vocabulary, of that he knew. He knew that that fucker was doing this to get closer, to find itself back into this world for good. It was always its goal, it told him as much in the beginning, but to what end he wasn’t certain. It would do anything to get here, and somehow Billy knew that Max being a target - well it wasn’t random. How could it be when Billy refused to hurt her when he was under its influence before and now? Well what better way to hurt Billy then to attack the little sister he so desperately wanted to save from becoming one of the flayed.

“You can’t do this by yourself, Max.” He finally said, the words coming out in almost a hiss. Coming to stand in front of her Billy met her defiant gaze with his own, staring her down. “You don’t know what it takes to fight him off.” He growled, his fist clenched so hard that he could almost feel his nails digging little crescent moons into his palm.

She was a clueless little girl who didn’t know just what could happen. Yeah. She saw the body of that cheerleader all mangled and broken, had heard the stories of the reporter and basketball player who was found in the river… but she didn’t know. But really how could she? Billy had done everything he could to keep her safe, to make sure that damnable clock’s chimes stayed as far away from his little sister as he could manage….

But what could a ghost or whatever he was really do? His strength was already waning, he knew that. He could feel it slipping away every moment of every day but still he fought to be that shield for her that he should have been in life. Coming closer to her he unclenched his fist bringing the palm of his hand to her cheek, wishing he could force her to look at him and ignore the ones she was truly talking to behind his back, “You can’t do this alone Max. And I can’t protect you for much longer.” His hissed tone had calmed, becoming more of a whisper, an apology for being so weak. “Please… you’ve got to listen. You’ve got to let them help…. He can’t take you. He can’t make you one of them.”

A single tear slipped from his eyes as he watched her marched away from him. From her friends. All the way up to the cemetery with her letter in hand till she sat heavily in front of a tombstone her hands shaking as she opened a letter. Dropping his hand he looked up at the sky, a weak sigh leaving his lips before he moved to follow. She might not be able to listen to him anymore, but he wasn’t going to do the same. He owed her that much. To sit. To listen. And maybe just maybe she’d be able to hear him as he screamed at her to run away, to fight another day.

[starssabi]

fandom: Apex Legends (video game)

pairing: Revenant / Reader (m/f)

ao3 link

note: Yes, I am disgusting. Yes, I enjoyed writing this. Yes, there may be more like this in the future. This is NOT non-con but it can be taken as dub-con if you'd like. Please be aware of that! The reader is totally into it, she's just a brat. Sorry Loba, we’re fucking the murder bot.

warnings: light sadism, threats of violence (barely), semi-public smut, fear-play if you squint, mild dubious consent. 

summary:  You and Revenant have had some tension for some time now, and you both have come to enjoy teasing and sassing one-another. It all comes to a head during a match, and you become stuck quite literally between a rock and a hard place.

this should go without saying, but this is written for those 18+.

oneshot: Brat

Skinsuits. He hated every single one of them.

Part of you suspected there may be more to it, maybe he wasn’t just a pissed-off murder robot, as Elliott would call him. From the times that you had been paired up together in both trios and duos, he had been nothing short of an asshole. That was to be expected with the robot that everyone had come to hate, and when Loba showed up, the hatred only grew in number and felt amplified.

You wished you could hate him. You knew he was cruel, that he was a murderer and no doubt a sadist as well; someone who clearly got off on hurting others and toying with them. The words he uttered when his victim met their end gave that away. You were the only one who met his rude comments with sarcastic, or equally rude remarks.

Anita did so sometimes, too. As did Octavio, though, for some reason, it was you that caught his attention. He wouldn’t thank you after you tossed him a weapon? Did I ask? Your thanks to him, whenever he was feeling generous, was curt and met with what sounded like him clearing his throat, even if he wasn’t capable of it. You found it entertaining to banter with the lanky robot, and soon, it seemed he began to find it entertaining too.

Talk outside of the games grew more intense and more frequent. In the dropship, he’d stare blatantly, make you shift in your seat, and his disdainful attitude while in the ring became more sarcastic and teasing than a real threat. He’d thank you now, although it was clearly to mess with you, and when you’d pull him back up from a fight, he almost seemed smug. Could robots be smug? He was.

You being you, either suicidal or brave, still met him with the same behavior. However, his threats became less of anger and more… pleased.

“Watch your mouth, girly. It might get you into trouble someday.”

It did. God, it did.

This was new. He’d never found you before in the ring just for his own amusement. It was clear that was why when he didn’t put a cap immediately in your skull. You were stuck with Elliott at that time, who was busy looting the building across the cavern. You had moved ahead enough to be out of immediate earshot, and once that was determined, he jumped on you, almost quite literally. The rocks were sharp and uncomfortable against your back, even through your clothing. He had you pinned to the cavern’s wall, a darker corner within that left you exposed to him but hidden from Elliott’s line of sight. Elliott hadn’t called for you yet, but the ring would be closing soon, and it was inevitable.

Your own hand had pressed the wingman to Revenant’s chest, and it remained there until one of his steady mechanical ones wretched it away. A deep sound came from him, a chuckle, and he pushed into you further. You were quite literally stuck between a rock and a hard place.

“You could’ve taken the shot,” he spoke lowly, sounding quite pleased with your behavior. You hadn’t tried to push him away, hell, you barely moved a muscle aside from the irritating frown that now spread across your lips. “But you didn’t.”

He was teasing you again, though something was different. It could have been the close proximity making your heart jump in your chest, or maybe it was the intention of his words, which you were slowly unraveling. One of his thin hands came back from the wall and gripped your chin. It wasn’t as rough as you were expecting, but it wasn’t kind either. Your lips parted as you considered telling him off, but you were cut off by another deep chuckle before you could.

“I told you this mouth would get you into trouble,” if he had movable lips, he’d be smiling no doubt. A cold finger brushed against your bottom lip briefly, pushing into the plush skin, considering something before he swiped away. That’s when his hand fell down lower, coming to squeeze your hips and pull you closer, if at all possible. He towered over you, and he was still able to push his leg between your legs. “I’ll take this instead.”

His hand tightened briefly against your hipbone, almost as if testing the waters if he cared enough to do that. When you didn’t pull away from either his words or his touch, his hand moved down further, dragging along your pants before cupping your clothed heat completely. His hand was cold even through the fabric, and you gasped. This prompted his other to clamp down onto your mouth. His eyes glowed threateningly in the damp darkness between you. His hand didn’t remain above clothing for long. It only took one swift pull for him to yank your pants down to mid-thigh, damn near tearing the fabric and pulling you to your knees. His hold on you didn’t relent, and if it did, you surely would have fallen from the strength behind the pull. Once your pants were down enough, he moved onto your underwear, not even glancing down to them before he pulled them, too. This fabric gave way much easier, and it was left as nothing but scraps in his curled hand. They left your line of sight a moment later.

There was no preparation for what would meet your folds. It was cold, he was cold, and the sensation was not one you were entirely familiar with. Metal on skin. He was smooth at the moment, though fear pricked at your spine recalling how he had stabbed others before. It only took seconds for his hand to morph into what looked like the sharpest blade ever, and those seconds could occur at any time. Still, you couldn’t help but keen into his hand as fingers began to delve into your folds, parting them to dip into the wetness that had already begun to seep from your hole and push back out, rubbing slow motions against your clit. Already you were beginning to ache with need.

“Shhh,” he shushed you quietly, the sound somewhat smoother compared to his usual harsh voice. He was taking his time rubbing circles against you, his fingers blunt but precise with the motions. Your hips tried to push further into the touch, but he pushed back; metal to skin to solid rock.

Seconds were ticking by, and you were aware of every single one of them. In any other situation, you would have relished the slow pace, but it wasn’t the time, not when the ring close was inching closer and closer. He knew, too, and his touch against your clit only lasted a few more seconds before he pushed once again between your folds and prodded at your opening. You made a noise against his hand, and his gaze shot up from where he was watching your arousal slick his fingers.

You expected him to tease you again, but instead, you were met with two of his cold fingers pushing into you.

He watched your face intently, and even with his hand still covering your mouth, he was able to make out the desperate expression beneath with ease. You, the same girl who shot back the most snark with him, were taking his fingers so well. He loved it, loved teasing you, and all while he was quite possibly saving the face to his memory, he curled and stroked his fingers up into you. He was slow only for a few seconds before he quickened the pace of his thrusts, and as he did so, it felt as if his fingers had grown within you. He was pressing against the deepest parts of you, the tips of his fingers pressing completely into you before pulling back to rub against that spot. He found it just as quickly as he had taken you, and it wouldn’t be long before you came undone on the monster’s fingers.

“What if they could see you now,” his chuckle still rang in your ears, “Your cunt dripping all over my hand, you want to cum, don’t you?” His voice was low enough that you could begin to hear the sound of the slick metal pushing inside of you, and against his hand, you cringed. It was hard enough to pretend he didn’t get you riled up, and vice-versa, now that you knew. You half expected his words as he continued: “Beg. It’s good for both of us.”

The hand clamped over your mouth was released, and your defiant frown came into view. He stared down at you impatiently, but you offered no response. Your expression was enough for him to put the pieces together, and something of mock laughter met your ears.

“Would you rather I kill you now? Get it over with,” his fingers made the come-hither motion against your tight walls, and your hips jolted upwards with an audible gasp. He could kill you like that, you recalled, “You’re making it too easy. Come on, I want to hear you.”

It was right there. You could feel yourself trying to meet his thrusts, reaching your breaking point, but your lips remained shut. You were a brat, as he had come to realize, and he would have fun breaking you. It wouldn’t be long — As you tightened around his digits, they came to a halt. Your groan was nothing short of agitated, and he almost laughed again. You were desperate. If he didn’t kill you, the ring would.

“Please, fuck,” you hissed out, and his head tilted, beckoning for you to continue. “Hurry, just — please!” Irritation and desperation mixed, and your expression was stubborn, but you had done enough for him to find his own pleasure in your submission. His fingers began to thrust again, somehow even faster than they had before, and there was no covering the lewd noises that escaped both your lips and where his fingers met your skin. It took no time at all to have you jolting and choking out cries under him, your core pulsing around his fingers as he let you ride out your high. They stroked slower inside of you, almost testing the limits, but he pulled them out with a shlick a moment later. You sagged against the wall, chest heaving, and all he did was look you over. MEMORY REGISTER COMPLETE.

“Better hurry up, little girl. Next time I find you I won’t be as nice.”

After...

"Hey, uh, you think you could mute your comms next time?"

You came to a complete halt as Elliott spoke. He sounded almost as nervous as you were at that point, and your face visibly paled to him as you turned. He seemed to be having the same reaction, his eyes wide and darting from you to the area surrounding. A sound came from somewhere around the two of you, perhaps the shuffle of someone through the grass, and he began to laugh nervously. He was being much too loud, though clearly, you had no room to talk.

"You know what? Forget I said anything. It's fine. Never happened!"

[ilikebeesandflowers]

Day 8: Heartless

Suptober20

Tags: Sam POV, OFC, original MOTW, casefic

Sam looked puzzled. “Whatever this is, it’s not a werewolf,” he mused.

“I mean, it’s a textbook werewolf attack, right?” Dean seemed out-of-sorts; physically, he was here, but ever since they arrived in town, he’d had his head buried in his phone.

“But check out the chest wound.”

Dean peered at the corpse on the table. “There. Isn’t one.”

“Right? The coroner’s report clearly states that the guy had been mauled, so when she said he was heartless, I just assumed... This is something else.”

“Yep, something else,” Dean muttered.

Sam was officially past wondering about his brother’s level of disengagement and was now pushing into perturbed territory. “Listen, Dean, I don’t know what is so fascinating about your phone, but can you at least try to pay attention? This thing, whatever it is, is still out there!”

Dean jerked his head up. “Huh? Whatever.” He drifted out the door, back to the coroner’s office, Sam presumed.

Until he heard a shout. A struggle. A gruff snarling growl and higher pitched pleading.

“Dr Colby?” Sam raced to the outer offices, looking for the source of the sound. “Dean? Where are you?” He pulled up short at the door to the lobby. A woman lay panting on the floor, deep claw marks on her arms, torso, face. Just like the body now lying in the morgue.

“You’re the receptionist, right?” The woman nodded, feebly. “Who did this to you? Did you see your attackers?”

“Attacker. One attacker.” She struggled to sit upright. Sam extended a hand; she took it. Then she looked him dead in the eyes. “It was the other agent. Agent DeYoung. He went that way,” she rasped, pointing out towards the street.

He hated to leave her alone like this but what choice did he have? Either Dean was possessed or something was wearing his face. He had to catch up to him.

“I’ll send help. Promise.”

He got to the car without seeing any trace of Dean. He tried shouting for him; no answer. His phone went to voicemail. Sam checked for his location.

He stopped cold.

Dean was still in the building!

He ran back inside, suddenly aware that the once-bustling lobby was deserted. No one waiting to speak to a clerk, and no clerks either. He felt a chill, and he was fairly certain it wasn’t a cold spot. Something was very wrong here.

“Dean!” He passed the place where he’d left the coroner’s receptionist, but she was gone, not so much as a bloodstain to indicate that she’d ever been there. “Dean!” He shoved open every door in the hallway and found nothing but uninhabited offices. Like everyone had simply gone home for the day. At two in the afternoon on a very ordinary Thursday. “Dean!”

He returned to the morgue. The body was gone! Again, no trace of blood.

Sam had to stop, had to collect himself. He propped himself against an unoccupied desk and squeezed his eyes shut. What did he know? Dean was being weird, an entire office building of regular government employees had seemingly fucked off to who-knows-where, and two deeply wounded persons, one of whom was actually dead, had vanished.

The hearts.

He reached deep into his memory. Hadn’t there been some saint that had been fatally mauled by wolves, only to rise from the dead and proclaim that he’d been resurrected by God himself? Yes. He died many years later of old age, and his body was miraculously preserved as a relic. Just a few years ago, the Church had ordered a restoration of his remains, and the preservation experts performed a CT scan. Turns out, the sainted mummy had no heart. No chest wounds (his body was otherwise intact), nor could the scientists point to any intentional mummification processes to explain the absence.

Shortly thereafter, the remains were lost. Supposedly, the hospital where they ran the tests sent him off for cremation, but there was no paper trail to corroborate the story. Folks chalked it up to general ineptitude and didn’t think to follow up.

What if the mummy wasn’t dead, though? What if it had escaped and was now stalking St Louis, turning people, making them disappear.

No. Making them not care.

The monster inflicted apathy on bystanders. Then it- what? Shredded the victims? Stole their hearts out of their ribcages, without ever breaking the skin?

A thought occurred to him, and he suddenly understood what was happening.

He had to find Dean.

In the employee parking lot behind the building, Sam hit the jackpot. At least twenty drivers sitting in their cars, all engrossed in their phones or staring quietly into space, all with looks of barely simmering frustration. Among them, lounging against a dumpster (gross) was Dean. He was still unharmed! But still glued to his screen.

Sam didn’t bother to attract his attention. Somewhere, one of these zombies was actually a centuries-old mummy. Kill the sire, break the spell? He could only hope. But how to pick him out?

He spotted the receptionist in a late-model sedan, one that struck him as just a bit pricier than a municipal staffer might typically afford. She and three passengers had the same posture as everyone else in the parking lot: head down, eyes glazed, empty.

He knocked on her window, and she jumped, startled. None of the other people in the car moved a muscle. He recognized Dr Colby among them. He motioned for her to roll down the window. “Sandy, right?” He asked. “Glad to see you recovered so quickly.” She squinted up at him but said nothing. “Listen, Sandy, I wonder if you have a key to the morgue. I think I left my wallet in there.”

“How careless,” came a deep voice, spoken by her and not at all.

He tried not to grimace. He forced a smile instead. “Yeah, I’d lose my own head if it wasn’t attached. So can you let me in?”

“One moment please,” the voice rumbled. A receptionist’s words in the voice of an ancient malevolent evil.

Sam smiled again.

The receptionist unfolded herself from the car and stepped briskly to the employee entrance. She tapped a key card from the lanyard around her neck.

As the door chirped its welcome, Sam plunged a red-tinged knife into the hollow at the base of her skull. “Heartless One, I name you false saint. With the blood of an unbled victim, you die.”

The monster gave one last scream, rising suddenly to the scream of the human receptionist, Sandy, before both voices were caught on the wind and carried away. The knife slipped from the flesh as the figure crumpled. Sam’s chest heaved once. Was that enough?

“Sam?”

He turned. “Dean?”

“What’s going on? I thought we were going on a hunt. Why are we at - what, the DMV?”

Sam grabbed him up in a bear hug. The back of Dean’s neck was still bleeding where Sam had christened the blade, but he hadn’t yet noticed the injury.

“We were, we did. It was a blood wight. It infected your heart. That’s why the hearts were missing. It infects the heart with apathy, and when the flesh of the heart has been devoured, the victim becomes a blood wight in turn. They normally only create one or two offspring in a century, but this one...” He gestured at the stunned professional types, staggering away from their vehicles and blinking in the sunshine. “Hello, Dr Colby,” he said, greeting a middle-aged woman in a white coat; the woman just glared as she hurried past him.

Dean screwed up his face. “Man, either I started drinking way too early, or you did. What?”

Sam laughed, his heart feeling remarkably light. Buoyant. “I’ll catch you up on the way home. I’m driving.”

“What? Why?”

“Because I know where the Impala is, and you don’t.”

Dean scowled. He dug into his pocket for the keys and plunked them onto Sam’s open palm. “Okay, but you owe me.”

“We’ll stop for burgers before we get on the highway.”

“Don’t judge me, but I can’t even think of meat right now. I could murder a Caesar salad, though.”

Sam grinned. This kind of Dean weirdness felt very normal.

[maxbradley]

Crash

***[Mature Content]***

"Get outta here, Brad." Shoving him off. The humidity must have shortened brain circuits because the next thing the black dog knew was that his muzzle was pressed against a nearby locker—swollen hands blocked the horizontal fall, and were made numb— "Listen, Goof boy." Turned him 'round and jabbed straight at the face—"Hrr-” — A bit of blood and sweat trickled down Maximilian's bare chest. Livid eyes burned holes through Uppercrust's contorted face, "Listen to what?!" The hands slammed themselves up to the other's chest to thrust him back into another metal object, which clattered and shook violently. The sophomore stormed off down the narrow pathway, waist towel in hand. He had barely gone ten feet when a rough arm gagged the neck, putting him into a lock— "Brad!-” Coughing— "Let go!!”— The yell became a scream "As you wish you little fucker!" A strong kick to the back sent Max reeling to the stone floor. The blood from the initial attack slithered onto the cracked surface. The only thing that ran through his brain was revenge—A near killer instinct that never gave halfway during that triathlon of an event—

Both rough hands pulled back at sandy brown hair as the standing figure's thick eyebrows raised as he inhaled deeply, letting the adrenaline slide— "Max, Max, Max. Do I really have to remind you why I'm like this?" A small chuckle. "No, you don't." By now Max had gotten himself up again, wiping off the bodily fluid from the side of his mouth. The left side sported a purple bruise. The humidity—the warm water vapor helped in nothing to control his shaky intake. "Let go of it, Brad. What's done is done. Shut the hell up and get outta here. I have no time to deal with a loser like you— The brows on the jock were still raised. Max had expected a sudden fury; the face showed little to no emotion, but the next actions spoke volumes. Again wheeled around to the side of the lockers, banging at the side and back of the kid's head—Every blow more sickening than the last—violent, unforgiving—hot loathing to the core. It was soon making contact with one of the shower poles and the protruding knobs. The white dog was never done and threw the victim onto the tile wall coming back with a supernatural grasp giving even more thrusts of the head and body on the white plane. All this time the boy screamed—shrieked in fury and pain. Convulsions didn't cease until the scarlet liquid seeped into his gloves. Max Goof was choking on his own flesh and blood— "You IDIOT! Do you have any idea what you and your team did to my reputation?!" No sympathy. No pride. Undiluted hate. "You- you've deserved everything that happened to you." The boy was murmuring down at the waist cloth sprinkled red and white. He didn't dare make eye contact this time; he was afraid to face the very thing that undermined his being back in high school… back when he—himself—was the loser. A cough let the coagulated blood fall between their feet. Bits touched the predator's toes. Dark blue eyes peered down before returning to the crooked head. Fingers wrapped themselves around the kid's neck and forced eye contact— "Today, Goof, you've lost." Words could not describe the darkened features of the young man's countenance. Once so full of emotion and life, Brad seemed so subdued that the enigmatic smile was all of a sudden more than just a show of pride. A heartbeat shot Max's emotions to the stratosphere— Humiliation, hatred, and insecurities broke into sobs. This change of pace took the sports fanatic by surprise, releasing the grip on the kid's windpipe, letting him sink down to the reddened tile. Salty tears washed away the gore… From the blue a fresh towel was thrust into his lap, "Shut the fuck up. You're a man—Now, get up before I make you." The black dog buried his wet face into the cloth, soaking up as much of the excess as he could. The stained gloved hand pulled at dark hair and stayed there, while the other did pull weight together to get himself up. The waist towel loosened, nearly fell off—but was saved in the nick of time. This little wardrobe malfunction startled Brad—flesh tone changed color and made him turn around to scan the locker room to see if anyone had heard in on anything that occurred. Splashes of a crusted red umber decorated the number of impacts given for the poor bastard. Against his will, the human side bounced back, not helping to stop the guilt that scorched his soul. The breathing had become just as shallow as the other. What the hell have I done? – A bead of sweat rolled down his neck. Am I really that angry? Dammit! Why does he have to be so cute?! Why is he so determined to make a fool of himself; and so full of life, friends—Family! Shit! I'm a jealous bitch! "Brad…-- Whipping his hair back—"What?!" Abnormal and hollow; eyes wild. "Don't even get near me anymore. Don't talk to me— Uncontrolled feelings flooded into fleshed strong arms—One on the shoulder, one on the waist. Both canines were shaking, and the overbearing humidity did not aid one bit in finding their sanity— "Don't touch me." Pink attacked the boy's cheeks as the reality struck him cold. Bleeding and all, a tongue rammed into the warm crevice and nearly sucked out the feeble life he had left. The boy was about to crash down and burn again when the other arm took an iron clamp up and down the exposed back pulling him forward, closer than ever before. Bellies were touching—Max grabbed a strong hold wrapping himself around the man's shoulders for support in partial fear of dragging Brad down with him. The lip lock broke for an instant, "I want your fury—I want your spirit. Give me everything it took to win!" The command injected newfound energy. The hands on Brad's neck dug into the nerve, onto the shoulder blades and onto his back—leaving imprints wherever the gloves made contact with the bare skin as their mouths clasped onto each other—traveling down the forehead, bruised cheek and eyelid down to each other's neck and collarbone—varied to each other and never in sync. The jock wanted to break the boy's vertebrae, ribcage—arm—anything, just to get a whimper or a yelp of pain— The expression that played on both faces was not that of bliss, but of incessant rivalry, mixed into that of confused pleasure and stimulation— "Stop—we should stop—please, Brad," panting. "Bradley." Another deep kiss led to a fumble of hands rubbing at bare chests, up and down Max's slender sides, finally reaching that last cover, "You won't be needing this anymore— The sudden refusal knocked the senior down, slipping on the slick tile along the way. Head fell with a thunk— "Ohh—what the hell-!!" Massaging that little bump, which was nothing compared to the blood loss at the back of the Goof boy's skull. Max, as satisfied as he was, only displayed a show of disgust… Or, was it a longing for something other than the lying body at his feet? "Maximilian—we got a good thing going here—why stop now??" "Roxanne." "… what.. ?" A phlegm-filled gulp—"Roxanne." How was it possible, after all the times he suppressed her very existence, hitting it off with other girls—her image was all of a sudden as vivid as death? "Your first time?" Brad was leaning forward in curiosity in an all-too-casual sitting. His neck bent back to try and find the answer in the kid's reddened eyes. "…. No." ~~ "But, what do you mean I can't see you again?" "A lot's been going on, and I can't take you with me." "Roxanne, please—I'll even transfer out of this campus— Slapped away, "Come back to your senses, Goof!"~~ As the name rang like mad in his ears, the 19 year old peered over the guy in front of him again. No, Roxanne was not his first time—she wasn't even a lover. No one ever was… His weakened heart suddenly ached for some pure form of affection. And now, it seemed that his last chance at true happiness had flown away… The only thing left was an empty shell of lust—a primitive desire. All he ever knew was school, friends and sports… Roxanne and his dad. The last fence to hurdle, separating him from selling his soul to the devil, who took advantage of his hesitant stature, "Relax, Goof, everything's gonna be fine— Everything's gonna be fine. Everything was thrown back to a sharp clarity. What the hell was he doing? What would happen if his father found out about this? The expression of worry was blatant. "Oh, Max. Nobody's gonna know what we did here. At least, I won't tell." "… Yeah." The gloves were removed. The last spark of innocence was extinguished, "Sure you won't, Bradley." There was no sense of letting his one chance of humiliating the X-Games King get away. "I might as well make the best of it." A low growl to his now darkened features. All the senior could do was let out a small gasp. The eyelids drooped to indifference. Not a smirk, not a frown. The movements were brutal—towels were ripped off, exposing themselves to each other. Max slammed his body full-length over the other, letting Brad's head fall to the tile again— And again as the black dog took his turn—ramming his mouth into the other while strangling him with both hands—"What the hell are you doing?!—” Hacking The pressure tightened, "Please!" and suddenly gave way, I'm supposed to hate this person— "Remember?! I'm supposed to hate you! Despise you—" Fever attacked as the boy manically pressed forward—"fuck you." Bradley's eyes widened until only the pupil was seen, at a loss for air and for words. As the words sank in, something clutched at his own heart. Out of fear, he let Max do exactly as he threatened, letting those ebony fingers grab at his crotch and pull and tug, and squeeze at everything—Loud moans were all the crazed boy could perceive—but he wanted something more out of this jerk— The legs went up in the air, massaged ferociously before letting a throbbing organ inside. A little howl, "Ha ha—Max, you look different… " a nervous chuckle. "Well, you told me to give it my all." It was now obvious that something in this kid's mind had snapped—that childish spirit had gone only to be replaced by a somber mannequin. The senior's breathing came in abnormal intervals; he could only utter this, "No—wait—Maximilian—-!!" This boy of no sexual talent dominated over the leader—going in deeper and deeper with each thrust. All Goof boy could imagine was revenge, torture. He already regretted not being close to a power tool—As the blood attacked his reddened cheeks and down his fur in drying clumps with all the sweat rolling down his body and biting his tongue to not join the chorus below him, all he wanted to do was go even further— To the point when he began to rock in all directions to find the place where the jock was most vulnerable, "Haa! Haa! M—Max. Max… ! Ngh—nggh—MAX!— A hand wrenched onto the other member and with a strong thumb tortured it at the same time the sophomore delved in again. The multitasking was doing the trick—"STOP!”—Pain-filled howl— Eyes flared as a corner of the predator's mouth jerked upward, "Everything!!" Both figures arched forward, backward, inverting against each other and grinding. Vapor, sweat on each and every part of their bodies. Bradley realized that he'd been ignoring every plea. Max could no longer contain his innate desires, pulled out and bit the tip before swallowing the organ whole, "Agh! Do you want to rip it out of me?! Stop it!" Up the naked fingers went from behind, legs high in the mist— The jock went beet red. Nearly fainting, he felt the final strokes of the tongue and thrashing of teeth before moaning aloud, "You goddamn Freshman!" A burst of semen went up in the boy's mouth— Horrendous flavor. He spat it right in the guy's face. Never had a feeling over him been so foul—A wave of nausea only fed into the boy's anger, fury, loathing for the man under him. The black eyes finally took a good, long look over the surface of that lean, toned… Before going down any further, Maximilian's eyes snapped back—locked to blue orbs, which were half opened before making contact. A dominant fear of the new predator ran circles in the jock's mind. He didn't know what to say—what to do—Usually, he would set the ground rules when it came to sex. I've laid more men and women than anyone on campus! "And now this-" inaudible whisper. Goof didn't even flinch. It took this long to come to terms with the fact that he was smiling. Smiling, not for the pleasure of either one of them, but because he was so close, "And… I'm about to win, Brad." The young man's state of mind shifted gears—the shallow breathing that carried the fear soon returned to its normalcy, and then a crease formed down the middle of his forehead. It was lethargic at first—And then those elements of bigotry and pride which he had always thrived on flooded into him like before— "Shit!" a shout of frustration and a fist at the cold tile. The boy was within him again. Max gave him no time for a comeback— The next thrust was one of the strongest, knocking the air out of him, and again—once more as the boy screamed out, "This is for you, Brad!"—Eyes livid—entire body shaking—fists clenching and unclenching before settling on slugging the brat in the face— "This is for everyone who ever tried to break me, whenever I was down— "ALWAYS, BRADLEY! ALWAYS!!" Maximilian was becoming either deaf or blind to whatever he spat out in the current situation, because the screams had gotten harsh and blood-curdling—more blows, bruises quick to form—Claws dug into flesh and pried open ridges— "BUT WHY?!" The bloodied hair matted over his face "Max!" Ill attempts at spitting out the copper "WHY?!?" Max Goof had lost himself to years of literal and imagined persecution—Faces flickered for milliseconds on end as the hardened member dug even deeper, tearing at the entrance's sides— "You motherfucker! You're gonna kill me!!" No generous amount of unsettling bodily fluids was enough to conceal the same exact being that had tried to kill this same kid much earlier. Legs slammed straight down. There was no room left for that foreign object to budge— "Shit!! Sh—it! Fuuuck—!" The other writhed in pain at the height of his anger, to be so close only to be shut out… Again. "Get—" Brad's laid back attitude scorched off. The boy's inferiority complex kicked in with bitter disappointment. "Brad… ley?" "Get, the hell, out of me.” Another sickening heartbeat was accompanied by a tearful gasp. The worm pulled out. Before he could even begin to apologize the pissed jerk jutted his arms right into the broad shoulders, rocked himself up and over the ex-predator, causing him a near concussion, grabbing at a leg and twisting the whole body down to the ground— "oof!”—Backside in full view—"Bradley, I'm sorry!" All the pain and pleasure had reached its peak, and was about to be released. The leader's aid consisted of rough slides up Max's ass, ramming into the zenith, All those suppressed shrieks and moans of the obscene belted out getting lost within all that jungle rhythm in the mist—that whitewashed rainforest— "Agh—Bradley! Haa—ha!—Nggh! Please, Bradley—" The slamming continued, frantic. The one last ill hold onto his dying rage as the same image of the same girl emerged, then realizing who was actually over him now, "I hate you— I hate you!" Roxanne!! "I HATE THE WHOLE WORLD—!!— Ah!—Tension released from his own cock right before the crazed jock let out his second wave of cum, "I want to die." Both expressions were shattered with scarlet. Both were hard of breathing, unable to understand the void of time. The boy's hand fell limp on the tile; his body sank to the floor in a puddle of their own sweat, blood, and tears. A splash of cold relief washed away all existence of what happened here, in this unnecessary lovemaking—lust. A strong limb pulled the dead weight up to its feet. Out of the void was a warm, sturdy shield, pressed against the swollen cheekbone. Eyes barely open, the loser shuddered and let out a withering sigh as the cascades fell on the embrace. Bradley, finally eradicated of all his hatred toward this naïve individual, planted a firm, prolonged kiss on his head, face buried in his bloodied hair… "Oh, Max, I hate you too. So much." His arms wrapped even tighter with the energy he had left. "Roxanne." The demon turned child wept at his grave loss… "Maximilian Goof, no matter what the hell happens next, I won't let you die—Promise of an enemy." Saddened in the heart, face down—hidden in his rival's chest, this loser couldn't help but attempt a smile.

[eagesoldartblog]

Not sure if you remember but you reblogged a post a while back (and tagged it #antagonist au if that helps) and talked in the tags abt Lewis trying and failing to be a villain and like. I'd love to hear more abt that

Ay! So fun fact! I accidentally mish-mashed a bunch of aus together so have fun~ 

EDIT: ALSO! Please be sure to check out the tags for the Trigger warnings!

Antagonistic Lewis 

I can be a villain, Lewis reassures himself, taking quick, long paces as he circled the dark, Stoney room. You’ve done this plenty of times before! Sure that was on stage, everyone knew their part- but you can do this…!

If he still had a neck, a throat, he’d be gulping back his worry. But unfortunately that form of him hardly came up and right now, he wasn’t sure how to deal with the ordeal that would have been needed to bring up his face. 

Unless. Lewis pauses for just a moment, eyes snapping over to a chair in the middle of the room. Well, not just a chair, it just so happened to be holding the very man who forced Lewis into a position such as this. Killed him, snatched a life of opportunity away. If it was to show him, then maybe. Maybe he could shove aside the swamped feeling of despair, inturn for the reward of watching his killers face becomes contorting with the knowledge that his victim was back. Then Arthur would know. He would be able to comprehend just how serious he was.

Bitterness almost drips from the ceiling and clings to his clothes and skull like glue, fueling his thoughts to spiral and grow restless and angry, how He wanted to be a father and have a family, Kingsmen. A family where you were in it.

His fist tightens, glare honing in so much he could see the hairs on the back of Arthurs neck stand on end. How his shoulders shake and tremble and rise with shallow breaths. Earlier Lewis had been worried he had restrained too tight. But now? Lewis wanted to grab the knotted ends of the rope, and pull and pull until he could watch Arthur’s organs come up his throat. 

No. No… not yet. Lewis hisses to himself, shoving his rage and making it subside into something more manageable. Disdain. Sure, annoyance and hatred threatened to climb up his body and consume him entirely in a sheet of flame. Flash out and have the roar echo against the walls. But he forced himself to stay silent, calm. It was better to keep his bitterness hidden for now.

Not yet. Lewis reminds himself, echoing it through his head like a mantra and Lewis takes slow, careful steps. Relishing the click, click, click of his heels. Each one marking the smallest jolt in his captives’ shoulders, who slowly began to sir.

Wait until he was conscious. And show him the true meaning of fear.

Lewis’s smile stretches across his cheeks, listening to the smallest moan creeping out of Arthurs mouth. Able to watch that peaceful expression become one of confusion, disbelief, and slowly blink to awakeness. Lewis could almost commend himself on the dramatic timing, because just as Arthur lifted his head, he gasps, eyes snapping up to meet his expression. Fear and confusion taking hold of his body, covering his face like a rat stuck in a trap.

It fills Lewis with a glee so immense he could giggle with delight. Jitteriness taking hold of his entire body.

”Good evening, Arthur,” He hums, unable to make out the euphoric feeling of finally being able to speak these words for real now. No more reciting, no more imagining. Arthurs racing heartbeat was real and Lewis could feel its pound in every part of their small room, ”I’m so glad we could finally meet in person. No more running away, hiding away in that van of yours,” Oh yes, Arthur will pay handsomely, one for taking away his life and spitting on it with the pathetic excuse of a search, and two, for wasting all of his precious time. 

His smile tightens, teeth grinding and straining against his jaw. The noise grinding into his ears and making his body nearly convulse. Had he cared just a bit more for himself and his bony form, he would have paid it more mind. 

Instead. 

SLAM. Arthur screams, jerking his body like he was trying to leap away, only to be bound by the tight ropes around his chest and the hand gripping his shoulder. The fist- had it been lacking a glove- would be noticeably growing red. Knuckles would have bulged out from his skin. And if Lewis was being serious, he wouldn’t doubt it if the bone ripped through. That’s just how anger was. 

And, just like how he imagined, so many times before, it hurt.

When he grabbed it, Arthur had most likely gasped, tried to wriggle out. Now his shoulder was clamped to the chair and Lewis was inches away from his face. Unable to properly examine how Arthurs eyes snap from him to his shoulder, make out how he desperately tries to push and wriggle his arm out. So much that he slams his elbow against the chair to force it out. But to no avail.

Now to deliver his next lines, ”You know, I was thinking of how I should kill you ever since you trespassed onto my property.” he made sure to whisper, low and soft, to drive home just how little he cared, as if being quiet would show this despicable man how serious lewis is. 

His grip tightens. ”I’ve been imagining every possible death I could bestow upon you. Should it be the way I died? Should it be in a bathtub?” As he speaks, his hand latches to Arthurs chin and jerks his head to the side. The room shifted, morphed, the walls opening up and staining with water-damaged wallpaper. A single tub, covered in rust standing at the furthest wall. 

Drops of tears hit Lewis’s fingers, snatching his attention down before directing his gaze to Arthur’s face- his eyes were wide and his neck strains, breath coming out in shallow, panicky breaths. The severity of the situation finally hitting him. 

To think, Suddenly, A voice in the back of Lewis’s head whispers, you had to save him from many of these types of situations before.

…Huh? 

Lewis couldn’t help but blink, eyebrows screwing together as his mind suddenly freezes. Frozen- not like he’s been hit by a bullet, but instead watching a travesty occur and being unable to process any of it. And for a moment, Lewis can’t help but be shocked at the tone of it. Indifference? Boredom? Ple-

“P-please stop it-” Arthur chokes out. His eyes squinting shut as tears fill his eyes and begin to drip, rolling down his cheeks and- and suddenly Lewis’s thoughts stall. His plan, his- his script jumbled and losing itself in a wave of confusion and- 

What is he doing? Why are they there- ”Why should I? I’m dead, don’t you remember?”

Arthur throws his shoulder again. But to no avail. His eyebrows twist up, and he looks up at Lewis once more and a pleading look is all that Lewis can make out. Except instead of filling Lewis with rage, it throws him further into the murky depths of confusion. Is-is he seeing this right now? Why- 

He didn’t even notice, but his grip loosened. So much so that Lewis took a step back- floated away and he could barely make out his hand simply dangling there.

“I just- I just want to find my fr-friend.” Arthur chokes out, more tears rolling down his face as he dissolves into that awkward shuddery sob. Unable to breathe but with so much trying to leap out of your throat and there’s nothing else you can do to lock it up. 

It was… pathetic. Horribly pathetic. But- … 

Lewis shakes his head, reminding himself that there was no way this bastard is being honest! He lied for years- excellently crafted a lie beyond any logic that ultimately ended in shoving him off a cliff and to his doom- 

And he continues to lie? Even- even fucking now? 

But Arthur doesn’t stop crying, his shoulders shaking and the rest of his body beginning to tremble. The only thing preventing him from slumping over and really seal the deal of his supposive despair was the rope that Lewis was now seriously regretting.

…What was he thinking? Lewis demands of himself, tearing through his thoughts as he circles the side of Arthur and his fingers lace the ridges of the rope. 

”H-hey, I’m sorry, Arthur.. I didn’t mean to- fuck- I shouldn’t have done that-” He stumbles over his words, fumbling with the intonation, as well as whether or not he had the right to even apologize for- for kidnapping him! For threatening him with death-! Lewis should be ashamed of his actions. The rope unravels, and disintegrates. Arthur brings up his arms slowly, eyeing his palms in shock before he’s up and standing and turning to Lewis. Distrust covering his face as he backs away like a frightened cat and almost pressing himself against the wall behind him. 

Lewis, wasn’t exactly sure how to respond. Something about this scenario was off, it was wrong, and he couldn’t tell what exactly it was. Perhaps it was just the guilt that was already beginning to swell. 

He- he’s seen this before, hasn’t he? Lewis could only recall a faint image- when they were much younger. Lewis was trying to practice for his role in a play, and Arthur had come over to help. 

Lewis was a villain, and they were dangerous. He was dangerous. He only- took out his frustration through his roles.. And… 

Lewis faintly could remember the scream. Arthur begging him to stop because he was hurt.

How did Arthur ever forgive him for breaking his arm-?

“Wh-here’s the exit?” Arthur asked, his voice wavers and Lewis is once again forced to see the sorrow etched into his exhausted face, and Lewis had to remind himself that things were different now. He- 

Silencing his thoughts, shooing away the memories, Lewis sighs and nods to the door just a yard away from Arthurs feet, keeping his head down. ”Down the hall, then take a left and go up some stairs, the exit will be on your left.” 

He flicks his wrist, and several deadbeats fizz into existence, ”here, they’ll guide you out-

Click

BANG!

There’s an explosion. One that rocks through the room, and tears into him. Somehow Lewis was still standing, but that could have been the shock, as his eyes flicker down and peer at his chest… and make out.. A hole.

A small one, barely big enough to chip anything major- being his anchor and ribs- but… a hole. That’s for sure. 

Lewis blinks, slowly raising his gaze and…. Only able to make out… 

Arthur. Has a gun. A gun that is pointed directly at him now. Smoking lightly and shaking even more. Matching the look of complete, utter terror on his face. 

”Ar-”

Another bang, but this time Lewis was plunged into a world of black.

[nomimits7]

Undecided Chapter 5

Title: Undecided Pt 5

Genre: Investigation, murder, masked behavior.

Warnings: murder, psychotic behavior, might be triggering.

Members: detective OT7 x Forensic scientist Reader

Note: Phrases are just add-ins to help with the storyline… If they confuse you, feel free to ask!

Summary: Moving overseas for a once in a lifetime job offer was one of the scariest things Y/N ever did. That was until she got stuck in a twisted investigation of random murders, all with one link but no leads. Closing in on the culprit(s) Y/N doesn’t realize the danger she’s getting into. With no family or friends, can Y/N dare to trust those seven closest to her with her life?

A/N; I am so sorry this took so long. I’m stuck on a scene in chpt 7 that has reference to this chapter and the next! I hope you enjoy

Undecided Character intro update

•♡•

Dream: Indulge in daydreams or fantasies about something greatly desired.

•♡•

Maybe your dream was telling you that it’s okay to stay.

Well, ‘Mission getting all the boys to trust you’ were… successful? Can you truly call it successful? After all, you didn’t actually do anything. They did the testing, they set you up, they tested you, on the third day you were in South Korea to be exact. You were ecstatic that they finally trusted you, but on the other hand, you were… disappointed? You wanted to prove yourself in your own way. Not that you weren’t thankful but now what? Do you continue as normal? Do you become more intimate in your duties at the office? Questions, so many unanswered questions.

Speaking about the office, your first question of many would be exactly that… “Uh, where are we? This doesn’t look like the office”

“Oh! Ha-ha no this isn’t the office. You’re at our apartment Y/N. Remember I told you we lived in the same hotel the office is in?” Jimin said, tilting his head as he observed you.

Of course, how could you forget that? He did mention them living in the same hotel as the one where the office is located. Why that thought didn’t occur to you first, you do not know. Idiot.

“So, you all live in a shared apartment?” You asked as you glanced around the very spacious living room.

“Yes, we do. I know it's weird but being part of a traveling agency its easier. One place to worry about is better than seven different apartments in one city, don’t you think? Besides, It not just one apartment. We own the whole floor so there’s more than enough room.” Hoseok said matter of factly. As if it was the most obvious conclusion to the scenario, which it wasn’t.

Well, come to think of it, it did make more sense. When they’re all together they never have the stress of being late for work, neither were they alone at night unlike you. Wow, you kind of wished you were living with them, just to NOT be alone at night.

Wait… they live in the same building as their office. That means all of them drive all the way to your place to pick you up just to return to the same building. Where does that make sense?

“But, if you all live here, basically at the office. Why do you drive all the way to my place to pick me up just to come back here? I could always take a cab or something. There’s really no need for you guys to fetch me at all.” You curiously asked

This seemed to get a reaction from all the boys. You could physically feel Jungkook tense and relax under you as you wait for an answer. Come to think of it, why are you still in his arms? Not that you were complaining. Turns out they are very comfortable to be in.

“Well, we actually discussed that when we reviewed your resume. And we all concluded that it would be safest to fetch you ourselves than risk you, a foreigner, to navigate your way to work each day. Even though the streets are relatively safe, there still are a few individuals that prey on the innocent and foreign, like yourself. We even thought of having you live at the hotel as well, but all the rooms were booked, and it would have been awkward for all of us if you moved into our apartment from the word go. Besides, even if it doesn’t look like it at first, we tend to get jealous when one of us gets to do something the others can’t partake in, little dove.” Namjoon successfully answered. There’s a reason he has such a high IQ.

“Oh, that makes sense I suppose”. You said as a blush crept on to your cheeks. You swore he used those nicknames just to see you blush and judging by his smirk, you were 100% sure he indeed was. It’s just a matter of time before the rest of the boys pick this up. Whether they’ll use it like Mr dimples over there, you don’t know.

“Y/N? Why did your face turn pink just now? Was it the nickname Namjoonie gave you?” Yoongi asked raising one of his eyebrows. A smirk made its way onto his face as this new information manifested into his brain. Why does he have to be so fucking observant? No, the real question is… why did he have to say it out loud?

“Oh? She can blush? Well, well well… this is going to be fun” Hoseok said. His voice taking on a playful tone. Playful bordering dangerous. Maybe even with a hint of challenged laced between the lines if you squint.

This was not good. You were in trouble and you had absolutely no way of escaping. And the fact that you blush at almost everything that made your stomach to a flip, was not going to help you.

Before you could even think up an escape plan, Taehyungs dreaded phone rang again. This time though no one tensed. A ringing phone wasn’t something to be afraid of, it happens all the time.

“Kim…” Taehyungs deep voice carried across the room as the boys each continued teasing you. It wasn’t until Taehyung let out a, very loud ‘what’ that everyone fell silent.

“Where?... How long ago?... 5 minutes? And you never thought of calling us? You’re an idiot! We’re running against time here… give us 5 minutes” Taehyung concluded sarcastically. Turning around and facing you, his next words made you visibly freeze on the spot.

“So, Y/N? Have you ever seen a fresh murdered victim? Guess today's your lucky day…”  

•♡•

~Follow the sound of the pipe, follow this song. It’s a bit dangerous but I’m so sweet. I’m here to save you, I’m here to ruin you. You called me, see? I’m so sweet. Follow the sound of the pipe. I’m taking over you. I’m taking over you~

The song continues to haunt you at the back of your mind as you try and focus on the scene. Although, if this can even be called a scene. Silently you cursed Jungkook for playing the song during your drive to the scene, but a small part of you was even thankful for it, it gave you a distraction.

Nothing was out of place. Nothing except the lifeless body draped over one of the corner chairs. Again, dressed in black and wearing red shoes. You patiently waited for Seokjin and the medics to clear the scene so you could map out the floor.

In the art of investigations and so, the forensic scientists are the ones that map out the floor. They mark specific areas where everyone can walk. All other areas are off-limits. This helps with the preservation of evidence and it’s just protocol. Doing this and drawing the scene as found are crucial steps in any investigation.

Once you gave the go-ahead the rest of the boys all filtered into the scene. Each carefully moving within your set boundaries as they all set to work collecting what they could. Even though this is not wise, it’s faster. They’re all trained and educated investigators, they know how to handle evidence. They have been collecting them long before you were part of the equation.

Once everything was collected and the whole scene has been thoroughly searched, twice, you all head back to the office to start your individual tasks on sorting the evidence and analyzing everything.

After many hours of sorting and analyzing, Taehyung called everyone to the briefing room for any updates.

“Right, Seokjin. Let’s start with you” Taehyung said as everyone found their seats.

“Right, Victim was female. She was shot executioner style, but this time the wound wasn’t fatal. She was, however, tortured before death. Unfortunately, I can’t say whether the torturing happened before, or after she was shot. I can, however, conclude she died at approximately midnight yesterday evening. The cause of death was major blood loss, internally as well as from the wound in her skull. She was beaten, mutilated with a blade or sharp object and forced to drink acid. This crime is much more brutal than any of the others.” Seokjin concluded with a sigh as he slaked in his seat. Visibly drained.

“Namjoon? Anything on who the victim was?” Taehyung asked.

“Victims' name was Mary-lee. She was a 24-year-old businesswoman. She was last seen leaving a popular night club only two blocks from where she was found nearly 7 hours later. She was alone at the club. Came alone and left alone. She had only one beer, meaning she wasn’t drunk. The bartender even said she came by regularly, usually only having one beer before she would leave.”

“Jimin? Do you have the results of her toxin scene?” Taehyung reluctantly asked.

“I do, With the little blood found in her liver, I found no trace of any drugs or alcohol in her system. She was completely sober during the time of her death, it’s as if the killer made sure she felt everything that happened to her. This means that these killings aren’t linked by drugs.” Jimin said.

“Great, that’s good. Were getting somewhere. Y/N?” Taehyung said sarcastically as he turned to you.

“Mary-lee was shot with a round nose bullet. That’s why it went right through. These bullets are usually found within law enforcement, unfortunately, this bullet was custom made. I also came to the same conclusion as Jimin, I just found the link in another form. The victim was once again totally cleaned and drained of blood. She was wearing black clothes and red shoes, had no trace evidence just like the previous victims even if no drugs were used on her. This means the killer is getting creative. He tortured her, something he never did with any of the other victims. She was found in pub- ” You said as your eyes went wide when they made contact with Taehyung who failed to notice.

“Right, I think this settles it. We are officially looking for a serial killer. One that feels safe enough to take risks. One that’s playing with us. One that finds joy in his killings. Yoongi, inform the press. We need to catch this mad man before he kills again.” Taehyung concluded as he stood only to be stopped by your voice.

“Wait, somethings off. Linda was killed last week in a similar fashion than Mary-lee, but they weren’t killed in the same week as the first four victims. Why would the killer change his style so drastically? Unless we missed something big. But what?” all eyes were on you as you bit your lower lip in concentration.

“Y/N, if there’s someone who can figure this out… it’s you. We’ll all help and look for the link or the reason this guy changed, but don’t ponder on it too hard, the answer will come” Hoseok said as he gave you a pat on the back.

Slowly everyone filtered out of the briefing room. Exhaustion being a common trait everyone shared at this stage, yet you all went back to work.

You can rest when you're dead...

•♡•

The news of a serial killer on the hunt for his next victim, literally send a tsunami of panic through the city. Stores started closing earlier, children were kept out of school, neighbors even started suspecting each other as the case grew more and more complicated. Lead after lead was reported daily, all leading to more dead ends than in the entire continent. This just made things even harder for everyone at the office.

You were on the verge of burning out. Tonight would be your third all-nighter and you felt it. Your eyes were lifeless, your muscles ached and begged for rest. The case had come to a complete standstill. No one could find anything to boost your chances of catching this inhuman psycho. It’s as if he was untouchable.

Staring at the same report for the hundredth time your mind went blank once again as you tried to see the connection.

Yoongi found something else at the crime scene. Something missing from the first five. A single strand of hair, female but not from the victim nor any other victim. The DNA extracted also didn’t match anyone registered on the system. This meant that either the killer was female, or the killer was near another female before he killed Mary-lee.

But there were other possibilities as well. It could have been one of Mary’s client’s hair or other worker's hair… yet everyone at the office was registered on the site used by investigators. A security measure the company uses to make sure its employees weren’t previous offenders.

There was another option, one that made your heart speed-up. The possibility that the hair sample found belonged to that of a foreigner. You were a foreigner. The color-matched your hair color, you were female, yet you never met Mary-lee.

There’s only one option left to ease your anxiety. You needed to provide a sample and clear your name, just in case, even if you knew it was nearly impossible for your hair to be a match. But something deep down felt off. This killer wasn’t that careless. He wanted this sample to be found. If its to send a message you were determined to find out what he wanted to say.

•♡•

You know that it’s already begun. The moment you hear that sound, maybe I’m a bit dangerous. Like the pied piper, I’m testing you. Like the fruit from the tree of good and evil.

Time came to complete standstill as everyone in the briefing room was staring at your, now very pale face. A mix of confusion and shock written on everyone’s face as Jimin lowered the lab results. It was a match. Your hair was found at a crime scene you’ve never been to.

No word could describe how helpless you felt at that very moment. All your hard work on building their trust, redeeming your past mistakes was now on the brink of extinction. You wanted to prove yourself and you have, now this happened. They’ll never trust you again.

“Y/N, that figure you saw at your home the second night you were in that house. You can’t recall if he/she was in your home?” Taehyungs cold voice sliced through the air, successfully scaring the living shit out of you.

“N-no, I-I don’t think s-so” You weakly replied. You felt your body losing all energy as more blood left your face. Once again you felt strong arms on your shoulders, a glass of water appearing in front of your face. Your eyes were glossy as you just sat there, making no attempt to take the offered water.

“Y/N, hey stay with me, sweetheart. Come on, drink this. No no, come back to us Y/N” Yoongi’s voice rang out as another pair of hands took your face in theirs, lightly tapping it.

“Hey, we’re not mad at you. We know for a fact you have never been to that office. There’s absolutely nothing connecting you to this case. That’s why Taehyung-ie asked if you know if that individual was in your home. That hair was planted, and we all know it!” Hoseok said from behind you. His arms tightening their grip on you as he spoke.

“Y/N, I firmly believe everyone in this room would agree with me when I say that this psycho’s targeting you. You aren’t safe in that home, not anymore.” Jungkook said from his seat, visibly vibrating with anger.

“I agree and don’t let Tae’s cold voice get to you. We all need a break from this case before we all go completely insane.” Seokjin said with tired soft eyes.

The room went quiet as your color slowly returned to your face. The newfound information slowly sinking in as you furrowed your eyebrows. The implication they were referring to had chills running down your body. Why would this killer target you? You were a nobody. A foreigner-only trying to make a living. For heaven's sake! You didn’t even know anyone here! Except for the boys.

“Why me…?” You whispered. A lost memory threatening to expose itself as the reason.

“We don’t know, but I promise you we’ll find out. No one fucks with our family and your family now!” Jimin said, surprising you with the harshness of his words.

With affirmative nods from all the boys, you felt a sense of calmness fold around you. You're going to be okay.

“Y/N” Taehyungs voice made you turn to him. His voice was somewhat softer than before.

“I think it would be best if you relocate. As Jungkook said, it’s not safe for you to be in that house. Not just that but being alone in general. I do believe the rest will agree to the fact that this madman has his eyes set on you. Don’t worry Y/N, you’re safe with us even if it’s our fault there’s a target on your back. So, how about it boys?” Taehyungs voice carried through the room.  

His words made you smile, that familiar warmth returning as the implication of his words truly hit you. They care for you. You’re important to them. You’re safe with them.

“Why don’t we just let her join us at our apartment? There’s plenty of space! She can take the biggest guest room at the end of the hall. That way we’ll always be close to her. No one would be able to get to her.” Namjoon’s voice suddenly rang out from the back of the room.

M-move in with them? Wouldn’t that be… weird?

Seeing your worried eyes, Seokjin quickly stepped in. taking your hands in his, his eyes locking yours in place as his thumb rubbed reassuringly over your knuckles.

“Y/N, this way we’ll be able to keep you safe.” Taking a deep breath, he continued with a pleading tone.

“Please move in with us doll, let us keep you safe”

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Things are heating up!!

Chapter 6

[cavitymagazine]

𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔧𝔞 𝔴𝔞𝔯𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔤

There’s a painting of it that you’ve probably seen somewhere. Pointillist. A dirt road and a cornfield. A parked green tractor. And, the imagery discordant, a dejected ninja slouching beside the tractor, staring down at his limply held blade as though it’s the ultimate substantiation of meaninglessness. This painting’s been reproduced, parodied, enshrined, and displayed all over the globe. It’s at the Detroit Institute of Art, presently, in fact.

Equation from a crypto-meteorological textbook:

91-101 kph [wind speed] + oblique, angular shadow systems [precise configuration/density: UNKNOWN] + misty [optional?] rain/overcast sky + uprooted bamboo trees and/or bamboo chips/strips/material [exact amount UNKNOWN] = ninjitstorm [perhaps]

Crypto-Beaufort Scale entry for ninjitstorm:

Beaufort Number: 10

Name: Chimerical Gale or Conjuror Storm

Wind Speed: 58-62 mph [91-101 kph]

Description: Considerable structural damage occurs; ninja assassins manifest

The homely Nebraska town of Sumner has a general store called General Store – it’s that kind of agrestic. People and corn. And more corn. Grain sacks. A poky video store. Grousing tractors.

Of course this uneventfulness is a late and lamented portraiture of Sumner: it is the way it was before the squall of gleaming katana.

One advanced afternoon in the mid 1990s it rains ninja on Sumner. Like homicidal hailstones, they somersault and roll and flying-kick out of tornadic funnels. Like armed sleet.

It marks the first and only occurrence of this phenomenon in the U.S. It’s a huge moment in Weather History.

Day 1: Chaos and horror. Eleven townsfolk are struck down; some livestock are poisoned by blow darts tipped with something more lethal than cyanide, others are gorily ornamented with shuriken. Green tractor paint obscured by arterial spray. Sumner’s roads go redly moist.

Law enforcement refuses to step in. Here’s an excerpt from the press release the Batch County Sheriff’s Department issued the day of the killer atmospheric conditions:

“While this department mourns the lives lost in Sumner this afternoon, the deaths, according to FEMA meteorologists, are no more ‘criminal’ than, for example, hurricane or mudslide casualties. We don’t arrest natural disasters; we don’t prosecute tsunamis. Sorry.

FEMA experts advise residents to stay indoors until a solution is reached. Crisis managers are in talks with Tokyo climatologists…”

Day 2: Terrorized townies hole up inside their houses and barns. Doors are needlessly barricaded and boarded over. (The aerial ninja confine their sneaky, homicidal industry to the outside world, in compliance with some meteorological principle only the atmosphere kens.) Sumner fathers cradle shotguns, uselessly. (Bullets have no effect on thunderstorms, squalls, or pneumatic assassins.) The town on Day 2 is ghostly and coiled, tense. Black-masked ninja zip in and across Sumner’s roads like darts: horizontal black blurs… a deadly twinkle of metal… then: gone. Hidden again.

Ain’t seen one all afternoon.

That don’t mean they ain’t out there.

My nephew googled it.

What’d it say?

Not much. Lingo for ‘em’s some Japanese word. In America they call ‘em Dudikoffs. Sounds Russian.

That don’t help, Carl.

Carl’s dumber ‘an shit on a post.

Eat me, Baker.

Ain’t never happened here in the U.S. Not ever. Last one happened in the Ukraine in ’94. Bunch in Japan in the ‘80s.

On Day 2 the only deaths are an ambling wiener dog cleanly sectioned by a sword and a few chickens, their clucking heads crunched via nunchaku, the weapon’s rawhide link sticky with fowl blood.

Day 3-5: A predawn charge overtures a full day of mass assassination almost as frenetic and ravaging as the first. This spasm of killing, however, slows over days 4 and five. The manifestation still beheads anyone or anything not under a roof, human or stock, but a certain berserk spirit seems to dissipate noticeably. The slaying isn’t as enthusiastic.

Theories abound, most of them infused with a hope contoured by acute desperation; they’re near-mythic, these theories.

Research into feline predatory patterns/Marquette University/1996:

“Our team stuck cats – housecats and ferals, both – into cages: one cat per cage. Then we simply dumped mice into these cages with the cats. Dozens of mice. The mice, of course, had nowhere to hide.

“The pattern was conspicuous right away: the cat frenzies, eyes big as dinner plates, followed by a maelstrom of claw action.

“Every cat, though, without variance, did this:

“They massacred the mice frantically, as though the mice could escape or we might take them away any second.

“Then, somewhere around Mouse Victim #14 (it’s a 12-14 range, this phenomenon, though we’ve seen it go as high as 16; never lower than 12), the cat just mellows, stops killing. Every time.

“Does the cat get bored around kill #14? Is its bloodlust sated at or around that magic number? Or does it merely realize the mice are trapped and it need not rush its rampage?

“Or… or, more interestingly, does kitty experience some kind of lynxian existential crisis? Does Garfield gaze dejectedly at his bloody, dripping claws as though they’re the substantiation of meaninglessness and say to itself, figuratively, ‘What’s the use?’

“Does Toonces pause and ask itself, ‘What the fuck is the point of me, anyway?’ Unless someone speaks cat, we’ll probably never know.”

Day 6-21: Days 6-21 play out as a more salient, more fizzly copy of days 4 and five.

The murders diminish in both number and frequency.

The mute ninjaforms meet an apparent corrosion of their eager bloodthirstiness. Their hearts are no longer in it, it seems.

The ninja seem bored. Or disillusioned. Sometimes a ripe townie will stroll right past a ninja, practically daring it to cut him down, practically volunteering, and the airborne assassin will merely look down at the dirt road, as though ashamed.

Some pundits attribute the change to Sumner’s population’s obstinacy, its grim insistence on resuming business-as-usual on Day Five. On 5, farmers rouse their slumbering tractors, church service is held, and a semi-normalcy pre-ninjastorm is willed into being. Granted, ninja bashed and hacked a not-insignificant number of townies during this time of unsheltering, sure, but the folks of Sumner were through hiding, come hell or ninja.

Day 22: A milestone in the Sumner ninjitstorm: 22 marks the day of the final killing of a town resident by a manifestation. It’s an awkward kill, like the last twitch of some fading convulsion: a meaningless reflex. Miss Maple, 83 years old. She was exiting the post office. Three ninjaforms were milling around out front, by the office’s decorative trough and hitching posts. None of the ninja had attacked in days. As Miss Maple passes the trio, nodding a “How do you do?”, one ninja flinches, and the flinch clumsily morphs into an instinctive strike. A jerky nunchaku stick cracks Miss Maple’s brittle skull. Red spurts out through gray scalp. Blood spatters her lavender shawl. She dies in the dirt road, her seizurely throes the only movement. It’s pathetic, that last killing. Dishonorable. Ninja wear masks, but still it’s as though the humiliation can be read on the assassin’s face: a child caught in the act of doing something stupidly cruel for no good reason.

Day 23-Day 60:

Crazy to say it.

Well, shit. You want it to go back to the way it was last month?

‘Course not. Hell.

I know what Carl’s gettin’ at though. Yessir. It’s glum. They’re like reminders of somethin’ sad.

Somethin’ bygone.

Yeah, “gone” is right. Gone are a bunch of decent folk gettin’ stabbed and decapitated for no goddamn reason. Are y’all forgettin’ that?

They are weather, Dan. We gonna hate somethin’ natural forever? It’s like stayin’ mad at the tornado that took your pickup.

Like stayin’ sore at the scorpion for stingin’.

That weather took my wife’s eye out with a dag-gum throwin’ star, Baker.

Settle down y’all.

How much’s a bag of them Corn Nuts?

The picante ones? Them’re good.

Well, listen. Them ninja, they’re here. And, ill or good, they’re ours. That’s how this town is. They’re part of us now.

Harmless, the ninja of Sumner slouch, their all-black suits vivid in the dayglare. They mill a lot, doing nothing – mopey shadows.

A gradual homogeny blooms: the town, its placidness, its standardized, cyclic normalcy, first tames and then assimilates the disorder of ninja, like a gobbling Norman Rockwell that quickly swallows up and absorbs any rogue or transgressive brushstrokes.

No one likes a sad ninja. Sad ninja are worse than your ordinary sad person. They’re oppressive.

The ninjaforms go from skulking assassins to lethargic killers; then to dejected, bland objects of pity – voiceless panhandlers, like stray cats or confused urchins.

Lost in despair, pouting between the town’s squat buildings or brooding in silent circles behind the video store, the ninja, finally, become the sullen pillars of the Sumner community.

Day 61-Present:

The ninja are as much a part of Sumner now as the cattle. As fixed and integral as the cornstalks. More so, maybe.

Sumner’s a tourist destination now; a very disappointing one. Morose ninja contemplating the dirt get boring fast. Tourists snap a few photos of the incongruous weather-forms, grab a slab of Marge’s Diner’s “famous” banana cream pie, and drive back to Florida or California or wherever tourists come from.

There is talk of penning up the ninja and making them a petting zoo. They’re docile as sleepy goats now, after all. Sometimes tourists’ kids will run over and pet one of them or tug at one’s pant leg. It gave people ideas.

Sometimes sympathetic Sumner grandmothers, overcome by pity, will do something like pet one of the glum ninja, stroking its hooded, hung head, extending a solace that isn’t receivable.

Story and artwork by Will Bernardara Jr.

[Author Bio]

Will Bernardara Jr. is the author of the novella America from voidfront. 

[jimlingss]

Tell Me Lies [Interlude]

Prologue | Part 1 | Interlude | Part 2 [Finale]

➜ Words: 3.8k

➜ Genres: Fuck me up with this angst - it hurts so good.

Spin off of the Korean Drama 'That Winter, The Wind Blows' (2013) and the Korean movie 'Love Me Not' (2006).

➜ Summary: All it would take is one more scheme. One more and you could live the rest of your life in riches. Except, you don’t expect your last victim to be Jimin’s sister.

➜ Warnings: Topics of blindness, illness and death, lots of cursing, minor slut-shaming, teenage angst, vague suicide mention.

The little girl hops down the stairs at a pace that is too reckless and too dangerous. It would take a mere millimeter more for her feet to be off balance on the steps and for her to come tumbling down. But still, she holds her breath, dashing swiftly despite the scoldings of adults upstairs, and she makes it.

  The child throws herself across the living room, past the sofas and the piano. She makes it towards the front entrance and outside; the sunlight beaming down, the rays kissing against the apples of her cheeks and long lashes. “Minnie!”   A boy, only two years older, spins around. His fluffy brunette hair swishes against the breeze, a sheepish smile spreading into his chubby face, eyes crinkled with a soft expression. “Yes?”   Unlike the events occurring, the weather is beautiful outside. The surroundings are sunlit, cotton ball clouds cluttered through the azure sky, morning dew sparkling on the verdant grassy lawn. Though the girl’s eyes trail to the tall suitcase that stands by his side, the car parked at the front of the round driveway leading up to the home, and a crowd of adults by the vehicle, talking about things that don’t make sense.   The six-year-old girl approaches, small hand curled around her teddy bear’s arm, and she tugs on the hem of his striped long sleeve. “Minnie, when are you coming back?”   He hums a note, considering the answer. “Later.”   “Later when?”   “Just later…”   “And what about mommy?”   “She’ll come back later too.”   The girl sulks, looking up at her older brother, blinking past her tear-filled vision. Her big doe-eyes stare into his own brown irises and it would take another flutter of her lashes before round tears come rolling down her face. “But I don’t want you to go! Why do you have to go? Stay!”   “I can’t.” He frowns, brows knitting together, the grimace ruining the innocence of his features, as if it wasn’t meant for him to know such pain at such a young age. “Mommy and daddy can’t stay together anymore.”   “Why?”   “Because they don’t love each other,” the eight-year-old tries to explain in his limited vocabulary, struggling to justify the reasons in a coherent manner.   And the young child still cannot understand. “Why not?”   The boy settles on the one explanation he knows, the one that answers all questions but doesn’t at the same time. “Because.”   She pouts, cheeks huffing out and the girl contemplates for a moment before looking at him again, quirking her head to one side. “Then what will happen when you, mommy, and daddy don’t love me anymore? Will I have to go too?”   “That won’t happen. You’ll always be loved.” He grins and moves his palms to squish her cheeks together, her lips smushed and reminding him of a fish. “Me, mommy, and dad will always love you because we’re a family.”   “Then if we’re a family, why do you have to leave?” Rinae asks again, and again, unable to comprehend why her family is being separated. “I don’t want you to leave, Minnie.”   “I have to go.” He squats down, meeting her at eye-level, closing the five-inch gap between the pair of them. “If I don’t go, then mommy will be sad and lonely. So, I’ll stay with her. You stay with dad, okay? That way, no one will be lonely or sad.”   Her voice lowers in volume, becoming quieter and quieter. “But who will I play with?”   “You can make friends.”   She shakes her head. “Don’t wanna.”   He smiles at her childishness and pats her head, trying to be gentle but at his age, he only manages to be awkward and rough, nearly whacking her. The girl’s sadness is almost shattered by his annoying behaviour...almost. “I’ll call you and mail you every day then.”   Rinae’s eyes widen, and she blinks at him, once, twice. “Every day?”   “Every day!” he agrees. “And I’ll come visit every summer and every Christmas, and we’ll play lots. You won’t even know I’m gone! It’ll be like I never left.”   “Jimin!”   There’s a shrill cry of his name, his mother standing by the car and beginning to get into the vehicle. The arguing had gotten too much to endure and now she cries out for her son while being unable to bear looking at her daughter whom she had tearfully bid goodbye to earlier, planting a kiss on her forehead and hugging her one last time.   “Be good, okay?” Jimin returns to his feet. “I’ll come back soon.”   Hope blooms inside her chest and suddenly, the young child doesn’t feel so sad anymore. “Okay.”   A family torn in half, one left behind and the other off to nowhere. As the doors to the car shuts and the engine whirrs to life, beginning to pull away from the curb and straight ahead, Rinae chases after the car with all her might. Her little fists ball up, tiny legs taking leaps, and she goes sprinting.   The housekeeper, the servants, all the adults gathered scream and shout after her. “Rinae!”   But she pays them no mind, squeaky giggles spilling from her lips, her arm moving up to wave eagerly. “Bye, Minnie!” While she calls out for him, he turns around from the backseat, face appearing at the window. And he grins, waving back to her and saying something that she can’t hear. “I’ll miss you!”   Just like that, as the vehicle signals and takes a left, disappearing from sight, her brother and mom also vanish from her life. In the many years to come, Rinae would realize that her brother had a bad habit of never keeping his promises.

“Was there any mail for me?”   Maybe it was because she was only thirteen. Maybe it was because she was young, overly naive and innocent that she never quite lost hope. Even when so much time has passed, so many questions left unanswered, she still waited and waited, day after day.   “No.” The housekeeper diverts her attention elsewhere, giving her the same response as yesterday. “None that was for you.”   The once little girl was no longer, instead, she had become a teenager and a rather vicious one at that. Being the only child in a wealthy household, it was only a natural occurrence to be spoiled — and fluctuating hormones, mood swings, a growing judgment, only added to her sharp perception.   It wasn’t long before the heiress began to have her suspicions and it wasn’t difficult for her to investigate what was really going on. All she needed was to wait at the door before the sun even rose, to speak to the mailman first and take the pile of letters in his bag.   The way the housekeeper became pale spoke enough for itself.   “You hid it from me, didn’t you?!” Rinae is hysterically screaming, her jaw clenched and her teeth gritted against each other, hard enough for her molars to fall out. “These letters from my brother—” She holds up the single envelope, hand quivering, knuckles turned to white. “—how many more are you hiding or did you throw them all away?!”   “Rinae.” The young woman, her supposed stepmother, walks forward with an open palm. “Calm down and we can talk about this.”   The letter nearly crumples in her fist. All she sees is the colour red, her eyesight blurred through unadulterated rage and at the same time, grief overwhelms her body. Tears gather in her eyes, but she forces her voice not to waver or become weak. “Don’t tell me to calm down! Do you know how long I’ve been wondering about my mom and my brother?! How long I’ve been waiting?!”   A realization hits her, shocking her system, making her sick to her stomach. “You cut me off contact with them,” she whispers quietly, the calm before the storm, and her eyes lift once more to the young woman in front of her. “Didn’t you?”   “Rinae.”   “Don’t touch me!” She screams again, timbre raising to the high-ceilings. Rinae pushes her stepmother away from her, wholeheartedly disgusted with the woman and from the impact, the latter is shoved against the wall, a broken gasp choking from her lungs. “Don’t touch me with your dirty hands, you fucking bitch.”   “Rinae!” Her father stands at the top of the staircase, hand brushing against the banister, and he’s absolutely mortified at her outburst.   The thirteen-year-old completely ignores her parent, cornering the woman in and pointing straight at her. “Don’t you think I know? You were the one who separated my family in the first place. You forced my brother to leave. You’re a homewrecker.”   An affair that started before she was even born, Rinae had caught them once, back when she had never heard the word ‘divorce’ in her life, before that same word became the reason that her family was gone. To even think about the suffering her mom had to go through, for years on end and when she was pregnant with her, it makes the girl want to scratch the woman’s face up until her skin is raw with her bare fingernails.   “Are you satisfied, huh? Are you happy that you get to live comfortably now? How many more men will you spread your legs for after you’re done with my dad, you fucking dirty cunt—”   There’s a gasp. Her eyes are suddenly cloaked by her black hair, neck twisted in the opposite direction, having received whiplash. Rinae’s face has gone numb, cheek especially, and when she looks again, her father’s hand is raised mid-air. The sound of the slap echos in her skull, fingerprints indented into her cheek, and she is able to piece together what had happened in the past two seconds.   “You do not get to talk to her that way.” Her father’s voice is cold and threatening, rumbling deep, as if daring her to do anything like that again. “She is your mother.”   “She will never be my mother,” the young girl spits back in as much animosity, hyperventilating and glaring at the two people, or rather, the two strangers. “I only have one mom.”   “And that woman will never step into this house again!” He shouts, losing his temper, face having gone red in anger. “I was the one who told them to keep the letters from you. They left! They’re gone! And they’re never coming back. You don’t need those people in your life.”   The woman’s brows furrow, taking a step forward as if to wedge herself between the both of them and lessen the tension in the room. She grasps onto Rinae’s father’s arm, gently gazing at his profile. “Honey…”   Rinae shakes her head, looking at the couple, the way they stare at her like she’s the outsider, like she’s an annoyance to their happy lives, the only disturbance to their peace, and she runs.   Her eyes pour of rain.   //   The girl writes to her brother. But she never receives an answer back. Maybe she did, maybe her brother did write to her, and she simply never got his letter. Maybe her dad or that woman hid it from her again, maybe they disposed it, or maybe they never even let her own get sent away.   Whatever the case may be, it didn’t matter...not when she was planning to go there.   All it would take is to save enough money or swipe some from her father’s wallet to get a plane ticket. She didn’t know exactly where he was, but a general location was better than nothing at all. A plane ticket, one backpack, and she could sneak out in the middle of the night, truly run, and she could be reunited with her family.   It was a perfect plan. Really, it was.   And maybe it could’ve worked, but before she could even try, life had stopped her.   “What’s wrong with her?!”   Her father’s voice bellowed down the hospital hallways and the doctor had winced. “Mr. Park, I think it’s best we speak privately in my office.”   As much as they tried to hide it from her, keep Rinae from being distressed, as if she could be happier in the prison she was living in, the murmurs still leaked past doorways and palms covering mouths.   Hereditary — Sick — Save her. They were words that haunted the many nights she stayed bedridden in the white room.   “I don’t want to live anymore.” Rinae had turned to her father one evening, and what had spilled from her lips was never a statement or a question, it was a plea.   There was a silence that followed, and he smiled briefly. “You’re going through with the surgery tomorrow. We have the best doctors on this case, so don’t worry. You’ll receive the best possible treatment.”   The man gave one last glance before leaving, completely ignoring his daughter’s request.   It took years. Surgery after surgery, multiple times near death, doctors swarming by her side and her life on a thin line; the Grim Reaper always teasing but cruel enough to never pull the plug completely. The girl became a ghost, a shell of herself, alive but not living. The machines pumped her heart, ran blood through her veins, made sure that she was nutritionally healthy without having to eat. She didn’t need to lift a single finger to have the place bending at her will.   It was hell at its greatest form.   “What time is it?”   The nurse looks up from her clipboard briefly. “There’s a clock right there.”   Rinae squints across the room towards the wall that was a few meters away. Her vision blurry, she sighs and becomes irritated with how the nurse doesn’t answer her in a straightforward manner. “I can’t see it.”   Apparently, that was enough to set panic like a wildfire.   “It’s open angle glaucoma. The optic nerve has been permanently damaged. There’s no way for us to bring back her vision to how it was. The most we can do is slow it down—”   He interrupts, brow twitching, and he mutters under his breath calmly, “What were you all doing here when she’s been in this hospital twenty-four seven under constant care and supervision?”   “My deepest apologies, sir.” The doctor swallows hard. “We’ve overlooked this and I, as well as everyone else in this hospital, are willing to be responsible.”   He barks out a halfhearted chuckle, one that never quite reaches his eyes. “You’re going to be responsible alright.”   There’s a beat of quiet before the physician speaks up, clearing his throat nervously. “If I may be frank with you, Mr. Park, in all honesty, it’s a miracle that your daughter is alive. With her original diagnosis and the amount of surgeries she’s had, having an eye disease is not the worst case—”   Again, the man intercepts, rubbing his temples in exhaustion, ignoring his pounding headache, the wrinkles set deep into his skin and showing his age, how work has compromised his health. “You told me there’s no cure?” he enunciates carefully and slowly.   “There isn’t. The best we can do is slow it down—”   Her father’s fist slams down on the desk, knuckles turned white. “Bring me someone who knows then! My time will not be wasted with your incompetence.”   As furious and stubborn as he could be, it didn’t solve anything.   This was one of the few things money couldn’t solve.   It was gradual. It wasn’t like one day she could see and the next she could not. But slowly, day after day, month after month, the world became blurry. Her vision became confined into a small space, peripheral fading away, and then before she could come to fully accept the new conditions of her life, her eyes were stolen away from her. It wasn’t darkness but simply, nothing.   She could see nothing.   Maybe it was karma. Karma for her dad abandoning his family, for breaking his vows, for not paying more attention to his only daughter and the sole child he had left. Karma because she lived comfortably, in a warm house and bed, having food to eat, while god knows where her brother was under the blue sky.   And sadness quickly turned into anger.   “You’ll always be loved. Me, mommy, and dad will always love you because we’re a family.”   L I A R.   “I’ll come back soon.”   L I A R.   “Your bro...th...er—...help us…”   L I A R.   “Shut up! SHUT UP!” She screams, cupping her ears and blocking out all the sounds, erasing all the memories as if they could be so easily deleted. They were liars, all of them. Everyone in her life deceives her, making promises that couldn’t be kept, granting her ignorance instead of truth, keeping her away from pain when they were the ones who caused it instead.   She was angry. Resentful. Because it was easier to have someone to blame rather than shouldering the burdens of suffering alone. There was only so much someone could do when they were sad; to cry, wrap their arms around their body and cradle themselves, trapped in their own mind, asking why, screaming over and over again before turning to madness.   But with anger, she could live again. With anger, she could look forward, have a purpose, even if that purpose was vengeance. In anger, someone can find strength to stand once more.   Yet, as Rinae stood on her feet, becoming angered at her existence, she could not help but think it would’ve been better if she didn’t have it in the first place.   To have something and for that to be ripped away. It would’ve been better to not have known at all; to not know how vibrant colours and hues could be, how lovely the shade of the sky is, the colour of flowers blooming in spring, the crinkled leaves that flutter down in the autumn season. To not know how beautiful the world could be.   To not know the soft embrace of a mother, the gentle hand of someone who loves unconditionally. To not know laughter, happiness, the teasings of an older brother, to have someone be a shield, and be so warm that their voice felt like sunlight itself.   Her sight. Family. Love.   If she didn’t have it, she wouldn’t have known loss.

“Your father’s calling for you.”   It was ironic, really. The universe loved to pull tricks and this seemed to be one of them.   Standing at her father’s deathbed, she couldn’t help but think that she was the one who wanted to die, yet he was the one that was dying. It was funny. She wished she could laugh.   “Rinae…”   I hate you.   She thinks but does not utter the words. He doesn’t deserve her voice, to hear her speak. And so, the young woman graces him with silence, gifting him the worst kind of punishment, and the one that he had given her for so many years of her childhood.   “I’m sorry,” he wheezes out, barely a murmur.   Her breath hitches in her throat.   “I’m sorry.” The walls tremble. “It’s my fault.”   The cold-blooded man who would never apologize or bow his head down was doing so for his own daughter. “I was the one who ripped our family apart. Single-handedly. It was my fault.”   He coughs and wheezes, forcing the syllables from his raw throat. His timbre was strong once, loud enough to boom across the house, up to the high ceilings, allow everyone to know how he was harshly reprimanding his daughter. Now, it is weak, barely murmurs.   “I ruined our family. But the least I could’ve done was let you stay with your mother and your brother. You would’ve been happier with them. Not with me. I’m sorry I was selfish.” The room is quiet, and she wonders what his expression might be, if the regret was shown on his features as much as they existed in his voice. “I’m sorry I was such a bad father to you.”   “I’m sorry.”   “I…” The sound that emits from her mouth is unfamiliar to her own ears. She can’t remember the last time she’s spoken. “I don’t know if I can forgive you.”   For years, an entire decade, anger had become a part of her.   What would happen if she were to let that anger go? Who will she even be?   “It’s okay,” the old man’s sincerity is overwhelming. “I don’t want forgiveness. I just wanted you to listen.”   //   Snow flurries descend in spirals, drifting and gliding through the pale sky. The tangled flakes are of a loose powder, settling until the land is blanketed in white. But to her, it is a storm.   The thick scent of flowers is smothering, the floral odor covering the fresh snowfall. Murmurs are heard in the back, whispers that are too loud and there’s a bitter taste on her tongue. Someone is sobbing in the distance, perhaps even choked wailing, but there’s a note in their raw voices that leak the disingenuity. Another person is speaking, recalling memories with exaggeration, making false claims — he was such a great man, how everyone loved him, how it’s a shame that he’s dead. Yet, she knows that behind closed doors, people are rejoicing.   Rinae stands tall, holds herself together like she had practiced for so long.   It’s easy not to cry. She shouldn’t feel such sentiment to a man who was more of a stranger and only a father in name. But when she recalls her last memory, his apologies, his acknowledgment for never being the person he should’ve been, things are made difficult.   Still, Rinae does not shed tears during the funeral. Not until it’s over.   Behind closed doors, her eyes pour of raindrops, rolling down her face, choking out of her aching chest, overflowing her palms and collected in puddles on the floorboard.   Truly, she has no one left.   Not her brother. Not her mother. Not her father.   She doesn’t even have herself anymore.   Alone. In a wide open space, a house with enough rooms to fit twenty people, wealth that could be endlessly spent for the rest of her life without having to work a single day, she is alone.   “Park Rinae!” Someone shatters the bubble of silence she’s created, interrupting the path of acceptance she was taking. Out of nowhere, from years spent in loneliness, a stranger has planted themselves into her life. “It’s me. Your brother—”   L I A R.   “I don’t have a brother.”   She doesn’t need help. She doesn’t need anyone. Maybe being lied to once would’ve been fine, maybe three times, but after thirty times, fifty, a hundred, she would be foolish to ever believe someone again. Still, the glimmer of hope that was deeply buried under open wounds and itching scars still exists. And all Rinae knows is that she’s absolutely petrified — she doesn’t want to be alone.

[hotelconcierge]

HYPOCRISY IS BAD, BUT YOU’RE WORSE

“I like the Walrus best," said Alice, "because you see he was a little sorry for the poor oysters.” “He ate more than the Carpenter, though,” said Tweedledee. “You see he held his handkerchief in front, so that the Carpenter couldn't count how many he took: contrariwise.” “That was mean!” Alice said indignantly. “Then I like the Carpenter best—if he didn't eat so many as the Walrus.” “But he ate as many as he could get,” said Tweedledum. This was a puzzler. After a pause, Alice began, “Well! They were both very unpleasant characters—” (Through the Looking-Glass)

This is a moviepost—extensive spoilers follow for Death Proof, Jackie Brown, and Inglourious Basterds—and I wrote it mostly because I wanted to talk about some movies. But first, a topical tie-in:

There is always an outside that a person considers unworthy of life...The individual progressive or racist may never say that the outside is unworthy of rights, but they feel it. This is what is meant by that line from Inglorious Bastards when the character of Lt. Aldo Raine says; the "Nazi ain't got no humanity. They're the foot soldiers of a jew-hating, mass-murdering maniac and they need to be de-stroyed!"

Here we have a thirst to destroy the perceived inferior, except instead of a racist seeking the end of Jews it is the progressive liberal seeking the genocide of racists. That's irony.

And understand what is happening here. Aldo Raine is really a proxy for Quentin Tarantino. Tarantino is the one speaking, not Brad Pitt. The man is very left-wing and he wrote the script. That move is essentially an exposition of the directors [sic] politics.

The above quote is taken from The Anti-Puritan. Exactly what it sounds like: dude read three Moldbug posts and now thinks he can write. The specifics of this guy’s bad opinions are not that interesting—would you believe that even the videogame industry has been corrupted by cultural Marxism?—but perhaps something can be learned from the framing:

A climate scientist drives to an important summit on global warming. On the way there, he fills up his tank with gas. The only reason oil companies are in business and climate change is occurring is because of people like him who fill up their tanks with gas. Their payments make climate change possible. The payments are the reason Exxon, Shell and BP exist.

A feminist complains about the cis het patriarchy. Her boyfriend, whom she spreads her legs for, is tall, strong, confident, manly, and "dominant" in every way. Fucking dominant men is the reason they exist, the reason they will continue to exist, and the cultural incentive to become dominant...She and billions of other women perpetuate "the patriarchy" with their sexual choices. Patriarchy exists because of them.

A college professor complains about McDonald's. She has eaten fast food from a burger restaurant recently. She, and millions [of] others, are the reason McDonald's exists. (Source)

Let’s accept that there’s a lot to unpack here and move on. Focus instead on the form of the argument: tu quoque, again and again. The feebler the discourse the more accusations of hypocrisy (Bush Lied, Barack Hussein’d) because hypocrisy doesn’t require knowledge of anything but pre-algebra logic. Even a child can identify a contradiction: “But mom! You said—!”

This is precisely the skull malformation that has constricted discussion of the protestors who identify as “Antifascist Action” and are derided as the “alt-left.” Antifa has already become a perennial non-issue where all opinions are based on anecdote and there are plenty of anecdotes to go around; no one has skin in the game, anyone can upvote, and measurable achievements are dwarfed by spikes of indignation like hypertensive hemorrhages into America’s brain. If you don’t believe me, you haven’t been watching the stock prices of PP, NRA, PETA, and BLM.

Antifa now faces the two attacks that were long ago formulated against other activist groups. One: antifa is composed of violent morons who carry upon them body and pubic lice species yet to be classified by science. Two: antifa is counterproductive to their stated goal, e.g. getting to whack-a-mole pamphleteers is actually a powerful incentive to suffer for fashion.

I suspect both criticisms are true, but whatever—does the first imply the second? Is violence bad even when it is effective? Because if it isn’t, then claiming that “antifa are thugs too!” is worse than useless. Your opponent can simply reply, “So what? Nazi ain't got no humanity.” And now that you’ve cried wolf, that guy won’t listen when you claim that, in this instance, violence might not work. So you better be damn sure about your answer: what price should be paid for the sin of hypocrisy?

There is always an outside that a person considers unworthy of life...

Quentin Tarantino has dedicated his career to answering this question. 

QT has seen too many movies for it to be any other way. If you consume enough art across epoch and genre, you can’t help arrive at the Susan Sontag #redpill that content doesn’t matter all that much. All art is genre fiction no matter the pretensions and our lizard brain judges accordingly. Sure, thematic analysis is fun to play with after the fact, but if a movie has the right tropes in the right places—femme fatales, tough muchachos, pretty pictures, happy ending—well, you can convince yourself of just about anything.

Take, for example, Death Proof. Genre: exploitation/slasher. Synopsis: hot babes go for a night out, ex-stuntman stalks and runs ‘em down in a death-proof car; stuntman rinses and repeats with another girl gang except they turn the tables and Mortal Kombat his thoracic spine. Rating: extremely badass, you should check it out, anyone who tells you different is a pleb.

Namely: some people complain that the movie has too many scenes of girls talking and that their QT-isms are an unrealistic depiction of an actual group chat. The characters bicker lewdly, if that’s a thing, alternating between weirdly masculine sex-as-status teasing and pledges of undying affection, the verbal equivalent of a catfight, which is maybe how a creepy foot fetishist would imagine female dialogue, but...

Nope, still pleb. Tarantino wasn’t the first guy to invoke this trope, it’s part of the DNA of the slasher genre, as old as Jamie Lee Curtis getting razzed for her virginity in Halloween. Misogyny, maybe, but also content is a spook. Slasher movies have to fill 70 minutes before the eponymous slashing, and they also have to make you care about the outcome of said slashing without humanizing the characters so much that you get all Marley and Me when they die. 

What’s the secret? Status games, the less nuance the better. Boys would watch paint dry if you said it was a grudge match. Catfighting is no different than the elaboration of powers in a shonen manga or the suspicious glares exchanged between heist movie protagonists: it creates tension. Different value systems have been described, there can only be one, now you’re rooting for process of elimination to reveal the truth. No—you identify with that process. Hail Gnon. You could make a movie with men playing status games and being killed off by women and men would still find it hot; I know this because of female horrorcore rappers but also because this movie is called Faster, Pussycat! Kill! Kill! and it’s 10/10. Incidentally:

This is referenced again in the final scene of the film, in which the viewer cheers on our group of heroines as they beat to death a pleading, injured man.

Here’s the hot take: tote bag feminists are wrong to think that drawing boobs on Powergirl is a male attempt to diminish her power. On the contrary, the more vampire slaying the better. Sexualization is an attempt to gain access to female power: if she wants The Phallus badly enough, she might just lend her power to you. Obverse: men are idiots for thinking that the existence of rape fantasies means that women secretly want to be raped. There’s an image floating around the manosphere about that terrorist with a heart of gold, Ted Kaczynski, who was gauche with ladies in the free world but deluged in love letters upon his incarceration. Before you can say medium = message, someone tragically rendered celibate by their 23andMe results will point to this as proof that women “only want serial killers.” Newsflash: Kaczynski is serving eight life sentences without possibility of parole. Do you think the fangirls didn’t know that? Rape fantasies (theoretically “hot”) are qualitatively different than being raped (“unimaginably horrific”) because you construct the former, can turn it off at any time. The fantasy victim is assaulted by a terrible power, but the person who selects and controls that power is...

Of course it is, cough, problematic, that slasher movie girls display power through HPV vaccinations while male zombie apocalypse survivors soliloquize on whether suicide is inevitable in the absence of God. But once you sexistly set up that women should be valued by their sin, the wages = death equation is not in and of itself misogynistic. No, it’s just inevitable: sex-as-status tension can only be relieved in two ways and one of them is frowned upon in theaters. Film crit cliché and Kraftwerk song, I know, but: watching a movie renders you impotent—you can’t interact with the sexy image on the screen—except through what the camera will allow.

That’s why you are complicit in the murders that occur in the first half of Death Proof. The ex-stuntman—old, a teetotaler, star of TV shows long forgotten (and played by once-famous Kurt Russell)—is as impotent as you are, capable of getting a deleted scene lap dance but zero penetration, and when he gets in his car to commit vehicular homicide x4, he looks at the camera and smiles. Because you’re right there with him, waiting for the money shot. It would be nice to fuck, but you’ll settle for a murder. Except when it actually happens, played four times for your amusement, it’s horrible—a face melted off by a tire, a wet leg flapping in the street. Throw in a Wilhelm scream. Wasn’t that what you wanted? Are you not entertained?

It’s all perspective, my man. For all the short shorts and naughty words, the girls plan and backup plan ways to prevent unwanted sexual advances; two of them have boyfriends and one is texting a crush trying to seal the deal; they discuss and decide against inviting the opposite sex to their lakeside vacation. But that’s not what you see from the outside. That’s not where your attention is drawn, wandering the club and editing your .jpg of grievances. For you, dancefloor means sex, choker necklace means slut, and being a slut means she would never sleep with you. That’s a personal insult. And that means that nothing else matters.

Which is insane. This isn’t an argument for or against promiscuity, the point is you don’t even know promiscuity looks like. You know symbols, and for that matter, why those symbols, where did you learn those? Brazzers? If you’re gonna be mad at a thing you should at least be mad at the thing itself, not at whatever fucked up fetish you’ve imposed on reality.

There’s a scene midway through the movie where QT tips his hand. The second girl gang is lounging in a car, one of them dangling her feet out the window. The ex-stuntman approaches, you assume his perspective, and maybe because it’s an old grindhouse film...

...but the color goes out, and everything is black and white.

Which, speaking of:

Jackie Brown is first and foremost a movie about being extremely cool all the time (you should watch it). The plot is an excuse: briefly, Pam Grier (airline stewardess), Robert Forster (bail bondsman), Samuel L Jackson (arms dealer), Robert De Niro (ex-convict), Bridget Fonda (stoner surfer chick) and a couple Feds each try to nab a briefcase holding $500K.

Jackie Brown is secondarily a movie about how race shapes each and every human interaction, but that description makes it sound like a Very Special Episode, and that couldn’t be more wrong. The movie is gleefully amoral, in fact lapses from pure MacGuffinism are treated as intolerable weakness, e.g. Jackson to De Niro:

ORDELL: You know what your problem is, Louis?

Louis doesn't say anything, he just puts his hands in his pockets.

ORDELL: You think you're a good guy. When you go into a deal you don't go in prepared to take that motherfucker all the way. You go in looking for a way out. And it ain't cause you're scared neither. It's cause you think you're a good guy, and you think there's certain things a good guy won't do. That's where we're different, me and you. Cause me, once I decide I want something, ain’t a goddam motherfuckin' thing gonna stop me from gittin' it. I gotta use a gun get what I want, I'm gonna use a gun. Nigga gets in my way, nigga gonna get removed. Understand what I'm saying?

Apparently not, because De Niro later makes this mistake and gets popped.

For these characters, race is just another weapon. When Jackson meets Forster for the first time, he lights a cigarette, puts his feet up on the desk, and taps out the ash in a partly full coffee cup. Then he points out a photo of Forster with a black employee. “Y’all tight?” “Yeah.” “But you his boss though, right?” “Yeah.” “Bet it was your idea to take that picture too, wasn’t it...?” In their second encounter, Jackson, trying to get bail for Grier, pulls the same trick:

ORDELL: Man, you know I'm good for it. Thousand bucks ain't shit. 

MAX: If I don't see it in front of me, you're right. It ain't shit. 

ORDELL: Man, you need to look at this with a little compassion. Jackie ain't no criminal. She ain't used to this kinda treatment. I mean, gangsters don't give a fuck - but for the average citizen, coupla nights in County fuck with your mind. 

MAX: Ordell, this isn't a bar, an you don't have a tab. 

ORDELL: Just listen for a second. We got a forty-year-old, gainfully employed black woman, falsely accused - 

MAX: Falsely accused? She didn't come back from Mexico with cocaine on her?

ORDELL: Falsely accused of Intent. If she had that shit - and mind you, I said "if" - it was just her shit to get high with. 

MAX: Is white guilt supposed to make me forget I'm running a business?

But Forster—male lead, the “good guy”—plays his version of the race card and flips the script.

Example 2: Bridget Fonda, surfer gal, plots to betray Jackson, who “moves his lips when he reads,” "let's say he's streetwise, I'll give him that.” But Jackson knows that she sees him that way, it makes her predictable, which is why he can keep her around: “You can’t trust Melanie, but you can always trust Melanie to be Melanie.”

That’s not the half of it. Jackson talks a soon-dead man into getting in the trunk of an Oldsmobile, houses a homeless addict in Compton and tells her it’s Hollywood; he lies effortlessly, and when drafting your fantasy friend group you should be aware that people who lie effortlessly do it because it’s fun. Threatening someone gets you an automaton who will system 2 your demands and nothing more. Deceiving someone gives you control over that person’s soul. So Fonda’s stoned delusions of manipulating him—which in fact make her easier to manipulate—are part of her appeal. Translated: “She ain't as pretty as she used to be, and she bitch a whole lot more than she used to...But she white.”

Except Fonda is manipulating him. She’s spent her adulthood as the side piece for Dubai businessmen and Japanese industrialists who—though she doesn’t even speak the language—get off on the fact that she’s a haughty blonde who thinks she’s better than them, thinks she can manipulate them. But since they’re paying for rent and weed, doesn’t that mean...?

Example 3: Pam Grier as Jackie Brown.

From more Sam Jackson than Sam Jackson to mumblecore for Medicare, Jackie outsmarts everyone and it’s not even close. The Feds lean into their uniforms but she doesn’t miss a beat: urbane dinner guest in one scene, “panicked, defensive, unreasonable black woman” in another. Of course the movie ends the way it does, of course. Jackson steps into a dark room. Jackie screams “he’s got a gun!” And a cop pulls the trigger. You can’t always beat the system, but if you try sometimes, it just might beat who you need.

Why does Jackie win? The canon explanation is that she’s an airline stewardess: her job is to tell people of all origins what they want to hear. The meta explanation is she’s played by blaxploitation star Pam Grier. The gimmick of Grier movies like Coffy and Foxy Brown is their exaggeration of the audience’s favored tropes re: sex and race—say, hypersexuality and fashionable/wearable blackness. But the punchline of these films is that on-screen, Pam Grier with an afro is disguising herself as an high-class escort to fool the baddies: “The gentlemen you’ll be meeting this evening have a preference for…your type.” And then she kills them.

So it’s true that these films let you "exploit” a caricature, but the flip side is that anyone who can turn that caricature on and off gets to exploit you. And that seems to be Jackie Brown’s realist take: not that racism is the Original Sin for which Thou Must Atone—because everyone sees race and is selfish besides—but rather that it makes you a sucker. And the flip side: by capitalism or by meme magic, the world will always conspire to show you what you want to see. Choose wisely.

If Jackie Brown accepts that racism is inevitable, Inglourious Basterds sets out to prove that it’s also kind of fun.

It’s telling that Inglourious Basterds posters are push-pinned on the walls of fraternity houses right next to Scarface and The Wolf of Wall Street. Three movies, three sets of protagonists who happen to be amoral, masculine, and white. Sounds like a diss, but who are creatine-chugging white boys supposed to look up to? Chris Pratt? You can just tell that guy was grown in a test tube. There’s a reason Tarantino movies are popular and there’s a reason I’m talking about them instead of Buñuel or Tarkovsky and it has something to do with “making intensive use of a major language” and the twenty-somethings desperate to identify with a character named “Bear Jew.” And the above scene is indeed, “sick af.” Goes off without a hitch except when the Nazi says that he got his medals for bravery, and then there’s a split-second of—what, annoyance? Like, stick to the script, asshole. You’re sure as hell gonna get it now.

But I’m sure you’re aware that’s the joke, that once you got Ennio Morricone in the background you can justify anything. The Basterds “ain’t in the prisoner taking business”; they scalp the dead and maim the witnesses they leave alive. There’s no panorama of concentration camp horrors, no humanizing backstory, no evidence of any softness save boyish joy in the art of cruelty. Halfway through the film a young man celebrating the birth of his son is shot dead after surrendering in a Mexican standoff; the Basterds shrug and move on. At the climax of the film, a movie theatre full of Germans is exploded, shot, and burned to death. The modern viewer can’t help but cheer.

The opening chapter, Colonel Hans Landa vs. the outgroup under the floorboards, sways your sympathies in the opposite direction. No, it doesn’t make you hate the French or the Jews. But the tension—the silence and the ticking and the mounting requests and insinuations—is so unbearable that you can’t help but wish for someone to pull the Band-Aid. And the camera can’t do that. Only characters can. Only the character driving the action, and Landa drives the action in his every appearance. Something has to happen—and like the man onscreen, you cave.

Hans Landa alone seems to understand that he’s in a movie, which is perhaps why he’s so polite, so witty, so manically overacted. Perhaps this is how he sees through the Allies’ tricks and disguises: he assumes everyone else is an actor as well. And perhaps this is the apologia for his crimes: he’s just playing a role. The Basterds loathe the Nazis, but Landa bears no animosity towards the Jews, can empathize with them quite easily—it’s just, he likes to play detective and the Nazis were hiring. Is that really worse? Didn’t both the Walrus and the Carpenter eat as many as they could get?

And so, near the end of the film, when Landa cuts a deal to exchange his Hugo Boss for Levi Strauss, he asks of his prisoners the one question that would matter to a character in a period piece: “What shall the history books read?”

Landa’s argument, of course, is a load of shit.

In Inglourious Basterds, every disguise fails. The British film critic-turned-agent is unable to play the Nazi he’s seen on-screen. The German actress is revealed to be an Allied spy. The vengeful Shosanna is revealed as a sweet Jewish girl; the baby-faced Nazi lusting after her is shown to be a monster. The propaganda film burns. Only Lieutenant Aldo Raine and one Basterd make it out alive, and that’s because they’re American, i.e. monolingual.

Perception is a slave to narrative, but narrative has zip zero zilch nada to do with reality. The author is dead. Was Triumph of the Will a “good movie,” technically proficient and even emotionally moving? Absolutely. Could the director’s intentions have been “good,” apolitical, an attempt at beauty but nothing more? Unlikely in this case, but possible. But was Triumph of the Will “good”?

This is the obvious yet unswallowable truth: sometimes good people do bad things. “Nazi ain't got no humanity”? How many films have Nazis with wives, mistresses, children, pub games, medals for bravery? And yet Lieutenant Raine’s opening polemic is correct: the foot soldiers of the Third Reich worked for a Jew-hating, mass-murdering maniac: they needed to be destroyed. Reality isn’t Disney, where internal beauty works its way external. Reality isn’t even so kind as to match intentions with consequences. The American (Union) soldiers fighting against the Nazis (Confederacy) may have been motivated by every bit as much hatred and bloodlust, and yet they were necessary, they were the good guys. FYI—that’s irony.

“So you’re saying we should punch the alt-right?” Are you an idiot? The Nazis weren’t bad because they were Nazis, they were bad because of the things they did. If you actually think that punching a teenage Kekistani is going to bring down the New World Order, go ahead, but stop pushing the pillow of identity over the mouth of reality.

The goal of the System, the sum of vectors going both left and right, is to keep people arguing about abstractions of violence so they won’t deign to consider the ugliness of pragmatism. The radical left will asseverate that violence is justified, refusing to question whether their particular brand of protest is effective; the alt-right will keep rallying against cropped image lunatics, the finest examples of white genocide the media has to offer, never seriously considering that sometimes people lie on the internet; and “““centrists””” will deduce that since violence is never okay, since everyone is so irrational, nothing can be done. But that’s still a perspective: it’s the perspective of the camera.

Fuck that. This essay is a condemnation of anyone who thinks that the hypocrisy of the outgroup disproves their complaint, of anyone who thinks that good intentions are enough to absolve you from sin:

You don’t get to forget what you are.

[imagine-loki]

The Powers That Be

TITLE: The Powers That Be

CHAPTER NO./ONE SHOT: Chapter Fifty-One

AUTHOR: wolfpawn ORIGINAL IMAGINE: Imagine Loki discovering a hidden mutant when he realises they are at risk of being found by S.H.I.E.L.D. who experiments on mutants, he is the one to help them.

RATING: Teen and Up

Alexia glared at the large serpent as it continued to lean defensively over its prey. At first, she thought the liquid dripping from its large fangs was saliva, but when some dropped onto Loki’s forearm, he hissed and an acidic burning odour made its way towards her as the clothing began to make a fizzling sound; it was then that she realised it was some form of venom. “Loki…”

“Go,” he insisted.

“No!” Alexia refused to listen, she clenched her fists and the two fire foxes’ tails rose high, their ears flattened against their fiery skulls and their heads down as they grew in size with Alexia’s anger. “Come on you oversized handbag, come and play.” She circled slightly, wanting to work out just how long the serpent was; she could not tell exactly how long, as it was half in shadows and appeared to be some bit coiled up, but it was clearly far bigger than the one she had scorched earlier. The animal watched her move around, but it refused to be tempted to move its head and attentions away from its prize.

“Lexi…” Loki groaned.

“Quiet,” She ordered in an authoritative tone. The serpent seemed to note the manner in which she spoke, the way she commanded attention and leant forward slightly, perceiving her to be its higher concern, “Come on.” She then had the foxes join together once more and grow in size, but at a distance from her, causing the serpent to be forced to divide its attention between them, its head turning side to side, the venom now dripping onto the cavern floor and not onto Loki, who, though in pain from the previous times he had been hit with the liquid, was able to comprehend what it was that Alexia was doing.

As though bored with Alexia’s game, or indeed sensing that she was readying to strike, the serpent slowly pulled its body tight. To her credit, Alexia noticed it pulling itself into a tight coil, readying to attack and prepared herself.

Snake strikes, by their very nature, are swift and deadly, so she knew in a test of speed, the serpent in front of her was a clear favourite to win such a competition, though she hoped that its monstrous size would be to its disadvantage. Inhaling deeply, Alexia decided to strike first. She looked at the ceiling of the cavern, years of water dripping down had caused sharply spiked pillars to form, so she began by forcing them to break and fall to the floor like spears, ensuring that none of them struck either herself and Loki as they did so. The serpent seemed to forget the reason for it being coiled as the sharp rocks attempted, yet failed, to pierce its scaly hide and looked to the ceiling in confusion and irritation.

Next Alexia forced boulders to be dislodged from the walls of the cavern and flung them against the creature with as much force as she could muster; again, they did not create any open wounds on the animal, but they did cause it considerable pain as more and more boulders struck it. It hissed angrily as it tried to compute how the small creature that stood in front of it was harming it so greatly without moving. It was forced to keep an eye on the flaming beast that was close by also.

“Come on!” Alexia screeched loudly, startling both Loki and the serpent as she did so. The snake seemed to realise the threat she posed and readied itself to attack once more. The more it did so, the more Alexia concentrated on its movements, waiting for the right moment. As soon as its tail was no longer in the view of the light being shone by Alexia’s torch in the shape of her fire fox, she decided to act.

Walking forward confidently, she grinned. The snake’s eyes widening on seeing her darling behaviour, it was about to strike when it halted and looked behind before it attempted to tug its tail away from something it could not see. Alexia continued to grin as she continued to make her way forward, the snake now preoccupied with thrashing as it tried to loosen the grip that somehow was on its tail, no longer paying any heed to the newcomer and its captive.

Alexia watched as it became more frantic as her distraction of earth continued to ‘snake’ its way up the body of the serpent, constricting it as it did so, who was completely unaware of the large wall that was being formed as it did so, dividing it from its victim. When the creature was fully encased behind the wall, she made a beeline for Loki.

“What…?” he groaned.

Alexia glanced over him, the light from the fox that was now next to her once more giving her the ability to do so. His face was slightly bruised, and at first glance, he seemed to have suffered greater injury during the battle that had taken place on Asgard, but his right arm and part of his chest were covered in painful blisters, the material that had been covering them burned away. “It is a little preoccupied now, can you walk?” She pulled him forward from the rock he was leaning on, immediately he slumped onto her, causing her to be grateful she had gone to his left side to assist him. “That’s a no, then.”

“Leave me.”

“Like hell,” She scoffed, taking calculated steps forward, him still holding onto her to support him.

“How did you know?”

“I heard from Heimdall you had…” Even thinking of what she thought had happened to Loki made her upset.

“Come to make sure it was true?”

“I came to exact my revenge actually,” she groaned, trying to keep them upright.

“Why?”

“Because I thought you were gone, that they took you from me.”

“But you stayed behind.”

“You left.” She retorted.

“I came to help the mortals, as a God should.”

“I…” Alexia did not respond for a moment. “I was scared.”

“I would have protected you.”

Alexia gave him a disbelieving look. “You let a big snake swallow you, how would that help me?”

“If you were here, I would not have.”

“I am not the only reason for a person to live.” Alexia was becoming winded as she made her way up the tunnel, not used to such physical exertion.

“You just stated that you were here to avenge me, that is the exact same.”

“I am an idiot, no one should pay attention to what I do.” She gently placed him sitting against a rock, “I can’t…” Sweat was beading on her brow.

“You should really do some physical training.” Loki jested, his voice rasping.

“Are you calling me fat?” Alexia slumped against the rock next to him.

“I think I told you before I thought nothing of the sort.” He scoffed. “Right before I showed you my feelings on the matter.” He leant against her for support.

Alexia sighed beside the rock. “I remember.”

Loki looked at his mutilated skin on his arm. “How much things change.”

“I did not come because I did not love you.”

“You never even said goodbye to me.” Loki reminded her.

“Said the pot to the kettle.”

“What does that mean?”

“That you did the same, you never said goodbye to me either.”

Loki groaned. “Perhaps.”

“There’s no ‘perhaps’ you were as culpable.” Alexi pointed out before standing upright again. “I cannot drag you all the way up.”

“Just leave me here.”

“I can’t,” she looked at him, her conviction obvious. “I thought I had lost you once already, I would never be able to concentrate if you are not somewhere safe, you can’t fight like this, they would get you properly this time.” She explained. “I have to make them suffer.”

“You just locked it in a cave.”

“I burned one from the inside out after crushing it painfully first, that one I could not make suffer without risking hurting you in the process.” She pointed out.

“Lexi,” She went in front of him, not far from his face. “I cannot carry myself.”

“I know,” she looked at him worriedly.

*

The Avengers looked around suspiciously, unsure as to why, after a blatant failed attack on the Helicarrier, everything had gone silent.

When the ground began to shake again, they suspected such could happen and had anticipated it. What they had not anticipated, however, was the water, which had, until that point, remained almost motionless amid all that had been occurring, was now, much to their concern, beginning to bubble as though it was heating up to boiling point.

“Friday?” Stark asked the AI, terrified of what it would answer.

“It appears sir, that the water has risen in temperature to two hundred degrees.”

“Stark?” Romanov questioned from beside him.

“It is Bálor, he rises.” Thor swung Mjolnir around in his hand before gripping the handle tightly. “My friends, it has been an immense honour to have fought beside you.”

“What the hell are you planning to do?” Asked a somewhat concerned Nick Fury, who, along with other heavily armed S.H.I.E.L.D. agents, had accompanied the Avengers and the Warriors towards the lake.

“I do not plan to die this day, if that is what concerns you, yet I had no idea that Loki did, so I say it now, for fear others share his plans and I do not get to say it to them,” he explained solemnly; no one said anything in return, if they had intended to, they could not, for a moment later, a large foreboding sensation filled them all as something broke the surface of the water slowly.

It had two long blackened, almost charred looking horns and a cycloptic appearance to its face as only one large eye took up the majority of it. Its body was covered in a scale-like armour and it stood at near twenty foot tall.

“Fuck me.”

“If this wasn’t here in front of us, I would make some sort of joke Barton.” Tony did not even seem to be aware of his comment, it was partially out of denial.

“Actually, that was Rogers,” The Archer pointed out. “But I share the sentiment.”

“How do we face this?” Coulson asked Thor.

“If I am honest, I am unsure,” Thor admitted, looking at the creature that seemed to resemble the Kursed of Svartalfheim, only significantly increased in size. He looked for weaknesses in its defences but found none.

“You are more than likely to survive this, when you get back, please tell Alexia that I am sorry for everything, her childhood and how I dealt with all of what happened.”

“When I return home, I will relay the message, though I would wager she would rather hear it from you.” Thor knew it was Coulson’s way of settling his affairs, realistically taking into account his chances in the upcoming situation; but Thor, rather than dismissing them, placated him, knowing it would serve no use to try anything else. He also knew that in the situation ahead, the older agent, though wily and intelligent, stood little chance, few of the humans did, hence his pleading with them to leave.

The beast moved towards them, its face one of determination, vengeance and almost excitement at those in front of it, as though awaiting the impending conflict.

[theliterateape]

Manufacturing Wounded Status to Beat the System

By Don Hall

As I sit in a local coffee shop, sending out emails to drum up events production business and create new and interesting ways to promote Literate Ape as well as our several local lit events, it often occurs to me that there must be an easier way to do this shilling for a buck thing.

I recall the numerous times I’ve been taken by someone presenting themselves as down on their luck—the hopeless “I haven’t eaten in three days” pitch, the emergency need for a couple of bucks to get on the train to get to work, the hapless request for some cash to “help clothe my child.” When DMJ and I were in Paris, we were confronted by a woman with a clipboard and a pitch to help fund the “Fight for Women” except that she was obviously lying and her clipboard was no more than a prop meant to fool the well-meaning tourists on the strip. 

I read yesterday about the mother of Kenneka Jenkins, the girl found dead in a hotel freezer without explanation as to how she ended up in there, addressing the Rage Profiteers who had mounted protests at yet another black woman found dead in Chicago.

Turns out some of those advocates were collecting money to fund the protest but kept the cash for themselves instead, and her mother, either because she found this to be kind of criminal or just that she wasn’t getting any of the moolah, called an end to it.

It reminded me of the folks who used 9/11 to cash in on pieces of ground zero (with tens of thousands of dollars spent buying chunks of concrete that had no connection to those attacks) or the companies that scrambled to sell little American flags around the same time. Using the idea of victimhood and heroism as a way to line their pockets was like a smaller version of Naomi Klein’s Shock Doctrine theory.  Find a wrong done somewhere, become the victim or hero of that situation, make the money grab and milk it for all you can. 

Do white males in America really feel marginalized by the strident Left? I don’t think so. I think these MRAs and Alt Right dipshits see those who are banking on victimhood, elevating their marginalized survival as somehow heroic and cashing in on it as just another opportunity to seize some much needed financing. Will the Chicago Theater Accountability Coalition eventually pull out the GoFundMe campaign because being a neo-McCarthyite is draining of time and energy and must be compensated?

Given the lack of ethics education or ethical behavior exhibited by our chosen and elected leaders, it’s no surprise that a single POC mother who has had fewer choices than most and who has bullied her way into a position of Triumphant Victim uses that sob story to create financial opportunities. Given the lack of serious oversight on the conflicts of interest presented by our current president, it is of no consequence to see the slow burn of often baseless accusations become an extortion of sorts by those claiming to have been harmed in some way to gain traction fiscally.

Gaming the system isn’t hard when the polemic is lead by shallow marketing efforts trying to sell the idea that being sick is a war against disease, that being marginalized is a trial that automatically elevates you, and that being mistreated or offended in almost any way guarantees you some sort of hero status. At this point, we've become an entire nation of panhandlers and the snake oil we sell is that of our own suffering and woe.

Case in point: the Australian woman who, on the idea that she had brain cancer and “cured” it with healthy eating (“cutting out gluten, dairy, and coffee”) amassed a small fortune with a smart phone app.

“No. None of it’s true,” Gibson finally confessed in April 2015 after questions were raised about her story. “I don’t want forgiveness. I just think [speaking out] was the responsible thing to do.”

Before she shut down her Facebook and Instagram accounts, Gibson had amassed quite a following, and kept everyone up to date on how she was “curing” her cancer. How did she cure it? By cutting out gluten, dairy, and coffee, among other things.

Gibson made over $420,000 during the course of her elaborate hoax. She was found guilty back in April but the fine of $410,000 was just issued today. The court found that Gibson made just over $10,000 in donations to charities during her venture, far short of what she claimed.

She made almost half a million bucks based on 1. Our fear of brain cancer 2. The drilled down pseudo-science of eating kale and the evils of dairy 3. Our kneejerk hipster desire to demonize gluten 4. Our desire for all solutions to be presented on our fucking phones

Why do we fall for this crap? Is it that we so desperately need to believe that overcoming adversity is a special superpower we can all access, like The Force (sans midichlorians, of course) and by believing this sort of nonsense we lend credence to the possibility for ourselves? I mean, if I had brain cancer, I might grasp at any straw that offered any possibility of a cure, even a freaking smart phone app that promoted healthy eating. That, however, is just this much to the left of having some random Holy Man lay hands on my skull and mutter some prayers, or a Paula Dean-esque women convince me that positive thinking will cure the simmering tumor in my medulla oblongata.

We purport that the victim of abuse is somehow more of an expert on abuse than an objective and dispassionate party. We suggest that, despite all of the research that exposes the serious flaws in eye witness testimony, that unless you were there, you can’t weigh in. That suffering grants the sufferer some sort of innate wisdom and angelic status. And then we pay for it almost every time.

At this point, if they're asking for money and their sales pitch is their own status as a suffering Christ-like figure complete with stigmata and a tortured existence beyond their control, I'll give them my sympathy but not my dough.

There sure is an easier way to scramble for a buck but I prefer the honest hustle to the shell game of victimhood.

[eridianshores-blog]

The Walking Dead: Season 7, Part 1

Warning:  There be SPOILERS ahead!  If you don’t want the skinny on all the twists, turns, deaths, and surprises in the first half of Season 7, stop reading now!

Ready?

When we last left our motley crew of survivors, Negan and the Saviors thoroughly had them bent the fuck over...and someone got beat to death with a baseball bat (wrapped in barbed wire, though I’m not sure how much difference a few small cuts makes when your aim is to cave in someone’s skull).  Honestly I expected Aaron to get it since he was the least main character, though my second guess was Eugene - especially since he seemed to have outlived his usefulness and the fact that he was trying to become more survivor-like.  If you pressed me further I probably would’ve gone with Rosita or Sasha just because - narratively speaking - they’ve kinda been dead weight.  I even considered Maggie as the possible victim just as a means of wrapping up the whole pregnancy thread without retreading ground we covered with Lori.

Well I was wrong; no surprise there as I’m apparently terrible at predicting events like these.

In what was already a really, really, really drawn out scene from the Season 6 finale, Season 7′s premiere makes it feel even longer.  Granted some serious shit goes down, but it kinda feels like the punctuation at the end of a run-on sentence.  Anywho, Abraham goes down, and not to be forgotten, tells Negan to “suck my nuts” after the first crushing blow.  The second one drops him for good, and Negan turns poor Abrahams head into something resembling a smashed watermelon with a generous dose of red Jell-O.

Shocking, right?  I guess.  But in my mind Abraham never quite made that leap into the upper echelon of folks like Rick, Daryl, Carol, Carl, Glenn, Maggie, Michonne and maybe a couple of others I’m missing.  Whatever import he carried had passed and he was quickly slipping into non-essential territory.  His death would’ve had a greater impact back when he was at the forefront - namely on the road to Terminus - but as it is he’d just sort of slipped into the background.

So ol’ Abe is dead, Negan is still fucking talking...now what?  Here’s where the real shocker comes.  After all, we spent all summer (figuratively speaking in my case) knowing that someone was going down.  But when Daryl’s angry lunge is met with the sudden and gratuitous execution of Glenn, well, I think my jaw hit the floor along with everyone else’s.  Some criticism was leveled at the scene’s gore / violence / sadism / brutality / whatever you want to call it, but I didn’t bat much of an eye at that sort of stuff.  Yeah, I realize a lot of “squares” got into the show and still squirm at the sight of CG brain matter and latex bite wounds, but I’d been watching zombies eat people along with other depraved acts of violence years before TWD hit the scene.  If the show wants to push people’s buttons with gore and torture and brutality then by all means, go for it, but stuff like that is neither going to make or break an episode for me.  Was it gratuitous and excessive?  Probably, though I think some people forget that this is a horror-themed show and not an action-drama (stylistically speaking).

Back to Glenn though...yeah, I think it was a shitty move to kill him off.  Was his fake death in episode 3 (ish) supposed to foreshadowing or some shit...?  I’ve since read that his death was adapted from the comic book, but as I said in my previous post regarding Season 6, comics and TV are vastly different media and you can’t just transmute one to the other.  What may have worked in the comics (I don’t know, I’ve never read them) isn’t necessarily going to play out the same way on screen, especially when the heightened emotional investment of the viewers is concerned.

After this cathartic yet jolting hour and change of television, the following episode introduces us to “The Kingdom,” replete with horses, spears, “armor,” and a fucking guy in an auditorium calling himself a king.  With a giant tiger.  WTF.  Seriously.  WTF.  (This could well be another case of the comics not lending themselves well to the small screen...)

I wasn’t wild about this largely expository episode, especially as viewed through the Morgan-Carol lens.  Some of that was due to their endless and circular conversation which wore on my nerves fast.  The show is trying to find a place for Morgan but I don’t think they’ve really figured it out yet (respect for life is cool and interesting and all that, but in a world where it’s kill or be killed, you’ve got to go somewhere with it), and Carol is rapidly becoming a second-rate character due to her seemingly random onset of neurosis.  Morgan is torn between the necessity to kill versus one’s ability to change.  Has the show even attempted to reconcile that yet?  No?  Then let’s move the hell on.  Oh, and Carol wants to be left alone?  Do we really understand why?  Is she any closer to telling us?  No?  Then let’s move the hell on.

Moving on.  I promise I’m not going to spend this much time on each episode.

As the show enters its third episode, “The Cell,” it nearly grinds to a halt.  What could’ve been a more insightful look into the Saviors, or a more sympathetic portrayal of Dwight, Sherry, and their hardships, or a further character study of Daryl, turned out to be a 10 minute story strung out over an hour.  All we do is watch Negan attempt to break Daryl, which doesn’t even work.  We basically expect Daryl to endure whatever the Saviors throw at him, and he does.  What is so frustrating is that the story doesn’t advance one iota.

And then there’s the fourth episode which really tries my patience.  Negan comes to Alexandria, scares the shit out of everyone, and relieves Alexandria of nearly all of its creature comforts and most of its necessities (despite claiming to only want “half”).  Negan talks...and talks...and talks...and talks some more, while Rick skitters around with his tail between his legs, eager to prevent any further deaths.  It’s a little difficult to watch in one sitting, mostly because every uncomfortable moment is stretched and milked and then absolutely beaten to death...before moving on to the next.  It’s like...intense yet stagnant at the same time...I think that’s the best way to describe it.

A quarter way through the season and the ho-hum pace is become obvious.  Can we get a true Negan encounter or at least change the status quo within the next 4 episodes...?  It’s not looking good.

Episode 5 spends most of its time at the Hilltop, still staunchly refusing to actually advance the plot.  Compared to the best of The Walking Dead, this episode is another snooze-fest.  Maggie and Sasha and “Jesus” and Gregory go at it some more and blah blah blah.  The Saviors bring some zombies over in the middle of the night and it seems the only people in the whole damn settlement capable of doing anything about it are sick, pregnant Maggie and Sasha.  Then Negan’s main crony, Simon, comes to town and basically does all the same shit we’ve watched Negan do: talk, threaten, demean, dehumanize, and fucking talk.

What I don’t understand about this episode is Maggie and Sasha’s hard fought battle to stay at the Hilltop.  For the life of me (maybe I missed an important line somewhere or something) I can’t figure out how “going to Hilltop to get Maggie a doctor” turned into “Maggie and Sasha live at the Hilltop now,” seemingly indefinitely.  I could understand if they wanted to hang back a while while she recovered or got her strength back or whatever, but the flavor of their conversations with Jesus and Gregory seem to plainly indicate that their intention is to remain at Hilltop for the long run.  As much as this group has talked about family and helping each other and all that shit, I just can’t understand Maggie and Sasha’s sudden willingness - nay, desire, to remain in Hilltop and leave Alexandria behind, especially without even a word edgewise.

And while we’re on the subject, we’ve got a similar situation going on over at the Kingdom.  Back at the beginning of that episode, Morgan mentioned to Carol that they should stay a week or so while she recovers from her 2 gunshots.  First of all, Carol recovers remarkably quickly from a bullet to the arm and another to the leg, and we know that large amounts of time aren’t passing because of Negan’s weekly visits to Alexandria - the whole first half of this season seems to occur over the course of about 2 weeks.

Anyway, after throwing enough fits, Morgan escorts Carol to the abandoned house outside of but near the Kingdom.  Now then, with Carol obviously capable of caring for herself and Ezekiel looking after her besides, why the fuck doesn’t Morgan promptly return to Alexandria with the news, “hey everyone, there’s this whole other community full of decent people not too far away and they’re receiving regular bitchslaps from the Saviors as well!”  I mean not only would this be the decent thing to do as a member of this “familial unit” but it may also prove to be valuable strategic knowledge that could directly impact the safety of its residents.  Why the hell is he milling around the Kingdom eating pomegranates and smiling at the sun or what the hell ever?  It doesn’t make a lot of sense to me.  I get that the writers are trying to set up something, but they can’t just scatter our little group willy nilly and suddenly act like they don’t give a shit about their comrades or if their people have a fucking clue where they are, if they’re alive, dead, whatever.  We could at least be given a few lines of dialog as to why they’re not returning to Alexandria.  So far this is something that has really really bothered me about the season.  It just doesn’t seem like these characters would vanish without a good reason and without letting their group know...it just seems wildly uncharacteristic and like the writers are outright forcing them into these situations without valid reasoning.

Going into episode 6 we’ve got to move forward, at least a little bit, right?  RIGHT!?  Oh no, wait, there’s that girl...and that dude..who somewhat inexplicably hit the road for 2 weeks in search of supplies.  Why Tara and Heath of all people?  Why didn’t a more competent fight - and a more seasoned scavenger for that matter - accompany them or hell, go instead?  Who knows.  It was weird when they mentioned it way back in Season 6 and it still doesn’t make any damn sense.  The 2 most elite members of the A-team (Rick and Daryl) go out on a sorghum run, yet the timid Tara who’s spent a large part of the outbreak in a dark apartment and relative newcomer Heath who’s lived in the relative comfort and safety behind Alexandria’s walls up until the past couple of months are the sole members of this 2 week expedition...?  Methinks this decision was made with a shrug and out of convenience, and I don’t like it, but that’s the way it is.

We catch up with half of the inept duo, washed up on a beach somewhere.  Long story short we’re introduced to the rather odd community of Oceanside...at lest that’s what Wikipedia calls it; as of the mid-season finale, I don’t think it’s been given an official name on the show.  Through one contrivance or another, Tara manages to be like, the only stranger ever not to be shot on sight by this community of, strangely enough, nothing but women and girls.  (Is it just me or is there something ironic about them (lots o’ women) living at the coast and having an endless supply of fish!?)

I don’t know which was more uninteresting: an episode revolving solely around Tara or this fucking Oceanside establishment.  We lost people blah blah, times are hard blah blah, I hope you understand why we can’t trust strangers, blah blah blah fucking blah.  It seems purely like Oceanside is a source of cannon fodder for whatever is going to happen with Negan.  Far too late into the episode do we finally find out that the Saviors murdered all the men and the remaining survivors fled and established the current settlement.  This is of course after they pretended to be cool with releasing Tara and then trying to kill her, something which I’m still not sure I completely understand.  Tara is assisted by a sympathetic member of the group who makes her swear not to tell anyone about the community; Tara eventually makes it back to Alexandria only to find out all the horrible news: her girlfriend’s dead, Ford is dead, Glenn is dead, and the camp now inks out a living under the tyrannical rule of Negan.  Whoopee.  You’d think after all this she would’ve at least confided in someone about Oceanside - maybe not Rosita as she was at the time - but at least someone.  Hell, at least she came back.

We also get a snippet into Tara’s 2 week excursion with Heath, which was far less interesting than it should’ve been.  Basically they didn’t find shit, found an abandoned camp on a bridge (which by the way was a really cool place / idea for an encampment and I would’ve loved to see more of it), and then - not totally unexpectedly - their novice post-apocalyptic survival skills put them smack in the middle of a zombie attack.  And after all that we still have no idea what the hell happened to Heath.  I guess he discovered another settlement, haha.  No but seriously, I wouldn’t be surprised.

I’m ok suspending disbelief, really, I am, but I think it’s a little too convenient that within the span of what must be only a couple of weeks our group has suddenly discovered 4 additional settlements.  Throughout all their travels from Atlanta to whether they are in Virginia they never ran across anything remotely resembling a permanent settlement or long-term community except for Woodbury, Terminus, and maybe that hospital, though I question how permanent that arrangement really was.  More than that though, I can’t understand how the scouts and runners for Alexandria didn’t discover these places, or at least a hint of their existence.  And for that matter, how come none of these places discovered Alexandria?  We’ve yet to find out if any of these places knew about each other (excluding the Saviors, obviously) but so far there’s no indication that the Hilltop, the Kingdom, or the residents of the former or current Oceanside have any awareness of each other.  I’m not questioning the existence of the communities themselves, I just think it’s unlikely for the Alexandrians to encounter 4 of them for the first time in 2(ish) short weeks.

At this point we’ve been diverted every which way - the Hilltop, the Sanctuary, Oceanside...and we really haven’t made much headway going into the penultimate episode of the season’s first half.  Episode 7 is still mostly exposition, though we get a semi-insightful glimpse of the world that is the Sanctuary.  We’re also treated to one of the most balls-to-the-wall moments of the entire series thus far: Carl mowing down a couple of Negan’s men and 110% ready to keep unloading.  Jesus and Carl have both trailed the Saviors back to their home compound, with Jesus choosing to remain hidden while Carl goes into full blown MDK mode.

Carl’s behavior also brings up an interesting point that I alluded to in my Season 6 post concerning Negan’s methods of control.  See, the problem with Negan’s brand of cruelty is that he leaves his subjects with nothing left to lose, which in turn will lead to revolts of the most fervent, determined, and bloody kind.  It would seem to me that people in the midst of this amount of suffering would be so miserable that losing their lives in service of at least trying to break free would be the way to go.  If they die then so what?  Negan has made their lives so fearful and meaningless that they truly have nothing left to lose. This is exactly how Carl acts, and why he’s the only one is beyond me, especially after seeing how downtrodden and afraid and broken the residents of the Sanctuary truly are.  You can’t sustain a rule with violence and fear for very long.  There is only so much pain and suffering that a human will endure before they’re willing to try anything, at any cost, to alleviate this pain.  Maybe this is what we’re building up to - Dwight’s looks of dissention certainly seem to suggest something in the ballpark - but even so, Negan seems to have operated for a very long time, leaving me to wonder how he maintained his rule for so long.

Anyway, the episode tries to gradually build tension throughout Carl’s guided tour (with Negan as the tour guide) of the Saviors’ home, though for some reason I never really got the impression that Carl’s life was in any danger.  Now what Negan might do to the other Alexandrians, well, that’s another story and certainly something worth dreading, but as far as Carl himself, I felt pretty confident that he’d skate through the encounter somehow.

I will say that despite the episode’s shortcomings, it was a great, nay, fantastic showcase for Carl’s character, a guy who’s been mostly relegated to awkward and confounding encounters with the why-the-hell-are-you-here Enid.  Being a young kid at the show’s onset, it was tough to give Carl meaningful arcs or development and he mostly served as a foil for Rick and Lori.  As he’s gotten older though, he’s definitely grown into his character a bit more, and never is that more evident than here in “Sing Me a Song.”

We’ve already established his ultimate badassery via the act of fearlessly popping up out of the truck with a fucking machine gun and pulling the trigger without a shred of hesitation, but there’s another great moment up in Negan’s office (or lounge or whatever) where Carl proves he’s got balls big enough for a dumptruck.  I don’t remember the dialog verbatim, but at one point he calls Negan’s bluff about hurting him and proclaims that if he was smart he’d kill him and Rick right now.  And he’s not just being young and dumb and posturing - he is scared, he is rattled, and he is concerned about the repercussions of his actions, but he’s saying this shit anyway, which is worth about a million points in my book.  What will perhaps go down as one of the greatest lines ever uttered throughout the series (along with Abe’s “suck my nuts” mid-execution) is Carl’s vitriol-filled response to Negan’s, “what do you think I should do with you?” to which Carl retorts, “I think you should jump out of that window and save me the trouble of killing you,” delivered with all the venom and hatred that this post-apocalyptic world has to offer.  BAM.  It don’t get much more badass than that.  Daryl, you’ve got some competition.  I’m not sure Negan quite takes Carl seriously, but I like to believe I detected the tiniest bit of anxiety in his face...I like to think that at least some small part of him was shaken by Carl’s cold, nigh psychotic suggestion.  Ultimately I suspect that Negan will get his comeuppance; I can only hope it’s at the hands of Carl by way of Lucille, and that the event doesn’t scar Carl too much and make him all withdrawn and mopey for a season.  I hope he walks away from Negan’s shattered cranium with his head held high, fully aware that his actions will ripple (for the better) across whatever immediate future there is for the area.  Ol’ “One-Eyed Carl” will definitely be a bright spot worth paying attention to as the seasons wear on.

Although we do learn a little bit more about the Saviors, particularly that they live under the same oppression as the other communities, if not worse, it’s still just a big ol’ dose of Negan talking and talking and talking and talking.  Perhaps most importantly we’re witness to a punishment known as “the iron,” and thereby clued in to the reason behind Dwight’s gruesome disfigurement.  I realize that Dwight’s been built up to sort of be Daryl’s nemesis ever since their first encounter, way back in pre-Savior days, but the writers also seem to be setting the stage for Dwight to play a crucial role in the inevitable uprising against Negan.  The real suspense in this episode happens as Negan escorts Carl back to Alexandria...but then he just talks and talks and talks some more.  It’s not all bad necessarily, there’s just too much time and focus dedicated to how charismatically twisted Negan is.  I think it’d be more productive if he let go of his schtick for just a moment and really clue us in to why he is the way he is and what he’s really trying to prove or accomplish beyond being a power-mad sociopath (and maybe that’s all he is).  

I mean even back in the days of the Governor, at least he did some good amidst whatever issues he had.  He had his dark side and his cronies and Merle on hand to take out the trash, but he wasn’t simply depraved for the sake of being depraved.  He built something.  And then he actually built something again.  There was definitely a piece of his brain dedicated to being a crazy shit, but he also did a lot of what he did because he thought it was the right thing to do and because he was genuinely interested in protecting his people and creating a purposeful life for them.  Does Negan actually think he’s building something or accomplishing anything?  Was he the product of some other tyrant or has he always been this way?  Was he ever the victim?  Is there anything or anyone he genuinely cares about?  Is there really any purpose behind this rampant acquisition and exploitation beyond his instant gratification?  These are all things that would give Negan a lot more depth and make his copious amounts of screen time far more justifiable.  Maybe we’ll learn more.  I hope so.  Right now he’s basically the devil incarnate, and while that may account for some quick thrills, pure evil isn’t all that interesting.

Ok, deep breath, mid-season finale...is this too gonna fizzle out or will we finally be propelled into something other than Negan bitch-dom or some new group of shacks and shanties and another cadre of scared-as-hell survivors?  In a nutshell, this is easily the best episode of the season thus far, though that’s not necessarily high praise.

We pick up where the previous episode left off and watch the group splinter even further: Michonne goes out on her own, Spencer ventures out, Rick and Aaron desperately seek supplies for Negan, and Rosita berates Eugene in taking her to the machinist shop to make her a single bullet.  It’s kind of a lot to keep up with but ultimately I think the episode reconciles these threads well enough - certainly better than they have in quite a while.

Rick and Aaron provide us with the most interesting sojourn whereby they track down a now-dead survivor’s cache of supplies.  The problem?  They’re all loaded onto a boat on the other side of the pond...a pond filled with anchored zombies.  Lo and behold there’s a boat at the shore...but it’s been riddled with bullet holes.  This is tangential and a minor point, but I never understood Rick and Aaron’s approach to using the small boat.  Their strategy was to go as fast as possible and hopefully cross the relatively short yet treacherous distance to the larger boat full of supplies.  Using pieces of wood they row and do alright until about the halfway point where they’re almost overtaken by zombies, Aaron falls into the water and is nearly killed.  What I don’t understand is why didn’t the guy in the rear row slowly and more cautiously while the guy in front killed upcoming zombies and bailed water out in the meantime.  At the slow rate that the boat was filling with water, someone continually bailing out water would’ve been able to keep it afloat indefinitely.  I mean it doesn’t really matter since they were able to collect the supplies without injury, it just seemed like one of those situations that could’ve been handled much more safely.

Beyond that though, I don’t understand why they didn’t just walk around the pond and get at the boat from the other end.  We see the mysterious mis-matched boot man peering from behind, and it’s easy to see that the pond wouldn’t have taken more than a few minutes to walk around.  Regardless, I did kinda like the idea of a boat as a supply cache in the middle of a pond “guarded” by anchored zombies.  

Back at home in Alexandria the vibe is as nervous as ever as Negan continues his psychological torment of Carl and Olivia.  (I would include Judith, but obviously she’s too young to have any clue what’s going on.)  And just then big dick Spencer waltzes on over with some liquor in an obvious attempt to curry favor with Negan.  Initially I thought the guy had come around and finally grown a brain and was trying to work some kind of angle, but then he just threw all his cards on the table and basically asks Negan to kill Rick and put him in charge instead.  At first Negan seems agreeable, but I knew better.  (Finally I had an accurate prediction!)  Negan makes 2 excellent points, 1) Rick is the one out there “swallowing his hate” and getting shit done, and 2) if Spencer wants to be in charge so bad, why doesn’t he just kill Rick himself and take charge?  Once it was apparent that Negan saw Spencer for who he really was - a coward - we pretty much know what’s going to happen next, though I will say that I didn’t think it’d be so graphic.

So Spencer is dead, but who really gives a shit?  You’d think that the death of his brother, then his dad, and then his mother would’ve made him into something more than the naive little flake that he was, but no.  I’m not saying I’m glad he died necessarily, but I am glad the writers smartly handled his attempted betrayal via Negan.  I’m impressed that the writers actually gave Negan the capacity to see through Spencer’s pandering instead of some weird situation where we have Negan very openly on Rick’s ass and Spencer behind the scenes trying to subvert Rick’s every move.  One important thing about this scene is that it shows us that Negan is not a diplomat nor interested in diplomacy.  He recognizes Rick’s value as a survivor in this world versus Spencer’s, and chooses this productive enemy over any type of superficial cordiality with Spencer.  Good for you, Negan. I guess.  Sortta.

Directly following the “Evisceration of Spencer,” Rosita throws all her chickens in her only basket and pulls the trigger.  By the magic of television, the bullet strikes Lucille but clearly scares the shit out of Negan.  Some random crony is ready to carve up Rosita’s face, but in true Savior fashion, Negan shows people that it isn’t themselves that will suffer for their own actions, rather it is the innocent that will endure the consequences.  For whatever reason the lady-thug decides to off Olivia, who joins Denise and Deanna and Noah and Jessie and others as a casualty of background-character-who-we-sort-of-start-getting-to-know-gets-killed syndrome.  Oh well.  I seriously thought Rosita was going to get the bat since she seems to have outlived her usefulness.

Now what happens next is 1,000,000,000% perplexing: not only does Negan decide to inspect the casing from the spent round, but he also has a keen enough knowledge of guns n’ ammo to detect that the bullet was clandestinely fashioned.  This seems extremely far-fetched to me, and I’m not sure I even really understand the point of it other than to kidnap Eugene and show us that Eugene has grown a pair when he admits to making the bullet after Tara falsely confesses...then again, hasn’t the show been intent on updating us on the status of Eugene’s usefulness every 4 or 5 episodes...?  Why this?  Why now?

I know that the Saviors cleared out Alexandria’s armory and that having a bullet fired at him would be reason to be suspicious, but at the same time, is it really so hard to believe that Rosita managed to find a gun (and a bullet) while scavenging?  Is “let me inspect this spent casing” really the first thing that runs through his head after being shot at?  When he asks himself where someone got the firearm and the ammo is the first possibility his mind shoots to really, “hmm I bet someone made this damn bullet!”  Did someone make the damn gun too?  He doesn’t seem all that concerned with where she got the actual gun from.  And seriously, how the fuck does he enough to distinguish a homemade bullet?  Had we been treated to a scene or two where it was previously established that Negan had some sort of elaborate knowledge of firearms I could swallow the pill a little easier, but no, right out of the clear blue he’s certain that someone made a bullet.  Whatever.  You get the point.  Couldn’t Negan have nabbed Eugene for some other reason?  Hell, does he even need a reason?

The most significant moments of “Hearts Still Beating” occur as the episode begins to wind down.  Daryl escapes with the aid of Jesus, savagely murdering a scared fat guy who gives us a shred of enlightenment when he pleads, “I’m just tryin’ to get by man, just like you!”  Daryl is understandably beyond all appeals of reason from these people (hence the skull-busting) though I did kinda feel bad for the fat fella.

Also of import is Richard’s (one of Ezekiel’s main soldiers, like the Kingdom’s head of security or something) pitch to Carol and Morgan regarding the Saviors.  The 2 communities seem to be at odds with each other a lot less than the Saviors’ other subordinate settlements, yet the relationship appears tenuous based on the exchange we saw back in “The Well.”  Richard evidently recognizes the volatility of the Saviors and the inevitability that relations will sour and seeks to act proactively despite Ezekiel’s passive and placating nature.  He needs warriors behind him, and he needs help in convincing Ezekiel to go to war.  Carol goes into full-on bitch-mode without a shred of regard or concern for basically anyone, refusing almost to the point of stubbornness.  

Meanwhile, Morgan is so goddamned in love with every scrap of life that he fails to even make any sense, espousing his philosophy to the point of ridiculousness by saying pretentious shit like, “you don’t have to kill them, you just think you have to,” or something of equal flavor and devoid of practical meaning.  I don’t quite get it to be honest, and it almost seems like Morgan is of the impression that just because he doesn’t want to kill someone means that they won’t kill him.  Or all these other folks he claims to give a shit about.  Then as an enraged and dejected Richard departs, Morgan and Carol manage to get into the same tired altercation where Carol just covers her ears and shuts her eyes and shouts, “leave me alone!” until the room is clear.  (That doesn’t literally happen, I’m just so sick of it and her one-track mind.)  It’s a shame because I really thought the vaguely philosophical banter between Morgan and Carol would lead to some interesting conclusions, but all it’s done is spiral into the same tired and ultimately meaningless cyclical gridlock.

Richard then goes and has a Governor-esque moment in his hidden camper full of what I assume to be off-the-record supplies...not really sure what all that’s about but I’m pulling for him and he’s got the sort of mindset that’ll really jumpstart this played out “Negan will fuck your ass up” storyline.  And judging by the previews for the second half of the season he won’t be alone for long.  But he’ll probably die before long, since that’s what happens to tertiary characters right about the time you learn their name and they become a recognizable face.

Then there’s the matter of Michonne, who without hardly breaking a sweat learns where the Sanctuary is.  And then she kills the bitch that drove her there in straight up cold blood.  But she does gain some valuable tactical info about the Saviors, which is a hell of a lot more than anyone else has managed.  She comes home to an absolutely shattered version of Rick (the 2 appear to have gotten pretty serious about each other) and somehow, between her almost anti-inspirational speech about the behemoth that is the Saviors and Rick’s crushing psychological dismantling at the hands of Negan, convinces our fearless leader that the time for war has come.  The A-team marches up to the Hilltop and lucky for them, Sasha, Maggie, and Jesus have all come to a similar conclusion.  Daryl is finally reunited with the group and you know damn well he’s ready to slit the throats of any and every warm body in the Sanctuary. They’ve also got an ally in Richard who’s over in his camper breaking bottles and crying, they just don’t know it yet.  At this point it looks like Oceanside wants to do anything but fight, plus no one knows about them save for Tara anyway, though I think it’s apparent that they’ll somehow be drawn into the coming conflict.

And so the halfway point wraps on an inspirational, borderline uplifting note.  The promise of action seems inherent, but The Walking Dead has a weird way of putting off honest to goodness action and narrative momentum so I’ll try to temper my expectations.  We still don’t know what happened to Heath (do we care...?) and Eugene’s fate is anything but certain (seriously though, how many times can we watch the poor guy oscillate between blubbering weiner and doing something requiring balls...) but otherwise this was a mostly satisfying mid-season finale and a welcome change from the bullshit cliffhangers we’ve become all too accustomed to.

The dead returns on February 12th, and hopefully I’ll be in a position (and remember) to at least catch the encore or encore-encore broadcast.  Overall this hasn’t been the best of front-half seasons, though I wouldn’t consider it a failure, just paced a little too oddly for its own good.  Maybe instead of devoting an episode to the Kingdom, and then another to Alexandria, and then another to Hilltop, and then another to Oceanside, TWD could take 2 or 3 of them an alternate between storylines in a single episode - shows do it all the time.  We get a segment of Alexandria, cut to commercial, come back to Oceanside, and so on.  I feel like this would do a lot to alleviate the choppy, disconnected feeling of the series at this point, and it would also provide some padding for plot threads like those of Oceanside (the episode “Swear”) where we don’t really have a strong lead to adequately carry the show.  As an example, regardless of what you think of Alana Masterson’s acting abilities, it’s just plain fact that Tara doesn’t have enough of an emotional rapport with the audience to carry her own episode.  Conversely, Morgan and Carol are certainly able to do just that, yet fail to (back in “The Well”) because of how the episode is written.  The limitations of TV actually become more apparent when the show hedges all its bets like this, and I sincerely hope that this doesn’t happen again.  They did the same shit back in Season 4 with the journey to Terminus; it was frustrating to watch then and it’s frustrating to watch now.

I liken it to different subjects in school.  In a given 6-ish hour day you go to something like 4 to 6 different classes...stuff like math, English, history, science, music, art, and so on.  What if Mondays were all about math.  You get to school and for 6 straight hours you’re bombarded with nothing but math.  Then comes Tuesday and you’ve gotta study history for 6 hours, and so on.  Now if you really love math, Mondays are going to be fucking awesome for you.  But if you absolutely abhor history, Tuesdays are going to be one long ass unforgiving hell.  The alternative?  Why not study each subject for an hour every day?  Every morning you’ve got an hour of math, and then an hour of science, and then an hour of history, etc.  Sure, you only get to study what you love for an hour of a day, but a) at least you get a little bit of what you really enjoy everyday instead of once a week, and b) that history class that you really can’t stand only lasts an hour.  No matter how bad it is, you’re only 59 minutes away from reprieve, which I think we can all agree is a hell of a lot better than 359 minutes.

There’s another advantage to smaller daily doses as well.  If you’re doing English and only English on Wednesdays, you may cover a lot of ground, but how much of that is going to stick from then all the way until the following Wednesday?  Not only are you dealing with whatever volume of material that can be stuffed into 6 hours, you’ve got to retain this massive block of information for 7 days and in the midst of 6-hour chunks of all sorts of other information!  See what I’m saying?  Now if you approach it the other way, you’ve got a lot less information to hang on to and a lot less time that you’re forced to retain it.

In case my point wasn’t crystal clear by now, I’m saying that devoting entire episodes to a single thread is detrimental to the viewing experience and may actually hurt one’s view of the show.  If, for example, you really just can’t get behind and identify with Tara’s character, then the entire episode of “Swear” is going to be a complete and utter bust for you.  It’s also a jolt to be forced to re-acclimate to a different setting every episode too.  “Ok, so we’re back in Alexandria...wait, what happened last time?  Is so-and-so still here?  Does so-and-so know that such-and-such happened?”  It can be tough to recall the finer details and plot points of past episodes, especially considering that, if you watch it as it airs, it may be 3 or 4 weeks between appearances by a certain character.  So c’mon folks, delegate these stories properly between episodes; if you ask me, this whole method of singularly focusing on a single situation per episode is kinda...well...lazy.

Finally, the other aspect that’s held this half-a-season back is the lack of emotional depth and/or character development regarding our Big Bad.  I’ve said it once and I’ll say it again (and so have others):  Negan’s endless chatter gets fucking boring.  “Less is more” would’ve been an appropriate philosophy when approaching the portrayal of Negan.  His peculiar brand of jovial ruthlessness would make much more of an impression if his monologues were used sporadically and to punctuate certain events rather than outright carry them.  The simple fact is that Negan is a victim of over-exposure.  Now were he an actual person this wouldn’t be so bad, because ideally all this time we spend with him would reveal multiple layers to his personality.  But we never really get to this point.  I also said earlier that Negan is little more than evil for the sake of evil, and while disturbing, it still gets old because all we really see is that he’s doing awful shit because he enjoys doing awful shit and will continue to do so.  He is a very static character in all regards and I feel like this is/was a grievous error committed by the writers. 

It is possible that the latter half of Season 7 can help make up for the lackluster experience of wading through the former half, but we’ll have to see some damn crafty work.  There ain’t room for more than 1 or 2 duds...no more of these hard breaks between threads and lots more advancement of the plot, whatever that may be.  One critic remarked that this first half was like “laying out all the pieces on the new chessboard” and that we “finally got to moving some of them around” going into the 7th episode “Sing Me a Song.”  This is a pretty accurate metaphor (if not a tad euphemistic) for what we’ve seen thus far, and I’m keeping my fingers crossed that this is a chess match worth watching.