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freerabbitmanandpig · 4 years ago

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My Friend With Parkinson’s

On Oct 1st of this year I was given compassionate release from Allenwood USP for (what was diagnosed as) an unspecified connective tissue disorder. I had served roughly 60 months of a 70 month sentence. To secure this extraordinary release my lawyer had sited the new emergency COVID increased risk criteria, pointing to my status of being prescribed immunosuppressants, as well as suffering from lifelong asthma. Being as that I’d been housed in a care-level 3 medical facility, most of my time had been spent around inmates with chronic conditions, many of them without a chance of making it home within the course of their natural lives. Conscious of the fact that many of these men lacked the financial resources available to my family, especially as the pandemic has left many people in the street without regular employment, I made promises to some of these men to attempt to get their stories out into the world.

Christian Tarantino (Reg. # 14684-050) is a middle-aged man that I met while in Allenwood. A gambler with a good sense of humor, who was generous with his friends and, while in the street, lethal to those who stood in his way. According to the FBI, back in the early 90s Chris was part of a crew that committed a number of armed robberies. In 2011 he was sentenced to three consecutive life-terms for the murder of a guard during an armored car robbery back in 1994, as well as the murder of one of the participants whom he feared would flip on him.

Criminals, conscious of their own status, tend to withhold judgement, and I’d be lying if the description of Chris as a “cold killer”, spoken to me with admiration by more than a few inmates, did not inspire this same admiration in me upon hearing the stories of his exploits. To be clear, I never personally heard Chris tell any stories about his case, or murder in general; the stories he did tell me were often funny ones about the club scene in NY, or his dog. The problem was that, when Chris spoke, I often had to strain to hear him. Still, the Parkinson’s had made him patient over the years, and he did not get frustrated when a person had to ask him to repeat himself, sometimes multiple times. No matter how long it took for him to finish the story, it was worth it to hear it all the way through – as I said, he was funny.

Chris and I had started talking more about his disease a month before my release, after having heard that the Marshall Project had published a short story of mine the year before. The problem, he’d told me one morning, was that a 15-minute analysis with the MD did not take in to account the fact that his PD fluctuated in intensity throughout the course of a given day. Even if you’re classified as a care level 3, you generally only get to see the facility’s MD once a year, with all subsequent outside appointments and medication adjustments being managed by your assigned PA. The key to adequate treatment lies then in the temperament of your PA. My PA was considered the best on the compound and was likely instrumental in getting me the workups and appointments I needed to secure my compassionate release. Chris’ PA was largely considered the worst on the compound (one of two), a bitter woman who often had to be compelled into action via administrative remedies, which Chris was inevitably forced to file. If he came to a sick-call and was not actively in the throes of intense contortions (which he sometimes referred to as ‘crazy legs’) then he was often disregarded. Chris and his PA were prone to devolve into shouting matches, nor was this a problem that she had only with him. Even when he wasn’t engaged in fighting the crazy legs, he was mostly still confined to his wheelchair. There were, on occasion, times when he felt in control of his legs enough to walk, albeit while holding on to another inmate’s shoulders. There was no shortage of willing shoulders, as inmates of all races would step up to ferry him, either to the computer room – where they would inevitable have to help him type his emails, or to the shower – where no handicap accommodations existed. This last omission struck many of us as particularly negligent, considering the yard’s care level. Another problem was the speech impediment. I’d often heard him ask, rhetorically, how it was that sounding like “a retard” when he spoke was not a clear enough indicator of the severity of his condition, regardless of the tremors. Of course ‘retard’ is not really the best adjective for any modern condition, but the point was still valid that, when he spoke, he sounded like a person recovering from a massive stroke – only he wasn’t recovering, Parkinson’s is a degenerative illness.

The prison had no choice but to provide him with follow-ups to the local neurologist after a highly invasive surgery, known as ‘deep brain stimulation’, in which a device, a ‘neurostimulator’, was implanted into his brain. This local doctor told Chris flat-out that he was incapable of treating him at this stage in his illness, nor is the facility capable of recalibrating his implant.

At night, a small group of us would walk to pill line to get our evening medications. I got Elavil and Gabba Pentin – the former for my interstitial cystitis, and the Gabba Pentin for more generalized pain. Chris, on the other hand, got a bunch of different pills, each with an Old Testament-sized list of potential side effects. To add insult to injury, the medical staff crushed most of his medications, as though this middle-aged man in a plastic, yellow wheelchair, barely able to get the cup of powder into his mouth, would somehow be able – or even willing, to cheek these many pills so that he could smuggle them back to the unit and…. What? For anyone curious enough to look, Federal Penitentiaries are full to the point of bursting with real narcotics. Who the fuck wants to sniff twenty different PD meds?

During these evening walks (some of our only time outside of the unit since the pandemic started) the subject of my pending motion came up on a regular basis. It was news, if nothing else. As for Chris, PD does not put him at an increased risk for COVID complications, and although I’d heard him, on occasion, tentatively breech the subject of outright compassionate release, his main request to me was that I put his story up, in the hope that perhaps someone else from the outside would get involved and get him moved to a medical facility. At least then he wouldn’t have to worry about falling down in the shower and bearing the indignity of calling for help, alone and naked on a wet floor that’s covered with other men’s piss and body hair. Before I was released, I wrote one final staff request for him to the medical coordinator attempting to get him transferred to a care-level 4 facility. This was not his first attempt to obtain such a transfer, and, for the purposes of the request, Chris provided me with a list of names of staff members who had seen him fall down, or else had helped him get back to his cell after an accident. It was a long list.

For a man who devoted a large part of his life to fitness, it’s a hard pill to swallow. In my mind I am stuck wondering what three consecutive life sentences (or a thousand for that matter) really means for someone like Chris, who’s own body has become a prison. In a sense I have an idea – back in 2017, my uncle Steven Parr – a successful and well known archivist in San Francisco, was diagnosed first with Parkinson’s, which was later amended to a diagnoses of Lewy-Body syndrome – a disease that bears similarities to PD. His initial suicide attempt was precluded by his manager, Adam, who was on the phone with my mother at the time. His second attempt, however, was successful. To me, though, the most poignant encapsulation of Chris’s attitude was made apparent when I was pushing him to the showers one morning. He’d removed his shirt before getting back in his chair, and I was struck by his apparent muscle tone and total lack of body fat, despite his sedentary lifestyle,

“Damn Chris, you’re in a wheelchair and still in better shape than half these dudes in here.”

“Yea..” he spoke slowly – struggling to force his tongue to conform to the consonants, “..this is the worst thing god could’ve done to me.”

In a way it was cruel how the progress in my appeal seemed to engender a sense of hope in some of the other care level 3’s working fervently, without the aid of outside capital or competent legal help, to obtain their own releases before the virus made it’s way to the yard. By Oct 1st the USP at the Allenwood Correctional Complex had 7 cases, all of them quarantined in the shu after having arrived on a plane, and then a bus, with who-knows how many others potentially infected. They’d already shut the medium back down as, despite their ‘best’ efforts at screening all arrivals, 15 cases had popped up in general population. As I already stated above, the administration fought me every step of the way – even after the motion had been granted and I was only awaiting the end of my obligatory 2 week quarantine, the staff refused to allow me to call my family, my lawyer, or even probation, so that I could arrange for transport. I didn’t know whether I’d be going straight home or to a program until the last minute. I could see it in their faces every time they brought me legal mail or were forced to set up my screening for the drug program that I’m in now – they didn’t think I deserved it. Like they had only just found out via the granting of my motion that they presided over an unequal system. I got 8 months back – goodtime I’d lost, along with years-worth of visits and phone calls - “privileges” they justified in taking almost exclusively over dirty urines, and for what? Suboxone. At my final workup the MD confided in me that, prior to the pandemic, they’d been told by the region to start preparations for the MAT program (medication assisted treatment) and to apply for the DEA approval to begin prescribing both suboxone and vivitrol. Unfortunately, these proceedings had to be halted to focus their energies on the then emerging public health crisis. Maybe it’s my prejudices, but itt seemed to me that these people took it personally – as though those reclaimed 8 months had come directly off the end of their own lifespans.

#jail #mass incarceration #parkinsonsdisease #social justice #criminal justice

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thecleverdame · 6 years ago

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The Woodsman - 4

The entire story is complete and available now on Patreon.

Series Masterlist

Alpha!Sam x Omega!Reader

Summary: A/B/O Fairy Tale - You’re a sheltered, thirty-something princess on the run from your brother, the newly crowned ‘Mad King’ of France. When you’re waylaid by marauders and left for dead in the forest, a gruff woodsman nurses you back to health.

Warnings: A/B/O smut, knotting, language, violence, assault, non-con

Word Count: 32,000

The complete story is available onPatreon for a monthly pledge of $2.50. This includes early access to all my stories and Patreon exclusive content. >> CLICK HERE <<

Sam can’t tell what you’re doing from his vantage point, just that whatever it is has had your full concentration for the past several hours. As he creeps closer he can hear your voice, light and happy, singing to yourself as your arms continue to attend to the task at hand.

He could hear you from the barn, crystal clear voice with a touch of sadness. You’re drawing, fingers covered in black charcoal as you smudge the lines of a breathtaking portrait of a woman’s face. You pause for a moment, tipping your head as if examining the grain of the parchment before resuming the skillful stoke.

Oblivious, your voice picks up volume, while you sketch with precise intent, completely focused.

Car tant vous aim, sans mentir

Qu’on poroit avant tarir

La haute mer

Et ses ondes retenir

Que me peusse alentir

de vous amer.

“What are you singing?” He asks.

You yelp in surprise, clasping a hand over your mouth, heart beating like a stallion. “Samuel, you scared me half to death.”

“I didn’t mean to.” He places his hand to his chest in apology. “I’m sorry.”

“Come sit with me,” you suggest. He stares blankly for a moment and then lowers himself the ground beside you, picking up the parchment delicately, holding it up by the edges.

“You’re talented.” He looks to you, then back to the picture. “This is… incredible.”

You blush. He’s never complimented you before and it takes you off guard. Grinning like a fool you put a hand to your cheek. “Thank you.”

“Who is she?”

“My mother.” You reach over and run a dirty finger over her face. “I have to draw her otherwise the memory fades. I’m not entirely sure if that’s a true likeness or if my mind fills in the foggy parts.”

“She was beautiful. You look like her.” He comments, setting down the parchment and reaching for the others laying on the ground in front of you.

“Don’t-” you reach out to stop him but he’s already thumbing through them, holding up the next.

“Where is this?” It’s a detailed drawing of a garden with tall, manicured bushes and a statue of a woman in the middle. She’s pouring water from the vase into the pool at the base of the fountain.

“My favorite garden. There are many within the castle walls, but this is the smallest and farthest from the gates. It’s secluded and quiet. I spent a lot of time there.”

“And this?” Sam picks up a portrait from the bottom of the pile. It’s of a man sitting on the edge of a bed, looking down at his feet. There’s a pained expression on his face. It’s darker than the rest, thick broad strokes instead of delicate lines.

Sam feels you tense up, sitting up a bit straighter and clasping your hands in your lap. “My husband, Mathieu.”

“Ah,” he nods gently, looking away from you. “Were you singing for your husband?”

“No, I was singing for…” You pause, answering him honestly, “love in general I suppose.”

"What happened to him?" Sam asks quietly.

"We both fell ill at the same time. My symptoms seemed far worse. No one thought I would survive...but I did. He died the day after my fever broke. It happened fast, there was nothing that could be done."

"How long were you married?"

"Twelve years." You sigh, looking up at the sun, anywhere but at Sam. He shifts beside you, picking up the picture again, analyzing the face now that he has more information.

"You were happy with him?"

"Very," there's no veiling the smile that spreads across your face. Your memories of Mathieu are painful, but also heartwarming. "I was sixteen when my father told me I was to marry him. I didn't want a husband or anything to do with being a wife. I knew it was inevitable, but I'd convinced myself I was meant for greater things. I cried for days, it was all very dramatic. He was older by ten years and at the time his seemed like an insurmountable difference. But he was kind and smart and so funny. He made me laugh until my sides hurt..." You stop when you feel the emotions tightening in your chest. Sam doesn't want to hear you go on and on about a man he doesn’t know. "It seemed just as I was planning on growing old with him, he was gone."

"You're lucky to have had him for so long." He draws in a breath and grinds a thumb over the callus on his palm. He looks straight ahead, staring out at the tall grass, but his mind clearly elsewhere. "I had someone once, a long time ago. I was young, not much older than you were when you married."

"You had a wife?" You clarify, studying his face, the wrinkles around his eyes crinkling as he expression sours.

"I had a mate, she was mine and I was hers. I should have married her but it seemed like we had all the time in the world. Once I claimed her it didn't seem like we needed anything more "

"She died?"

"In childbirth." Sam looks at you, his eyes staring a hole right through your very soul. "I lost my Omega and my child."

"Oh Sam, I’m sorry." You wish you had something more to say. You had never stopped to imagine his life before. At times it feels like he's always been with you.

"I'm only telling you this because I want you to know that I understand what it's like to lose someone. Now that my parents are gone I only have my brother."

"And me." You add confidently. You speak without thinking and panic for a moment, but it's not necessary as Sam just smirks softly and places a hand over yours.

"And you." He confirms.

“It would appear, Samuel, that you and I have more in common than one would suspect.”

“Indeed.” He smiles at you, squinting in the sunlight.

"I know that I can be a nuisance and I create more work for you, but I do appreciate everything you've done for me."

“You’re never a bother. Life would be boring without you.”

You're in the village when the news comes.

Sam's beside you haggling with the butcher over the price for one of his pigs. They've been in the midst of a heated discussion for some time now and you wander absentmindedly down the row of men peddling their wares. Stopping to admire a woven skirt you don't even notice when Hugh slides up beside you. Hugh knows everything and everyone, filling the village’s unofficial position of town crier.

"Good morning, Y/N." His voice is sneaky and he smells faintly of body odor.

"Good morning, Hugh." You smile, sidestepping to get away from his wafting stink. He's kind and enjoys making you laugh, you just wish he bathed more often.

"I have something for my favorite mademoiselle." He feigns a terrible French accent and fishes in his cloak to present you with a shiny red apple, holding it like a crown jewel in his palm.

"It's beautiful," you take it, examining the unblemished skin. It's not often you're able to get your hands on the sweet fruits you used to devour on a daily basis. "Thank you very much!"

"I stole it," he winks at you.

"It'll be our secret then." Grinning, you admire this treat. It's amazing how life has shifted. A year ago you'd be appalled if a foul-smelling man had even tried to speak with you. But you find yourself becoming accustomed to seeking out appreciation in the smaller parts of life.

"I have news from your homeland as well." He adds, slinking around you. Hugh has never attempted to hide his attraction to you. It’s all meant in good fun, so you don't mind. He's a bit bolder without Sam around, leaning closer than needed when he speaks. "Would you like to know?"

"Yes please," you grin, feeling your heart beat just a bit stronger. Hugh's updates have been one your only links to the life you left behind and you look forward to any new reports.

"All of France is in mourning. The Mad King has died." He continues to talk but you hear none of it. There's a pressure in your chest, a feeling akin to that of fist tight around your heart.

"When?" You interrupt him, hardly able to force a whisper.

"Weeks ago now." He shrugs oblivious to your reaction. The world closes in as your vision narrows into a tunnel of claustrophobia. Your surroundings begin to blur and you draw in a deep breath to prevent yourself from losing consciousness.

"What have you said to her?" Sam's deep voice booms from behind you. Hugh looks up, wide-eyed and takes a step back. You feel Sam’s familiar hands curl around your arm, turning you toward him. "What is it?"

“I did nothing! I swear to you.” Hugh holds up his hands in a sign of submission.

“What’s wrong,” Sam’s brow furrows as you turn to him, opening your mouth to speak but nothing comes out. You’re looking at him as if you’re underwater, not really seeing what’s right in front of you. A sob tears from your throat, a horrid raw sound that’s accompanied by quivering lips and fat tears. Sam places both hands on your shoulders, looking to Hugh. “What the in the holy hell, did he touch you?”

“I never touched her!” Hugh panics, “I just bought her an apple.” He stammers. “An apple, and news from France.”

“Tell me,” Sam commands. You’re crying quietly, staring at the ground before pressing your face into his chest. He places a hand at the back of your head in an attempt to comfort.

“The King died.” He shrugs, utterly confused. “She must be a true patriot.”

Sam can feel your trembling form against him, fisting his cloak in your hands as your knees give way.

“Please take me home.” You mutter, trying to compose yourself. People are beginning to take notice.

Sam curls his arm around your side, pulling you from the busy street without another word. He helps you onto his horse, and the ride back to his cottage is a blur. The world doesn’t seem to right itself until you’re seated at the small, familiar table in front of the fire.

“I’m sorry I made such a scene.” You manage, wiping your eyes.

“You don’t have anything to apologize for.” Sam grunts. “He was your brother.”

“He’s dead.” You stare at Sam with wet eyes, utterly shattered. If there’s one thing he understands, it’s complex emotions when it comes to family.

“Do you want to talk about it?” He kneels down before you, taking both your hands between his. No, you don’t want to talk about anything. You want him to hold you, but you don’t dare ask for that.

“I’ve talked enough for a lifetime.” You sigh. You don’t mean it as a joke and Sam tried to contain his amusement. “I just want to sleep.”

Your slumber is long and hard, waking up to the sounds of Sam rustling around by the hearth. It’s midday, and he should be hard at work in the forest, but instead, you find him sitting at the table, sharpening various blades.

“Why are you here?” You ask, taking a seat across from him in your nightdress, hair still wild from sleep. Any sense of propriety you once felt being around him in such a raw state faded long ago.

“I thought you might want company.” He offers, his face unwavering. “No one should be alone in times like this.”

You smile down at your lap. Sam is always kinder to you than you deserve.

“Can we go for walk?” You inquire, thrilled at the prospect of spending a whole day with him, it’s the only thing that seems to take the edge your grief.

“Of course.” Confirming your request, he looks up, catching you staring at him, your gaze lingering just a bit too long. “Did you want to go as you are or would you like to dress first?”

“So witty.” You retort.

You dress, then try to eat, but your appetite is nowhere to be found. Before you know it, you find yourself on the narrow path that leads to the small pond. Sam is walking a snail's pace beside you, willing himself to slow down and set the measure of your footsteps.

“I’m sorry.” He offers, bending down to pick up a large stick, banging it on his leg like a bored child. “I know, despite your reasons for leaving, that he meant a great deal to you.”

“Thank you.” You wander on in silence, trying to focus on the slight breeze and the easy feeling of companionship when you’re with him. You wish you could always be with Sam, to watch him grow old and grey, waking up beside him each morning until you’re wrinkled and cranky.

“What are you going to do?” He asks, looking forward.

This is the moment of truth. You chose your words carefully, watching his expression as you speak. “I’ll write to my brother, Philip. I don’t know what’s transpired in my absence but I dare to hope that I may be welcome home.”

Sam twitches, his mouth tightening for a brief moment as he snorts. “Good. You’ll be better off in France, where you belong.”

You don’t think it’s possible for your heart to break more than it already has, but somehow the ache in your chest and head intensify. There was part of you that thought, perhaps, he would at least express a fleeting sentiment of sadness at the idea of your departure.

If you had gotten what you really wanted, Sam would have turned to you and taken you into his arms, pleading for you to stay with him. He’d take your hands in his and tell you that the very thought of living without you makes him ill, that he can’t imagine his life without you. But instead, he acts as if you’ve said nothing of consequence.

Just when you think you couldn’t be any more disappointed, he adds “I’ll hire a messenger for you.”

For six long, agonizing weeks you live in the hell that is Sam’s terrible disposition.

You hardly see him. He’s gone before you awake and many times does not return until after you’ve gone to bed. You listen to him, drunk as a skunk and mumbling to himself, as he knocks around in a stupor before passing out. When you do have occasion to see him he barely speaks to you, ignoring you in favor of a book that you know for a fact he’s already read ten times over.

It appears that you have finally overstayed your welcome.

“I have good news!” You half-shout, your voice suddenly too loud as you struggle to control the sickening feeling in your stomach. He’s just outside the barn, preparing his stead for the yearly hunt. Every able-bodied man is about to depart into the woods in hope of securing enough meat to make it through the winter. He’ll be gone at least a fortnight.

“What is it?” Sam asks distracted, tightening the saddle on his horse.

“The courier returned, he brought a letter from my sister.” Sam pauses but doesn't turn to you. “I’ve been invited to come home.”

“Good,” he grunts, continuing to attend to the mare Your heart sinks. You might vomit. He cares so little that he can’t even be bothered to stop what he’s doing to give you his full attention.

“It wasn’t just the message that arrived...my brother sent knights to escort me home whenever I wish to depart. They’re in the village.”

“I’m happy for you.” Sam turns to grab a rolled up blanket from behind you, nearly knocking you over.

He doesn’t even look at you.

“We can depart in the morning and it appears that you’re leaving now, so this could be the last time we…” Don’t cry. “Our last chance to say goodbye.”

“Well then,” He finally looks at you, his eyes wild and nostrils flaring. “Goodbye.”

“Why are you always upset with me?” You ask, unsure of exactly what’s happening. You’ve come to him with the intention of gathering your courage and telling him what this last year has meant to you, but it’s clear now that your plan was flawed. Any hope of being able to express your feelings die with his words. “I didn’t do anything.”

“That’s nothing new.”

“I do not understand you, Samuel. I was sure you’d be thrilled at my impending departure, I thought knowing I’d be out of your hair would put you in a better mood, but you’re angry with me all the time. Is it that I didn’t depart soon enough? Has your tolerance for me finally reached its breaking point? I had hoped that, perhaps, we would part as friends. I can see now that was foolish.”

“I don’t have the words to-” Sam draws in a breath and shakes his head, arm flailing at his sides.

“Tell me,” You snip with your hands on your hips. “You have been impossible for weeks now, so just tell me what it is you have to say. Just get it off your chest. This is the last chance you’ll ever have.”

“You make me feel like a lunatic!” Sam cries, throwing his arms into the hair.

“The sentiment is mutual.” Puckering your lips you mentally prepare yourself for the barrage of insults you’re sure are to come.

“You are the most ridiculous person I have ever known. The way you talk, the way you eat those tiny little bites like a church mouse. You leave a mess everywhere you go and you don’t know how to do anything! I can’t even ask you to feed the horses while I’m gone because I would never expect that you would get that close to actual work.”

“If I am so awful then why have you allowed me to stay with you all this time?” You inquire, stepping toward him.

“Because I love you!” Sam shouts, then recoils as if he surprised by his confession.

Your heart speeds up to a gallop in your chest. Narrowing your eyes you take another step, examining his features for any sign of jest. You’ve gotten better at deducing when he’s making fun at your expense. “What did you just say?”

Sam balks, closing his eyes and pressing his thumb and forefinger at the bridge of his nose. “I am quite tired and very hungry. It’s possible I could have said anything.”

A slow smile spreads across your face, as an excited stir bubbles up from your belly. “You love me?”

“Dear Lord,” he mumbles, “against my better judgment.”

“Samuel Winchester, the cantankerous woodsman who would rather skin a rabbit than help me with my corset, loves me?” You bite your lip, clasping your hands dramatically. You’re happier than you’ve ever been in your life but unable to control the urge to tease him just a bit more. He does deserve it after all. One doesn’t tell a woman he loves her against his better judgment without there being some repercussions.

“You are impossible,” Sam groans. He’s always at a loss when it comes to you, feeling somewhere between the urge to fuck and strangle you.

“I am quite the woman.” You sigh, bobbing on one hip, not ready to let him off the hook. He’s been so awful these last weeks. “With my unmatched candle making skills and a natural aptitude for the outdoors.”

“I pictured this conversation going differently.” Sam laughs with exasperation. “You make my blood boil.”

“Surely there must be something you like about me?” You challenge him. “After what you just said…”

Sam’s chest heaves with a mighty breath as he reaches out and grabs your arms, pulling you closer to him. His finger squeezes your biceps while he gazes down with an expression of affection. “You’re the most infuriating woman I have ever known, but you're also the most beautiful creature I have ever laid eyes upon. But, more importantly, you are brave. Brave to leave everything you know and set out in the world. Brave to try to save me from a pack of wolves. You are self-assured and overconfident. You don’t accept your own limits. You make me feel things in a way I didn’t think was possible.”

“Sam,” you breathe. For the first time in your life, you’re speechless.

“And now that I have bared my heart to you, will please put me out of my misery and tell me if you feel the same?” His head tilts to the side, scrutinizing your face.

“I have loved you for a long time.” Your heart is ready to burst at the very idea of this strong, wonderful man making such a bold statement. “You really think I am brave?”

“Yes, more so than any person I have ever known.” Sam’s looking at you with a stare that makes your legs weak. His hand comes up to your face, cradling your jaw as his thumb catches your bottom lip. You tilt to the side, offering your neck so he can scent you. He bends down pressing his nose into the skin right below your ear, inhaling slow and deep, a simple gesture that feels supremely intimate. The touch of his skin on yours sends a chill down your spine. When he pulls away you start to protest but open your eyes to find him offering himself to you in turn. Standing on your tiptoes you stretch up and nuzzle your face into his neck. Inhaling with an open mouth, pressing parted lips against the scratch of his beard.

Sam groans and pulls you flush with his body, snaking an arm around your waist. When you pull your head back he cradles your face with a large, rough palm, bending down to kiss you just as the horns sound in the distance.

The hunt is beginning and they won’t wait for him.

Sam stops, freezing as he closes his eyes and gathers restraint. “I have to go, if we continue this I won’t have the will to stop.”

“Okay.” You confirm with a nod. “I will wait for you to return. At which time we can discuss more of the reasons you love me.”

@smallgirlbigpersonality @mereka18 @gryffindorable713 @trainlikeawinchester @winchesterprincessbride @bamby0304 @saxxxology

@kittenofdoomage @notyourtypicalrose @mariekoukie6661 @little-big-mac2 @emoryhemsworth @mystriee @atc74 @holyfuckloueh @bunnybaby121115 @mogaruke @darkmystress00 @jaspesangriento @kazuha159 @mirandaaustin93 @crispychrissy @schilj79 @wilde-abandon @hennessy0274-blog @bojabee @miss-samantha-winchester @impalaimagining-mainblog @andkatiethings @astephez @ladycynthia @mrswhozeewhatsis @lenawiinchester @feelmyroarrrr @mrs-meghan-winchester @har-rystyles @mistressofallthingsgeeky @theamuz @maui137 @stars-and-seas @vale0413 @impala67trenchcoat @curly-haired-disaster @ericaprice2008 @livelikeawinchester @althehufflepuff @itsthesamegametoday @bohowitch @spnwoman @just-a-normal-eccentric @gallifreyansass @StoneyGGirl @lonely-skys @81mysteriouslyme @missrandomista @soupornatural @stars-and-seas @natura1phenomenon @jarpadandjensenaremyheroes @81mysteriouslyme @likhelbentin @mrooks0205 @zombiewerewolfqueen @winchesterprincessbride @squirrel-moose-winchester @fortisetgloriosusinarduis @closetspngirl @dominodoll @rainflowermoonlibrary @cleighwrites @camelotandastronauts @imarockstar45 @thebeastinside19 @courtney-padalecki @itsthesamegametoday @virtualgirlfriendsan @daisymoder72 @fandom-is-my-middle-name @mysticmcu @luciferseclipse @malinda1997 @malinda1997 @sunlight-dean @rockhoochie @collette04 @sandlee44 @ohnowin-chester @maddiepants @fandom-princess-forevermore @geeksareunique @femdeni314 @lazinessisalliknow @samwinchesterssexyface @the-yellow-girl96 @that67chevy

#Alpha!Sam x Omega!Reader #alpha!sam winchester #sam winchester x reader #sam x reader #supernatural

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rfschatten · 4 years ago

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Election 2020: America’s Civil War v2.0

“The further a society drifts from truth the more it will hate those who speak it.” ~ George Orwell

Wake up and smell the coffee, America!

The United States, for better or worse, for the first time in its history elected an honest to goodness criminal; a renowned grifter, a world-renowned embezzler, a sleazy money launderer, and a tax fraud …who disguised as a stable genius has never succeeded in a single business he’s ever attempted.

Casinos are legally structured so the “House” never loses! But ask Atlantic City, and their experience with the Trumpster. How smart is the Stable Genius? How many Casinos have ever gone bankrupt?

It’s no longer a secret this exalted “Billionaire” is really a penniless fraud …a fraud who owes banks around the world more than a Billion Dollars, and at least, $400,000 to mysterious certain individuals.

Truth hurts when dealing with irreproachable people of more character and virtues than he’s ever had …Donald Trump can’t handle the Truth!

Aristotle said; “Without virtue, man is most unholy and savage, and worst in regard to sex and eating”.

Aristotle never had the pleasure to meet this little man, but describes him literally to a T!

But, why does his following care even knowing what he says are all lies? He’s everything his righteous Christian bible quoting base grew up learning not to be! The sins, the immorality…so unchristian!

There’s a certain sector of this nation that will reject the truth, by any means …and at all cost.

200 years of institutionalized racism, cultural inbreeding, systemic ignorance, and continually poor education.

Enter the orange Svengali, it’s his Haven …being around people who don’t care whether he lies to them or if he cheats on all his wives, whether he takes all their tax dollar & sticks it in his pocket, or betrays his country for money in favor of other Foreign Powers!

His ability to mesmerize & exploit the most exploitable is all he has left …and it’s a mutual “quid pro quo” society.

Their aim …with the help of the most powerful man in the country and the most ignorantly dangerous human being in the World …to promote White Supremacy and lift it up to rule the Nation, while psychologically and educationally bringing everyone down to their level. Build a society based on their own visions & all their ignorance, and make the US the world’s pinnacle of idiocy.

Never question the supreme leader…diminish their followers’ range of thought. Whatever you see is not what you’re seeing, whatever you hear is not what you’re hearing, and whatever you’re reading is not what you’re really reading …that’s life under totalitarian rule.

Shades of “1984”? and its Totalitarian Society …36 years later?!?!

When the President of the United States really says; “What you’re seeing and what you’re reading is not what’s happening” …what’s next? War is Peace, Freedom is Slavery, and Ignorance is Strength?

Another shade of 1984 is discouraging all Freethinking. Oh! Freethinking/Critical Thinking! ….something that the Texas GOP passionately rejects and opposes the idea in all Texas Public Schools. I kid you not!

Donald Trump’s lifelong family love for right-wing movements, Fascism and White Supremacy …all his very fine people he constantly boasts about! And now, the opportunity of his lifetime; to exploit all his own bigotry & racism without getting in trouble. Besides all his criminal activities …it’s given him an aura of invincibility …a dictator who can get away with murder, which has been his childhood dream!

He’s the self-proclaimed “Tough Guy” who whines when Leslie Stahl asks him tough questions …” why do I get the tough questions”? How tough is he towards the ‘real’ tough guys? Case closed.

This man has no plans whatsoever of giving up his Power …his plans started 4 years ago, and American Supremacy will violently back him up whether they win or whether they lose!

From The Donald’s use of pure Fascist Propaganda, The Big Lie, Subliminal Messaging, Gaslighting, Doublespeak, the White House’s official Daily Misinformation, Blatantly lying their asses off 24/7…it’s all part of the Totalitarian for Dummies handbook.

When Trump tells a certain chapter of his violent armed cultists …even if he claims he doesn’t know them; “stand back & stand by”…he knows very well what he’s doing!

Uncle Crazy is not really that crazy! He’s just a creepy dirty old crazy uncle…just ask his niece, Mary.

The 2020 Election is like nothing ever seen or experienced before. The Economy is usually the selling point in all elections…how it affects your wallet. War is another factor that can shift elections one way or the other. But this year it’s a little different, an X-factor is hanging around like toe-nail fungus for all the Republicans that sold their souls to Trump …a Global Pandemic Infection that’s now reaching 9 million Americans and will have killed over 230, 000 men, women, and children by Nov. 3rd.

Besides, there’re massive protests all around the country demonstrating for the end of institutionalized racism…all those years of Racial Injustice and especially nationwide Police Brutality have reached a boiling point …and instead of getting better, is getting worse as police shootings of the Black community keeps increasing throughout the country, daily!

More blacks are dying in the streets of America through police brutality than ever before …..and on Live TV! This, besides the Pandemic, are among so many other things that is truly ripping this nation apart!

How to start a Race War and blame the other side for starting it…better yet, blame other factions and allow them to destroy each other. A Fascist principle? It’s all about Chaos and how much will it take, to take down a Country…lock, stock, and barrel.

Will Durant once said; “Civilization begins with order, grows with liberty and dies with Chaos”…we certainly ‘are’ in Chaotic Times!

“Law and Order” sold well for Dick Nixon …but it’s not selling as well this time around. The general public is too well aware of what’s happening, and why it’s happening …they’re sick of listening to a man who will reach 25,000 lies by Nov. 3rd. What’s happening is that this country is sick & tired of listening 4 years of constant transparent horseshit.

People prefer being and staying healthy, and prefer taking care of their children than having them get infected or die! The need to work to financially survive is real, but sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do …if you get sick, how are you going to go to work? If you die, what happens with your family?

But most of all …People of all ages, all colors, all genders, all faiths, are coming together as one nation. Maybe this killer Virus is actually finally waking the moral conscience of this country?

The Law and Order hero keeps projecting about cleaning the streets of crime. The Black-clad Thugs Trump talks so much about? You can’t miss them…they’re a conglomeration of Ice Agents, off-duty Prison Guards, Border Patrol Agents, and Blackwater Mercenaries. No one with name tags or IDs but nice shiny black helmets & full armored uniforms! Abducting Protestors and driving them away? They’re the most brutal, vicious racists and supremacists goons Bill Barr could find. In Dictatorships, they call them “Death Squads”!

This is the man who cried; Take your guns and liberate Michigan!

Think about it! You have the President of the United States calling for the insurrection of the Government of a State in the Union!

Now, all you hear is Insurrection & Martial Law…if he doesn’t win? Telling his crew of every low life white supremacists to be armed and ready …cause Biden is going to get rid of Law Enforcement, open the Borders and allow all Mexican criminals to come and loot, burn, and rape your women!

To keep power, Dictators cheat their asses off by suppressing the vote, any way possible…now the Post Office and all the dirty deals with his new Donor Postmaster General pal.

That looks like it won’t work, so now Trump is insinuating that if he doesn’t win on Nov. 3rd is because the Democrats cheated and rigged it, naturally. Using his stacked Supreme Court to reverse his election defeat and declare him King for Life!

At noon on Jan. 20th, 2020 Donald Trump will refuse to get out of the White House and hide in his Bunker! At which time, little men in white coats will enter with US Marshals and have him evicted … and sent directly to Happy Acres, where he can battle all the Napoleon pretenders to see who’s the best leader.

This election is twofold. It’s about recovering and taking back a Nation from the shackles of 4 years of Chaos & Destruction, and it’s about regaining our Respect, Morality, and especially America’s Decency over the Disrespect, the Immoral Degeneracy, and the Indecency of the past 4 years!

When the President keeps insisting on opening up schools, sadly, it’s so he can get the parents back to work to pick up the economy …just more money for him to steal from the taxpayers. The Kids? The Donald has no compassion or remorse, he couldn’t care less how many children get infected or die …he just doesn’t give a damn!

He hates Children and Dogs…always had! He considers himself above them …even as a kid, he hated and bullied other kids. Never trust a man who hates Dogs!

It’s the pompous “exclusivity” of a spoiled brat born with a silver spoon up his big fat derrière.

This is all the continuing legacy of American Hypocrisy and Social Class standing…so many, have been so proud for so long with the conception of “American Exceptionalism”. Just think, what the word exceptionalism means. It derives from the word “Except” which means to “Exclude”! It should’ve been called American White Exceptionalism.

This is why the 2020 elections is the most important in US History, where Democracy & the US Constitution hangs on the line…threats of a Civil War if Trump loses, threats of intimidation & armed violence, even during election day (aka voter suppression) …and a Bill Barr lead Justice Dept, more interested in officially defending Trump in a rape & defamation civil lawsuit than protecting the American Voter!

There’s a reason why all around the world We, the People are still known …and even more in today’s Trumpian age, as “The Ugly American”.

Never before has America had such a distinct clear choice for President …it all comes down to Decency or Indecency, Morality or Immorality, Compassion or Indifference, but mostly it’s about uniting a nation or tearing it apart!

Voter suppression is the first way of suppressing a society! …there’s no second chance! Like never before, on Nov. 3rd Election Day … America, Choose Wisely!!!

#2020 Elections #donald trump #joe biden #COVID-19 #racial injustice #racial inequality #White Supremacy #Fascism #pandemic

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adambstingus · 6 years ago

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The Greatest Spirits Book Ever Written

The greatest book I know of ever written about distilled spirits is 826 pages long, and it wasn’t written so much as transcribed. What’s more, the printed original is almost unobtainable, even at great price, although it can be found online (here, for example); you can also get a relatively cheap, bound print of the PDF, although it will be reduced to some two-thirds of the size of the original, making the closely printed text, most of it double column, damned difficult to read.

If you have the patience to deal with the PDF or manage to get hold of a legible print copy, you’d better clear your schedule. Hold all calls, disconnect the doorbell, pour yourself a good, stiff drink. The Final Report of the Royal Commission on Whiskey and Other Potable Spirits (sometimes it’s bound with the title as Interim Report) takes no little amount of concentration, but what’s in there tells you more than any other book how the majority of the spirits you drink today came to be the way that they are (that is, unless you mostly drink vodka and tequila).

The Royal Commission on Whiskey and Other Potable Spirits was the result of a loud and very public squabble being conducted in Britain in the late nineteenth and early 20th centuries about just what could call itself whiskey (the Commission, by the way, spelled it with the ‘e’ throughout its report, so suck it, “Scotch-and-Canadian-are-whisky-Irish-and-American-are-whiskey” pedants). On the one side were all of the Irish distillers who made their product the old, expensive way, in pot stills, and a portion of the Scottish ones. On the other side were those who used modern column or continuous stills to make their considerably cheaper product; a few of them were in Northern Ireland, but most were in Scotland’s industrial Lowlands. In between were many of the Scottish pot-still malt whiskey makers, who might agree in theory with the first bunch but sold so much of their product to blenders, who combined it with the column-still stuff, that they found it prudent to stay on the sidelines.

Basically, the pot-still people held that the other stuff, whatever it was, wasn’t whiskey, and they wanted the government to say that and stop its makers from labeling it thus. The column still people said that it was, and had 60-percent of the market by volume to prove it. A Parliamentary committee had already looked into the debate 10 years back, but kicked the can down the road. So, in 1908, King Edward VII had Henry James, Baron James of Hereford, impanel a group of experts to look into the question. And, while they were at it, they might as well look into brandy, rum, and gin, the other important categories of spirit in the British market. They were dealing with the same kinds of issues.

By the end of the 19th century, the spirits industry in the industrialized world was at a crossroads. The distiller’s art was an old one, but it had only been brought to perfection a hundred-odd years earlier with a broad consensus that the way to make a quality spirit was to distill your wash—wine, beer, fermented sugarcane juice, whatever—slowly in copper pot stills, cutting out the “heads” and the “tails” (the first and last parts of the distillate) and then take the resulting “low wines,” put them in another still, cut out the heads and tails again, and sometimes even repeat the process a third time. The resulting spirit, which was usually about 60 or 70 percent alcohol (and never much more than 80 percent) would be appealingly oily in texture and rich in flavor, but it took a lot of labor to make and required considerable aging in oak barrels to get rid of the sharper, more volatile compounds in it and become mellow enough to drink.

Meanwhile, in the 1830s a new technology was introduced to disrupt things. Continuous distillation fed the wash into the top of a tall, copper column and, as it trickled down through a series of perforated plates, pumped live steam through it to strip off the alcohol. The resulting product was as much as 94 percent alcohol—it would take Lord knows how many distillations to achieve that in a pot still—and all you had to do was pump the wash in at the top, pull off the alcohol from a tube in the side and let the spent wash drain out of the bottom. You could keep it running as long as you had wash to pump in.

Being so pure, the spirit from these stills lacked many of the extra compounds that made pot-still spirits so rich in flavor. But that also meant it took a lot less aging, if any at all, to make it palatable; in fact, you could easily make a spirit that would be so neutral in flavor that it would be hard to detect if you mixed it with, say, whiskey, rum or brandy. For a great many distillers this presented a devil’s dilemma: Do you stick with a labor-intensive, top-quality product as made by your grandfather and his father before him and watch your market be eroded year in and year out? Or do you ditch the craft and install a column, saving your market, and try to make the best product you can for the price you can get for it?

That’s the battle that unfolds in the Report—although not actually in the Report itself. The book, you see, is in four parts, of which that is only the first and, at 47 pages, the shortest. It is also, surprisingly, the least interesting. The last part is a 67-page set of indices and digests of the proceedings; most useful. The heart of the book, however, is in the two fat volumes that constitute the “Minutes of Evidence.”

Between March 2, 1908, and May 17, 1909, the Commission sat for a total of 37 days. During those days, Lord James and his seven commissioners—a mix of doctors, lawyers, scientists, and government men—heard the testimony of 116 witnesses. The Minutes of Evidence are that testimony, painstakingly transcribed (along with whatever exhibits the witnesses brought, attached as appendices).

As for those witnesses, they include a good many doctors, lawyers and scientists, to be sure, whose testimony is for the most part ass-achingly dull. But they also include James Dewar, Andrew Jameson, John Talbot Power, and Alexander Walker. If you drink Scotch or Irish whiskey, you have drunk the products of their firms. Cognac-drinkers will recognize James Hennessy, Edward Martell, Andre Hine, and Jacques Delamain.

For gin, the witnesses include Herman Jansen, one of the great names in the history of Dutch genever-distilling, Alfred Gilbey, R. C. W. Currie of Tanqueray Gordon & Co. and Henry Gore Hawker of Coates & Co., makers of Plymouth Gin. For rum, there are Frederick H. D. Man, whose family’s firm supplied all the rum to the Royal Navy and in fact controlled, by his estimate, three-fourths to seven-eighths of the British rum trade, and the very feisty James Nolan, representative of Jamaica’s rum distillers.

Among the other current brands represented are Lucas Bols, Angostura, DeKuyper, Teacher’s, and a whole raft of single-malt Scotches (William Ross, head of the Distillers Co. Limited, which owned a number of them, was a witness).

When these men—and they are all men—testified, they had to describe in detail what they did: what their products were fermented from, how they were distilled, how they were aged, how they were sold and marketed. They had to discuss their commercial philosophies, their visions for the industry, their traditions and innovations. If they declined to take a stand on something, they were pressed. Some of the testimony went on for hours. James Hennessy was on the stand for almost two whole days.

Taken as a whole, the Minutes of Evidence are overwhelming. I have not read them all, or even come close: The testimony covers 573 of those tiny-type, double-column pages—some 850,000 words, by my quick-and-dirty calculation. There is a lot in there that is tedious and little that is truly dramatic. But every time I dip in, whether for a paragraph or a string of witnesses, I learn something. Things like the fact that pure pot-still Irish whiskey, now made exclusively from malted and unmalted barley, used to be made from those two, plus significant percentages of rye and oats and sometimes wheat, or that Dutch distillers added lots of juniper to their genever for some of their export markets (e.g., the United States) and little or none for others (e.g., Great Britain), or that Jamaican distillers made their rum not just from molasses, but rather from that with “dunder,” or spent wash, and the skimming from the process of boiling cane juice down into sugar.

What really makes the book sing for me, though, is the fierce pride of the old-fashioned pot distillers, men who had spent years mastering a complex and exacting craft (pot distillation is easy; good, consistent pot distillation is extremely difficult, as anyone who has tasted a lot of micro-distilled whiskey can attest). James Hennessy, the head of the largest, most prestigious firm in Cognac, with more than a quarter of the market, was able to testify in minute detail to every aspect of his business, not just the marketing, the management, the regulation and taxation of it, the winemaking, the distilling, the aging and the blending. His modern successor could not do that.

When faced with a technology that could turn out incredible volumes of clean, if relatively flavorless, product at a fraction of the cost, small wonder some of these men got truculent. John Talbot Power, for instance, who when asked if, according to him, the column-still stuff had “any of the characteristics of whiskey,” replied “none whatever,” adding that “it would not be accepted by any Irishman as whiskey.” Likewise, the aforementioned James Nolan, who maintains over and over that “only pots still spirits [should] be allowed to be sold as rum,” even if that meant disqualifying everything made in Demerara and the rest of the British West Indies. As for blending, let’s just say that they thought “adulteration” was a more accurate term (that’s how Herman Jansen regarded the incorporation of column still spirit into genever).

Against this, the many column distillers and blenders who testified could only say things like, (and here I’m summarizing), “our product is medically sound”; “it is more efficient to work how we do”; “it lets us make an acceptable product at a good price”; and “we only sell it in the Colonies”—and if not the colonies, in Asia, Africa, or America.

Nowadays, of course, blending is a part of the landscape and in most spirit categories the market has found a way to let column spirits, pot spirits and blends of both coexist, all neatly stratified by price (rum, alas, has not). Even the Irish, the most stubborn holdouts, began offering a blended product in the 1950s, although they still made a little of their pure pot still and single malt whiskey.

But that, it turns out, is what the actual Commissioners’ report suggested: At the end, the definition of whiskey it came up with after hearing all that testimony was “a spirit obtained by distillation from a mash of cereal grains saccharified by the diastase of malt”; Scotch whiskey was simply that, distilled in Scotland, and Irish whiskey that, distilled in Ireland. Pot, column, whatever. In declining to take a stand, it gave us the world of drinks we have today.

But boy, to walk through the John Power distillery with Arthur Talbot Power, or the Hennessy warehouses with James Hennessy must have been something.

from All Of Beer http://allofbeer.com/the-greatest-spirits-book-ever-written/ from All of Beer https://allofbeercom.tumblr.com/post/183321226567

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samanthasroberts · 6 years ago

Text

The Greatest Spirits Book Ever Written

But boy, to walk through the John Power distillery with Arthur Talbot Power, or the Hennessy warehouses with James Hennessy must have been something.

Source: http://allofbeer.com/the-greatest-spirits-book-ever-written/

from All of Beer https://allofbeer.wordpress.com/2019/03/08/the-greatest-spirits-book-ever-written/

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allofbeercom · 6 years ago

Text

The Greatest Spirits Book Ever Written

But boy, to walk through the John Power distillery with Arthur Talbot Power, or the Hennessy warehouses with James Hennessy must have been something.

from All Of Beer http://allofbeer.com/the-greatest-spirits-book-ever-written/

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