#lest we forget what They did to kill la kill

[yandere-daydreams]

you managed to do what no other being has - make me unwell over yuuta. thank you once again for being incredible (at making me slightly unwell by lovely writing).

(for some reason him being shipped with maki turned me off even before he was like. properly introduced in main jjk manga. i am biased through my lesbianism and therefore struggled to see the appeal of his pathetic wet eyes despite it generally being up my alley.)

no no no you're so real for that,,, i also really hated yuuta at first for 1) not being my biological son yuuji and 2) giving people a generic male character to ship maki with despite the fact that she is, like, the most lesbian shaped character that has ever lesbianed in a piece of media. i have since warmed to him after realizing that he himself is an honorary part of the queer community (canonical monster fucker) and that he is far too damp and pathetic (in my preferred characterization at least) to ever really hate. he's just a soggy kitten trapped in a soaking wet paper box and it's easier to pick him up and shake him out of affection than out of loathing.

[softboywriting]

Go The Fuck To Sleep | Shawn Mendes

Summary: You and Shawn make some big decisions. [established friend/relationship] [non au] 

Word Count: 1.7k

|Masterlist In Bio|

The second day of Shawn being home from tour you show up at his apartment. You're a good friend, well, better than good. You and Shawn have history, a long history. On and off dating, deciding to be friends, hooking up, both wanting more but never finding the right time. Things are complicated. It's just after eight and you've got a bag in hand with a wrapped present for him. You knock twice and wait. He's awake. You didn't text him before you showed up, but you know how he is. 

"Hello?" Shawn asks, opening the door to see you standing there. He grins. "About time you showed up."

"I've got things to do that are better than babysit you."

"Babysit? I'm a baby now?" 

"You've always been a baby." You shove his chest playfully and he backs up to let you inside. You pass him the gift from your bag and he turns it over in his hands curiously. "Open it."

"What did you get me?" He mumbles, tearing off the paper and revealing a copy of Go The Fuck To Sleep. "Wh-"

"You need to sleep." You look him over and then grab his jaw in your hand. "It looks like you haven't been getting any rest and frankly you look like shit. You look old."

Shawn's face drops and he stares at you, hurt in his eyes. "Take that back."

"No. You just don't want the truth."

"I'm fine."

"You're exhausted. When did you last eat a full square meal? When did you last eat three meals a day and snacks? Shawn, you're killing yourself." 

He walks past you and into the living area. "I didn't think you'd show up and berate me."

"Well someone oughta because you obviously aren't doing shit about it yourself." 

"You think I don't know?!" He rounds on you, walking back angrily and meeting you halfway. "You think I have no idea that I've lost ten pounds? That I forget to eat because I'm too busy and I'm stressed out? Do you really think I don't notice that I'm not getting enough sleep? Because trust me I know." His voice falters and he clenches his jaw, trying to hold himself together. 

You lay your hand on his chest and his heart is pounding wildly. "I'm here to help you."

"How?" He sighs tiredly. 

"By staying with you and making sure you're okay." You slide your hand up to cup his cheek. "You're home now, you don't have to work or stress about anything. Your only obligation is you." 

"I'm so tired," he says brokenly. "I'm so, so tired."

"I know. Why don't you go lay down and close your eyes? I'll make some food for you to eat for the next few days." 

"But I don't have anything."

"I'll order groceries for delivery." You push him toward the couch. "Relax. I swear I'll handle everything."

Shawn grabs your hand as you move to turn away to raid his kitchen. You raise your eyebrows and he pulls you toward him. "I don't know what I'd do without you." He says, hugging you tight. 

"You'd survive. Just barely." 

"Yeah, just barely." 

_____________________

Three hours later and you've got Shawn's fridge and freezer stuffed with everything from a veggie tray to muffins and chicken tortilla soup, a specialty of yours. You've even portioned everything out, knowing he usually follows a pretty controlled diet. He's passed out on the couch when you go to check up on him. He's so cute, mouth hanging open, plush lips a little dry. You wonder how long it's been since he slept this hard. 

Another half an hour passes and you keep busy by tidying up a bit. You don't want to turn the TV on lest you wake him and you definitely don't want to run the vacuum or anything. In the end it doesn't matter because just as you settle down at the other end of the couch he sits bolt upright and looks around as if he has been punched. 

"Whoa, hey, are you alright?" You lay your hand on his foot and he jerks it away. 

A second passes as he gains his bearings. "Where...h- oh. I'm home." He flops back and slaps a hand over his heart. "I was having a nightmare that I was still on the bus and we crashed. I saw my apartment and for a second I thought I died and ended up here or something." 

You chuckle softly. "No, you're not dead."

"How long was I out?" 

"A few hours. I made food, probably enough for the week." You scoot over and take his feet onto your lap. "I'll stay the night if you want."

"Please? I've missed you. When you're around I feel normal, like I don't have to be someone that people expect me to be." 

"Being on tour is that bad?" 

He shrugs. "It gets to you after a while. Most days I'm fine, things are great. But then I start to shut down and spiral. It's...hard."

You pat his legs and sigh. "Well the tour is over. It's done and you're home and it's time to be Shawn again." You mutter softly to yourself. "My Shawn."

He sits up and smiles shyly. "Your Shawn? Are you trying to tell me something?" 

"No, what, well...I guess?" 

He pulls his feet off your lap and shifts around so he's sitting beside you, thigh pressed against yours. "You know that I'm down literally whenever you are. I'm off tour now and I've got some time we could...y'know...finally do this."

"I know...I just...I-"

"You're nervous." 

"No, well yes, but that's not it." You let out a shaky breath. "I want to tell you something."

Shawn slides his hand over yours and threads your fingers together. "Anything."

You squeeze his hand tight, closing your eyes as if bracing for an impact. "I got the job."

"The job?" 

"Think about it."

He pauses and suddenly it hits him. "The job! The producer gig! You're producing for Big Box records! When do you move out to LA? Are you gonna move? Oh my God I'm so proud of you!" 

You grin big. "I actually have a proposal, um, you know how you got that place out there last year in Teddy's neighborhood?" 

"Yeah, yes oh my God yeah you can stay there."

"Thank you, actually I mean that was part of my proposal but it wasn't all of it." You shake your head. "I shouldn't even bring this up. I wasn't going to say anything and it sort of came out. Nevermind. It's fine, thank you, I'd love to stay at your place out there." 

"No no no no, hey, what's up? What aren't you telling me?" 

"Nothing, it's fine we'll talk tomorrow. You should sleep."

"I'm not going to sleep when you have my brain going a mile a minute now. Tell me, whatever it is, I can handle it."

You sigh. "I got the job because...because I said I could get you to consider signing with Big Box. They want you really bad and I know your contract is up in a few months and so do they. I'm sorry and I understand if you hate me, I just wanted this job so badly I used your name and I shouldn't have."

"No...no actually uh, I've been thinking about signing with a new label." He runs a hand over his hair and yawns. "There's been some things going on that I'm not comfortable with, some ideas being tossed around. I'd like to get out before it's too late, yknow?" 

"Shawn you can't be serious."

"I am, I'm so serious. We've always been on the same wavelength. I'm not mad that you used my name to get a job, I told you that you could ages ago. I didn't expect this but it's fine. It's time, like I said I've got some concerns right now and I've voiced them and things aren't being done to change anything. Five years is enough, I've got ideas and a vision for my music and if I can find that in Big Box Records I will." 

You pull your hand away from his. "This isn't a spur of the moment decision! You can't just jump in head first! What if-" 

Shawn grabs your face and kisses you, lips pressed hard to yours. "I'll go wherever you go. I'm so tired of being alone it's killing me and you're the only person who I've ever loved that wasn't family. This is our moment, we've waited for three years for the right time. If this isn't it then I don't know what is. I promise I'll meet with the execs and I'll do the whole song and dance and jump through the hoops. If it works out then it works out with the label, if not then I'll do everything I can to help you find another job."

"Shawn..." You press your forehead to his and his eyes roll back for a moment as if he's fighting sleep. "What if we're not right for each other? What if this is a mistake?" 

"Three years has been plenty of time for making mistakes. If we were going to fall apart it would have happened by now. If you're ready, I'm ready. Let's make this happen."

"It's a big deal...are you sure? Are you even awake enough?" 

He cups your face in his callused hands and focuses on you as best he can. "I've been sure about two things in my life. Playing music and wanting to wake up with you every day. So I'm asking outright, will you be my girlfriend?"

"Yeah," you laugh softly. "Yeah I will." 

Shawn wraps his arms around you and pulls you on top of him as he lays back. "God I've waited forever for this."

"Not forever, only a few years." You fluff his hair. "You really need to get some more sleep. I know we're making big decisions here but you are going to lose your mind if you keep yourself awake any longer."

He closes his eyes and smiles. "I think I can finally rest." 

"Mmm. Good." You kiss his nose and he scrunches it up before his face relaxes and you're sure he's passed out. "I love you bud, now go the fuck to sleep."

End

——————–

Thank you so much for reading. Please reblog and share if you read/enjoyed it. -A

*****Note: none of my works should be posted anywhere outside of my linked accounts. I do not give permission to repost with or without credit to my accounts. Please notify me of any reposted fics.*****

[eddie-boii]

Never Let You Go (part 14/14)

Fic info: Both Eddie and Stan live because I do what I want. Multichapter.

Rating: Mature.

Pairings: Reddie, Benverly.

Ao3 link: here

Summary: The Losers prepare for a wedding. 

This is it, guys. I’m gonna miss writing this :’)

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12 Part 13 Part 14

*

Sunlight streamed through the screen doors illuminating thousands of specks of dust as they swirled in the air in a gentle dance. Eddie let out a low groan as the light shone through his closed eyelids, rolling over in the bed and burying his face in Richie’s bare shoulder to shield himself from the harsh light. Richie shifted slightly in his sleep, his arms tightening around Eddie’s waist and pulling him close against his warm body. Richie may have complained his body wasn’t as aesthetically pleasing as Eddie’s, but in Eddie’s mind, it was the perfect body type for warm hugs.

He smiled against Richie’s shoulder, relishing this feeling of warm bodies tucked together beneath cosy sheets while outside, frost crept up the windows searching in vain for a way to get in. Eddie could get used to this.

He cracked his eyes open a little to check the clock on the bedside table and let out another groan.

“We should get up, Rich,” he said, pressing a kiss to Richie’s shoulder to wake him. Richie let out a whine and only pulled Eddie closer. “Come on, Trashmouth, we’ve gotta say bye to Ben and Bev before they go off on their honeymoon.”

“We can text them,” Richie mumbled. His face was pressed to Eddie’s neck so his voice came out muffled. “They’ll understand.”

“Come on, dickwad, you know you want to see them off,” Eddie laughed, prodding Richie’s chest. “And we need to fucking shower.” Richie groaned but released his death grip on Eddie slightly, instead moving to kiss him, but Eddie clamped a hand over his mouth before he could. “Ew, no, your breath smells like ass. Brush your teeth first.”

Richie kissed Eddie’s palm before tugging his hand away from his mouth. “Effort,” he whined. Still holding Eddie’s hand, he pressed kisses down his arm. “I can kiss everywhere but your mouth, right?” he said, moving to kiss Eddie’s forehead, his cheeks, his nose, his jaw…

“You’re such a fucking sap,” Eddie laughed. 

Richie hummed softly against his skin. “But you love me.”

“You’re never gonna fucking let that go, are you?”

“Never,” said Richie, his mouth trailing down to Eddie’s neck.

“Don’t leave any marks, remember,” Eddie warned him.

“I have a huge hickey on my hip that says you’re a fucking hypocrite.”

“No one’s gonna see that.”

“You never know,” said Richie, making his way down Eddie’s torso, his lips brushing tenderly over the scar. 

“Come on, Trashmouth,” said Eddie, pushing Richie away before he went any lower and they really did end up never leaving the bed. “We need to shower.”

Richie whined once more. “Don’t wanna.”

“We both need to shower,” said Eddie, looking at Richie pointedly until he finally got the message.

“Oh! Yes, we need to shower right away!” said Richie, practically leaping from the bed before shivering violently from the sudden cold. “Quick, before I freeze to death.” He grabbed both of Eddie’s hands and pulled up him, tugging him in the direction of the bathroom.

Eddie didn’t make it easy for him. He flopped down like a dead weight in Richie’s arms, and Richie huffed, told Eddie he was a bastard, then picked him up and carried him giggling over to the bathroom.

Yes, Eddie could really get used to this.

*

Eddie and Richie tried not to let their change in relationship status show when they went downstairs to meet the other Losers who had all gathered around the fire in the lobby once more, even going as far as to arrive at different times. They didn’t act overly friendly, didn’t touch each other too much aside from ‘accidental’ hand brushing, didn’t even glance at each other lest they accidentally gaze too long. But even so, Stanley took one look at them and -

“You two boned.”

“What the fuck, Stan?” said Eddie instantly. “No, we didn’t fucking bone.”

“Yeah, Stan,” said Richie. “We didn’t ‘bone’, we made love.”

“Richie!” Eddie squawked as Stan’s expression turned into one of triumph.

Richie only shrugged. “What? They were gonna find out anyway.”

He had a point, but Eddie scowled at him and turned away in a huff.

“Are you serious?” cried Bev not bothering to suppress her squeal. “Oh my god! I’m so happy for you two!”

“Fucking f-ff-finally,” said Bill.

“Congratulations, guys!” said Ben excitedly, leaping from his seat to pull them both into a tight hug.

“Woah, Haystack, watch the ribs,” Richie wheezed. “Don’t forget you’ve got huge-ass muscles now.”

Ben let them go with an apologetic smile and Mike pulled them into a hug in his stead, thankfully not as tight as Ben’s hug, although Mike did have some considerable muscles on him too.

“Wait,” said Mike after he’d released them. “Important question: did you two hook up before or after midnight?”

Eddie and Richie exchanged looks.

“You know, it was all kind of a blur,” said Eddie, his mouth twitching as he tried to hide his smirk.

“We really have no idea,” said Richie, not bothering to hide his.

“But then who wins the bet?” said Stan.

“Guess none of you assholes do,” said Eddie smugly. “Which serves you fucking right.”

“You mean to say we get no compensation for having to watch you two pine for thirty years?” said Stan.

“None at all,” said Richie. “And shut up, you only had to watch us pine for like three years.”

“Felt like thirty,” Stan grumbled.

“Oh, who cares about the bet? My favourite gays are finally together!” Beverly squealed. “I better be your maid of honour, Rich.”

“We literally just got together,” said Eddie at the same time Richie said, “Duh.”

“I mean-” Richie coughed, his face getting a little red. “Yeah, calm down Bev. We aren’t about to start picking out china patterns already.”

Eddie only smiled slightly, watching as his friends teased Richie for his little slip-up. He couldn’t really blame him for it; they had some catching up to do, after all.

Ben and Bev set off not long after, not wanting to miss their flight. Richie tried to persuade them to let him have Ember while they were gone, but Bev was adamant that the dog stay with her aunt who actually knew what she was doing and didn’t have trouble remembering to feed herself let alone another creature.

Bags were piled into the trunk of the cab, hugs were exchanged, goodbyes said. Mike insisted they send him a whole bunch of postcards and Stan gave them a list of birds to keep an eye out for.

“Take care of Rich for me,” said Beverly as she hugged Eddie tightly.

“I’ll try my best,” he replied. “But I can’t promise not to kill him myself if he refers to my mom one more time in bed.”

Bev laughed then kissed his cheek before going to hug Richie, and Ben moved to hug Eddie in her place.

“Don’t let him go,” he whispered as he pulled Eddie in. “He loves you so much, man.”

“You are such a fucking romantic loser,” said Eddie.

“I know,” said Ben. He smiled as he pulled away and opened the cab door for Bev.

“It’s been fun,” said Bev, grinning at them all as she hovered in the cab doorway. “I love you guys.”

“Love you too,” said Bill. “Have a ss-safe flight.”

“See you all at the next wedding if not sooner,” said Ben, winking at Eddie who scowled back at him.

“We won’t have long to wait,” Stan said, smirking at Eddie’s glare.

“See you soon, then, Losers,” said Bev, and with that, they were off, and the remaining Losers waved until the yellow cab faded into the distance.

The others headed back into the hotel to warm up and pack for their own flights home, but Eddie and Richie stayed outside for a little while longer watching the still steadily falling snow cover the tire tracks on the road.

“So,” said Richie after a moment. “You going home today, or…?”

“That was the plan,” said Eddie. 

He hadn’t been looking forward to going back to his cold lonely flat, sparse and empty after Myra had gotten the house in the divorce. He’d never liked it there - it was always a temporary thing until he figured out what he wanted to do - and he despised the loud upstairs neighbours and the landlord who looked like he never washed his hands. He remembered Richie’s house, alive with his merry friends as they got up to drunken shenanigans, full of good memories. It was a nice place after Eddie had thoroughly cleaned it, but, he thought, far too big for just Richie.

“Coz,” said Richie who was fidgeting with the zipper of his coat agitatedly and quite obviously avoiding eye contact, “if you wanted, I could get an extra ticket to LA… I mean- Unless you-” he added quickly, fumbling over his words now. “Unless that’s too fast. Yeah, fuck, that’s way too fast. Forget I said anything.”

“No,” said Eddie. He reached out and took Richie’s hand, his fingers like ice in the January air, and Richie finally looked at him, eyes wide and lips ever so slightly parted. “No, I’d like that. We’re catching up, right? Let’s fucking commit.”

Richie’s mouth split into a grin. “Hell yeah, spaghetti!”

“I’d have to actually go get my stuff at some point, though,” Eddie added.

“Well, yeah. And we should redecorate,” said Richie. “Make it a proper reddie home.”

“‘Reddie’?”

“Richie and Eddie, keep up,” said Richie. “It’s what the kids call a ‘ship name’.”

“Thanks, I hate it,” said Eddie. “Redecorate how?”

“Oh, you know, making it more artsy,” said Richie casually, though that shit-eating grin was still on his face. “Add a few black lights, and if we get a move on, we could have our own Jackson Pollock-themed digs.”

“I’ve changed my mind,” said Eddie immediately, turning and walking back towards the hotel. “I’m going to live with Mike or something. Bye.”

“No, wait!” Richie cried, grabbing Eddie’s hand before he could move any further and falling to his knees at Eddie’s feet. “Oh, Eddie spaghetti, love of my life! Angel from the heavens! Please oh please move in with me, Eddie my love.”

“I hate that song,” Eddie grumbled, trying and failing to hide his smile at Richie’s theatrics. “Get the fuck up, dumbass, your pants are getting soaked.”

“Not until you say yes.”

Eddie heaved a great sigh even though there wasn’t really any question about it. Of course he wanted to move in with Richie. He wanted to wake up next to him every morning and receive those lazy kisses. He wanted them to cook together and sing along loudly to the cheesy eighties rock they both secretly loved, slipping on the kitchen tiles as they danced around in their socks. He wanted to fall asleep next to him on the couch in the evenings, wanted to adopt a dog with him, maybe adopt other things too. He wanted every sickeningly domestic thing he’d been dreaming about since he was twelve.

“Fine,” he said. He tried to sound exasperated but was unable to hide the smile fighting its way onto his face. “Yes, I’ll move in with you, Trashmouth.”

Richie leapt to his feet and grinned before sweeping Eddie off his feet and kissing him like some sort of Disney princess.

“Don’t you dare fucking drop me, asshole!” Eddie shrieked, clinging to Richie until he pulled him back upright.

“Couldn’t resist,” Richie shrugged, still grinning. “Now, our flight’s not until this evening, can we at least turn our hotel room into a Jackson Pollock painting before we go?”

“You are fucking disgusting,” said Eddie.

“But you love me.”

“Yeah,” said Eddie softly, lacing his fingers through Richie’s as they made their way back to the hotel. “Yeah, I do.”

*

Previous

[princess-of-france]

CATHERINE If thou shouldst cease to love me,—

KING HENRY V Never, Catherine.

CATHERINE Two words, too much. I prithee speak no more, Lest perjury becomes thy poltergeist And haunts thee past the brink of love forsworn. ‘Tis time, methinks, to put our vows to bed, For Time alone shall prove their verity Or our capriciousness. Come thou, sweet king, I shall believe thy rhetoric tonight, Perchance tomorrow too—yet I do call On thy soul’s tenderness and beg thee, lord, Bestow what education thou hast gleaned With patience humbler than a shriven monk, For schoolgirls know, as scholars oft forget, That earthly wisdom hath a painful cost.  Then learn me gently, learn me skillfully, Whilst I do strive to learn thy gentle skill. A herald’s work is never done, yet mine Concludes with this last, final embassy, Which thou must break thy pattern and accept Or lose to stubborn pride thy willing wife: Love me, Henry, with every breath thou hast. Leave fortunes to the future, wars to the past. Come crown thy unmade monarch; she is thine And I am yours and you forever mine.

(Henry V, Part 2; Act V, scene iv)

PISTOL Dig in thy heels, thou purse-faced shovelers. Sweet bawcocks, thou ‘s flail thy limbs more nobly And burrow deep thy spades. To dig is dignity; To sag is to surrender. How goes the hole?

NYM Down, most down.

PISTOL Revoke that, Corporal Nym. It goes not well. Cheer up thy moldy spirits, For howsoever low they stoop, they cannot Deepen up this pit. Look to thy shovel, Expunge this terra firm with more alacrity, Or else we lose the English flag.

NYM I do not think I should see a London hearth hereafter, for ‘tis a brown grief that mires me. My knees are now up to the crook in France; I am too entrenched, and that’s the simple of it.—But who comes here?

        Enter CATHERINE, as Montjoy.

PISTOL Coupe la gorge! He wears a violent linen.—Stand and draw! What is thy name, monsiegneur?

CATHERINE Montjoy.

PISTOL Must I speak Gallic flowers to thy face, Or canst thou answer me in gallant English?

CATHERINE I can be gallant, sir, yet is there something of the flower in me still. I see you are well-spaded. What is ‘t you dig?

NYM The earth.

CATHERINE Ay, but to what end?

NYM Why, the end of all our strength.

CATHERINE For what purpose, sirrah?

NYM To lay one in which breathes no more: a man such as any man should blush to say ‘twas not a faithful friend, a man ‘twould keep a hearth burning by blowing on it, though the sparks fly in his beard. I’ faith, he was an honest knave, sir, and that is the humor of it. We come to bury him, sir.

CATHERINE What is his name?

NYM Nay, he is dead.

CATHERINE Who is it that lies here?

NYM Protesting, sir, upon my life, a’ never lied, in all his years he never told a lie, upon this dirt of France a’ did not, he was truthful to the grave, but yet a’ stole some object interessed— 

PISTOL A pax, good Corporal Nym, it was a pax, A piece of a prayer-house, which broke the peace Of our campaign and cost Bardolph his life.

CATHERINE Unhappy fellow, to rob a church so cholerically guarded. I did not think France had any priest so bloody in his thoughts to murder one for such a small offense.

PISTOL Go to! A killing priest? Thou art a knave.

CATHERINE Nay, I am a messenger.

PISTOL What’s thy message, then?

CATHERINE ‘Tis for the King.

PISTOL A figo for the King!

CATHERINE Say’st thou so?

NYM Ay, sir, but means it not. Good Ancient Pistol here did arraign a captain in the King’s own trust to pardon the lieutenant, or bear him something less of punishment than death, for when the King was not a king, when he was yet but of the seawater green and laughed in every hour—but it must be as it may.

CATHERINE Can this be so? Was Bardolph his companion?

BOY Ay, sir.

PISTOL Ay, “was” is was, and we must bury it. Farewell, false neighbor. Enemy, adieu. If we should meet each other in the field, Mark how I’ll bleed thee dry of messages.

CATHERINE I mark it well. Sweet mercy on thy friend.

(Henry V, Part 2; Act III, scene iii)

@harry-leroy @suits-of-woe @henriadical @skeleton-richard @lizbennett2013

[sparklyaxolotlstudent]

Karma Chameleon Part 3.5 I think

In which we discover the identity of Cocorico, even though nobody asked. And it was kind of obvious. This is mostly a “ML Sugar” thing that occured to me. It is silly as heck, but I still tried to keep people as much as in-character as I could. 

I also tagged the other posts with “ML Karma Chameleon” in case I AGAIN forget to link last parts. 

Part 1: https://sparklyaxolotlstudent.tumblr.com/post/182697194270/first-miraculous-ladybug-fic-i-write-chameleon

Part 2: https://sparklyaxolotlstudent.tumblr.com/post/182773725275/karma-chameleon-i-dunno-first-part

 Part 3: https://sparklyaxolotlstudent.tumblr.com/post/182905300020/karma-chameleon-part-3-i-cant-really-write

Also, I still can’t write Fight Scenes to save my life. 

Nathaniel arrived early to class that morning. He was happy and wanted to draw a bit before class started, lest it happen again the incident when he was akumatized.

Nathaniel had been glad that the drawings that were spilled were those he had of Marinette. Glad he didn’t draw Juleka that day. Or Kim. THAT would have been embarrassing. He still had no idea how he managed to convince Kim to pose for him in his tiny swimsuit. Ah, good times. Wish he had had a camera, but oh well, the memories will prevail. And his drawings. Kim had been impressed, which made him proud of himself.

He looked at Marinette’s still empty seat. She had never complained about his drawings, although he still had apologized to her. Marinette obviously like Adrien… Ladybug liked Chat Noir… Juleka was already with Rose... Kim liked Chloe… What was with all his crushes liking blondes? Sure, they were all gorgeous AF, but still the coincidence amused him a bit. Good thing he was past all those crushes. For the most part, he was still a teenager with a healthy libido, thank you very much.

And then Marc had appeared in his life. He was very glad he had forgiven him after ripping his bookand Miraculous Ladybug had fixed it; Marc was awesome. And SO cute. He didn’t want to get his hopes up; Marc probably will end up liking Aurore or some other blonde. Still, hanging out with him was a blast, and now that Marinette had joined their party it was the most fun he had had in years. It almost made up for the times he had been almost killed by an akuma attack.  

It was something that he hadn’t told anyone, in part because he was a reserved person, and in part because that would only make Mylene feel worse about her time as Horrificator. Bad times. Maybe he could talk to Marinette or Marc about it?

As he started drawing, he reminisced about his Friday night.

He was getting ready for bed when he had heard a tap in his window. Alix sometimes did that, but it was way too late for their chats… and Alix was still giving him the cold shoulder for siding with Marinette instead of helping the rest of the class building Lila a palanquin.

To his surprise, it was Ladybug.

“Hey, I really hate to bother you at this hour, but I really need your help.”

Nathaniel nodded, it wasn’t the first time he had helped Ladybug. Maybe this time he would be the one blindfolded and tied up in leather straps. He opened the window to allow Ladybug inside. Once there, she took out a box from… somewhere. She presented it to him.

“Nathaniel Kurtzberg, here is the Miraculous of the Rooster, which grants the power of enlightenment. You will use it for the greater good. Once the job is done, you will return the Miraculous to me. Can I trust you?”

“Of course you can!” Nathaniel took the box and opened it. Inside the box where a pair of crest-shaped cufflinks, a ball of light emerged from them, transforming into a small creature that vaguely resembled a small rooster.

“Hello, I’m Orikko and I’ll be your kwami”

“My what?... OH! You will lend me your power to be able to transform”

“That is right! To transform, you have to wear my Miraculous and say ‘Orikko, let’s cluck’”

Nathaniel put on the cufflinks, and then looked at Ladybug, dubious. “Really?” Orikko giggled. Ladybug rolled her eyes.

“Sorry, couldn’t resist!” said the small creature with a giggle. “It’s Orikko, Crest up!”

Side eyeing his new friend, Nathaniel did as told. “Orikko, Crest up!”

As the little creature went inside one of the cufflinks, Nathaniel felt the sudden urge to do some movements that could easily be called a dance. He also heard music in his head as his pajamas were transforming into a yellow, orange and white suit. He felt the power rushing through him the more his suit formed.

Once finished, he looked at a mirror. He was a bit taller and more muscular than usual (He really didn’t want to make the comparison, but he had seen some videos of his time as Evillustrator, and his build was pretty similar), and his red hair now looked like a faux Mohawk, resembling a rooster’s crest.

Ladybug smiled at him and prompted him to go where the Akuma was fighting Chat Noir. In their way, she explained how his power worked and what she needed him for. He had to admit he was only half paying attention. Jumping from roof to roof felt GREAT and like nothing he had felt before.

After reaching their destination and fighting for a bit against the night akuma (Amusingly named “Nightmare Moon” whose goal was to make an Eternal Night) He used his special power: He carried his weapon, a ball, with both hands and called “Cock-a-doodle-doo” which made the small ball resemble a mini sun, which blinded the Akuma, giving the chance for Ladybug and Chat Noir to defeat the Akuma with a very unorthodox use of a singing fish. He pounded it with Ladybug and Chat Noir (Who teased him about his bird-themed suit), and after hearing a couple of “beeps” coming from his miraculous, they parted ways with Chat Noir.In a safe place, he detransformed in front of Ladybug and returned his Miraculous.

In hindsight, he should have asked Ladybug to return him to his home, but still it had been a fun night.

Chloe shouting woke him up of his daydream, and he watched the most epic fight in his classroom to date: Lie-la Vs. Chloe. He honestly wasn’t sure who he should root for, but for all matters and purposes, Chloe had curb-stomped Lila.

-----

BONUS!:

Crappy sketch of Cocorico’s suit... I might change it when I actually draw it, but I’m sorta satisfied for now. 

[shewasanamericangirl]

screamin bout zi-o 36

i had fun doing this last week, so let’s make another screencap post! of course, i said that, and then it took several days to upload all the pictures because tumblr just stops fucking working sometimes. anyhoo! it’s yuko kitajima roast hour. image-heavy and spoiler-heavy, naturally.

so ginga blew everyone up and they ran away to a sewer it seems.

honestly that theory makes as much sense as anything else on this booty ass fuckin’ kamen rider show

i was just like...he isn’t

but then he was

swartz: she could step on me in those red pumps and i’d say Thank You

hora: i regret so much right now

uhr: *shonen anime character walking down the street pose*

then over quartzer plays and im starting to feel a little lost because i don’t get to hear about the episode according to woz’s book? hello??

yuko’s still out gettin her spa treatments and shit, god only knows how she got the money for all that, and somehow she never crosses paths with the cops or anyone who recognizes her from the news?? uh

honestly yeah?? a queen deserves to look GOOD. her theme music is eerily sexy, i need an mp3 of it right now

don’t get me wrong, im well aware that swartz is being a suck-up to try and get yuko to help with his plan to seize ginga’s power, but damn im kinda shipping swartz with yuko now too...i mean, he WAS looking at her while doing the sexy ice cream thing last week. what flavor ice cream would yuko be? black cherry chip maybe?

(headcanon: woz tries apple pie ice cream and declares it a crime against both apple pie and ice cream alike--but he still eats the whole coneful)

hora and uhr get ZA WARUDO’D down the stairs by swartz

we were all uhr right here

yeaaaaaah she just doesn’t want to fight ginga

tsukuyomi’s a mood. someone put a band-aid on geiz’s forehead pls

ok woz i get that if you’re looking for a despotic ruler to follow that yuko is likely a better bet than sougo, but you’re missing an important detail: if yuko actually had a shot at becoming queen of everything, she’d already have one of you in tow, and you would most likely hate each other.

...majou means “demon queen” in this case, not “witch”, right?

aaaaaand this...is the moment when yuko started making me very uncomfortable. the way she responds: “yes...i do remember. it’s you.”

and sougo’s face just lights up--my guy, she could so easily be lying. she didn’t say one thing about the band-aid or the playground or anything that’d indicate she’s actually sougo’s crush.

like...if not for the fact that sougo had such a crush on the seifuku girl, it wouldn’t be all that major a memory. it likely wasn’t for the girl in question--just a happy sunny day cheering up a lonely little boy. a beautiful memory, yes...but memories fade.

can someone please explain to me why woz’s characterization is all over the place in kiva arc? are you pro-yuko or anti-yuko, woz? i don’t understand what’s going through his pretty head at all honestly. he gets pretty taciturn in the scenes he’s not inhaling pie, but then at times he seems to think yuko’s cool aaaaaagh i don’t know

junichiro: meowing, just wanted an excuse to cook lots of food

sougo: “yay, uncle’s cooking!”

woz: [deadpan monotone] “yaaaaaaay uncle’s cooking...”

ive had enough of this evil bitch honestly but when she points it’s still Good Shit

ridiculous move name, but also an awesome move name

and turning to stone to heal up while the sun’s clouded over? very cool

denied

i noped so hard at this part. like...i really do feel protective of sougo. yuko doesn’t give a damn about him, she just doesn’t want him to get in her way.

nope. no. nuh uh. you two step away from each other right now.

YOU CANNOT MAKE BABIES WITH AN IDIOT FETUS

ok but in all seriousness, do you want time jackers? because, im calling it now, letting oma zi-o go in raw is how you get time jackers.

yeah im pretty sure miho would’ve kept at it if she’d lived, and yuko...shes not gonna listen to sougo

thank you for the much needed reality check furry man

so she’s a...fu-joshi? 👀

☝☝☝

yuko wears such fabulous shoes

was anyone surprised at this point that yuko was the real killer? i sure wasn’t. not after all the obvious lies.

i love her leitmotif. i need it. where do i download

SHE DIDN’T PROMISE SHIT

hey kids! it’s time for *mashes play button* la-la-la lies! yeah, tell me that you love me! la-la-la-lies! look deep into my eyes! la-la-la-lies! say there’s no one else above me! i’m the king of fools, cuz baby, you’re the queen of actually very hurtful and manipulative lies!

that’s such bullshit

now im the last person to be like “don’t play the dead mommy card”--i practically keep that card in the hello kitty wallet my dead mommy gave me. but i bet you yuko’s mom is just fine (aside from living with the trauma of knowing her daughter’s a murderer and pathological liar).

sougo,,,,,pls

thank you tsukuyomi. god sougo really needs a chaperone with yuko around, he’s way too dumb and thirsty.

GUESS WHO’S BACK. BACK AGAIN. fortunately, it seems swartz and woz have been just standing there watching him for the duration of the rain shower.

lest we forget (because i didn’t screencap it), when zi-o took the brunt of ginga’s attack earlier, it sent him flying. now, that’s a human body, which has some ability to absorb force because it’s mostly pretty soft and fluid. yuko’s manhole cover almost completely absorbed this blast--she barely shifted her weight on impact. is it just that she’s THAT ripped? 

then The Boys rider kick ginga to oblivion. rip ginga, you didn’t have a personality or a character arc, we never even saw you un-transformed--you were just a cool looking plot device with pretty attacks. but for that much, we appreciate you!

swartz looks so pleased with himself. he must not have watched the preview for this episode.

YOINK! gotta love how swartz doesn’t look surprised so much as puzzled.

sure am glad kurowoz took his other self’s advice and kept an eye on swartz

i love it so much how woz just has these magic scarf powers and it needs no explanation? hell, he can fly and time travel and make people fall asleep and he’s super strong too, with no explanation? and he’s the comic relief? ALSO HE’S REALLY HOT? woz is a being to behold honestly

speaking of super strong and really hot, yuko is KILLING IT in that gown. i mean...i guess that’s the intention. killing it. cuz she’s a homicidal maniac. haha.

she’s so good at pointing. yuko could be a prosecutor in shuichi kitaoka: ace attorney. (FUND IT)

yuko throws her manhole cover at the boys (rude!) and next we see geiz holding it. a shame we don’t get to see him snatch it out of midair. or did woz catch it and just hand it to him? we may never know.

zi-o. listen to geiz, zi-o. use the fucking watch. just use the watch, zi-o. you seriously plan on just letting another kiva go on a killing spree? do you not get by now what she’s capable of?

thank goodness zi-o has his retainers to make wise decisions so he doesn’t have to.

please note the placement of mars on ginga woz’s suit. very important.

I Love You

lmao

WHERE IS YOUR MANHOLE COVER NOW

my favorite character gets a beautiful rainbow final attack. i feel so blessed.

i mean...protecting all mankind would probably include protecting them from people like yuko. just sayin.

is it bad of me that my immediate thought right then was “at least woz’s attack wasn’t what did her in.”

this shot, especially in the context of the church, definitely gave me pieta vibes--albeit reversed somewhat.

weirdly enough, woz does an outro instead of an intro this episode.

at this point while watching, i said to shylax “you know what this calls for? pie!” but before i could finish--

--PIE! cmon sougo, it’s time to gobble up your feelings!

fucking woz, i swear, you have pie in your mouth and pie in your right hand and pie on your FACE and when your overlord expresses how miserable he is you just go for his uneaten pie with your empty hand.

...is it normal to eat pie like this in japan? because the only times i’ve seen americans make this much of a mess eating pie is when they’re toddlers.

oh hey, what do you know? looks like sougo’s first love wasn’t a violent crazy person after all. she also wasn’t yuko.

sougo’s just an idiot who will mistake any older woman who rubs him on the chin and calls him cute for his sailor girl.

previews!

i blame joshua kiryu

how eloquently this one line sums up not only kamen rider zi-o but kamen rider decade as well. that’s it, that’s the show. that’s the clusterfuck we will inevitably get whenever toei decides to make a kamen rider crossover.

LOOK AT THIS! TSUKUYOMI REMEMBERED SOMETHING! who is she smiling at? is it her dad? is that swartz behind her?! omg baby tsukuyomi is so CUTE!

“a team”. uh huh. is that what the youth are calling it these days? cuz when i was a wee lass, i believe they called it “fucking”.

so what have we learned this week?

very little about ginga

sougo does not remember faces all that well

before sougo dates ANYONE that person should be fully vetted by junichiro, geiz, tsukuyomi, and woz because CLEARLY HE CANNOT SAFELY CHOOSE A PARTNER FOR HIMSELF

i still really like yuko as a character, if not as a person. same as i enjoy junji ito manga, but would be very upset if most of it happened in real life.

swartz loves a woman who can kick his ass

what the fuck are manhole covers in this world

i can’t wait for baby tsukuyomi flashbacks! that, and more tsukasa.

[keywestlou]

PENCE LAYING LOW IN INDIANA.....FEARS FOR HIS LIFE

Yesterday on Morning Joe, Joe Scarborough said Mike Pence was “in fear for his life…..he was laying low in Indiana.” All because of Trump’s actions leading up to and on January 6.

Scarborough blamed Trump for putting the former Vice President “on the hit list.”

A shame from my perspective also. Pence could not have been a more loyal Vice President. From Trump’s perspective, Pence wavered at the end. From mine, he did his job in interpreting the Constitution properly.

Some came to kill Pence and Pelosi on January 6. Others decided to during Trump’s rally under the white tent before.

Trump put Pence behind the eight ball. Before and at the rally in suggesting Pence had the power to invalidate the election. Trump told everyone at the rally: Pence “did not have the courage to do it.”

Trump’s rabble rousers were ready. They had heard the words of their Master. As they proceeded to the Capitol, they chanted “hang Mike Pence.”

It has been reported 2 police officers died by suicide following what occurred at the Capitol. One a Capitol police officer. The other a member of the MDP.

The Department of Homeland Security issued a “national terrorist bulletin” yesterday. The bulletin indicated there was a “lingering potential” for “violence.” From persons motivated by anti-government sentiment following Biden’s election.

The Department suggested the January 6 riot emboldened extremists and set the stage for additional attacks.

Amazing how many Republicans have jumped ship since the election. It was reported yesterday 30,000 Republicans changed their registration to another party.

The number is probably higher. Sufficient data is not available. Only a handful of states report voter registration and information about voters switching parties on a weekly basis.

Some things in life are carried a step too far. One is the removal of statues of persons who had ties to slavery in the past and public buildings named after those considered to have had black animosity.

San Francisco joined the group supporting name removal yesterday. The San Francisco School Board had a resolution under consideration for 3 months. Forty four schools involved.

The Board approved a resolution calling for removing names that honored historical figures with direct or broad ties to slavery, oppression, racism or the “subjugation” of human beings.

Some of the names on the list included George Washington, Abraham Lincoln, Father Junipero Serra, Paul Revere, Francis Scott Key, and Dianne Feinstein.

A step too far.

Yes, Washington owned slaves. Everyone did back then. It was a form of wealth. People forget how Washington made it possible for our country to be born, the cold winter he spent at Valley Forge, and his crossing the Delaware in the middle of a freezing Christmas Eve to defeat the Hussein troops.

Without Lincoln, the black race might still be where they were 150 some odd years ago. He is honored. Referred to by Americans as the Great Emancipator. On a personal level, he was shot in the back of the head and died for the good he achieved as a result of the Civil War.

Would the colonists have won the Revolutionary War had Paul Revere not galloped through the night shouting: “To arms, to arms, the British are coming.” The Revolution might never have gotten beyond Concord and Lexington.

Francis Scott Key wrote the Star Spangled Banner.

Dianne Feinstein is a today woman. What did she do to blacks?

San Francisco is a gay community. Overwhelmingly. Why not require San Francisco to tear down the statues of any persons who were anti-gay at any time in any fashion? Also, those public buildings that were named after anti-gay persons.

Another great inquiry in the Citizens’ Voice: “If the City gets 100 vaccine doses, what portion of that goes to second doses?”

Key West continues to receive acclimation as being a popular place to vacation.

The 2021 Travelers Choice Award for Destinations listed Key West fifth. Behind New York, Maui, Las Vegas and New Orleans.

Miami appears to have fallen behind after many years at or near the top. It is now listed #18.

DAY 3…..Greece The First Time

Posted on May 30, 2012 by Key West Lou

I cannot believe I have been in Novara only three days. It seems like a lifetime. Especially in view of my experiences.

Earthquakes still in the news big time here. Much destruction to Northern Italy.

I reported being in two earthquakes yesterday. Turns out it was three. Maybe five. Three hours after publication, I felt another one. I was sitting at the computer at that time also. I did not consider it of any consequence. After all, I had been involved in two already that day. Last night while watching television, it was reported that Novara had suffered two more quakes around eight in the evening. I never felt them.

Many dead. Significant damage. Sad. The people of Novara spoke of the earthquakes much yesterday. It was like being in Key West following a hurricane.

Speaking of hurricanes, I was thinking yesterday whether a earthquake or hurricane was worse. One is short and the other prolonged. Both cause significant loss of life and damage. They ended up equal in my mind. Better that both not occur, however.

Earthquakes are not common to this region. So I have been told. The word on the news is that whatever problem there is in the San Francisco area exists now in northern Italy. A shelf or whatever and it is moving. Italian news describes it as a mountain rising to the surface. The scientists have predicted at least 70 more earthquakes over time as a result. We shall see.

Lisa got Skype yesterday. We skyped for the first time in the morning Lisa time. The grandkids had already left for school. Corey joined in. It was exciting to see them both. I hope I get to speak with Robert and Ally soon.

Around 5, I decided to take a walk. I rambled up and down the streets of the historic centre of Novara. It was a high knowing that most buildings were a thousand years old. The first floor the best quality shops. Top floors great apartments. By the way, people live in apartments here. Homes are considered too expensive. I do not understand. Most of the apartments go for $1 million dollars plus.

My walk led me to discover the Piazzetta Delle Erbe. Piazzetta means little piazza. I am learning.

In English the Piazzetta is the Little Square of Herbs. Back when, probably a thousand years ago, growers and merchants came from all over Europe and Asia to buy and sell herbs at this market.

Close by, I made another discovery. The Broletto. I do not know what the term means. It was the place where the first market in all of Italy was established in medieval times. Everything and anything sold. It helped the Novara area at the time to gain financial independence

The best was yet to come. The Partigiani. It is at the Piazza Dei Martiri. Partigiani means partisans. The Piazza translates to the Plaza of Martyrs.

I learned the story of this special place while sitting at an outside cafe having a drink and watching the world go by. Two gentleman at the next table engaged me in conversation. They spoke English. Americans are revered here. I am being treated with kindness and respect because I am an American. It was not unusual for them to engage me in conversation. They started the conversation with…..American?

Novara was occupied by the Nazis during World War II. Some of the locals were not pleased.They became partisans. Guerrilla types working as the underground. Five were captured. They were placed against a brick wall and shot by the Nazis. In full view of the citizens of Novara.

After the war a small monument was placed near where they were killed. A tree was also planted. It still stands today. The tree. By itself against a large red brick wall. Bullet holes could be seen in the wall.

It dawned on me that the medieval thousand year old buildings I have been speaking about were in good shape. I asked were they not destroyed during World War II? Bombs, artillery and tank fire. No, I was told.There was never any fighting or bombing or what have you in and to Novara. The Nazis walked out and the Americans walked in. The people of Novara were very lucky. Other communities in the area, such as Milan, sustained significant damage.

My walk took me past many fine stores. I was particularly impressed with the shops featuring apparel for women. The most beautiful clothes I have ever seen! Absolutely magnificent! Bright, shiny and smart for summer wearing. The thought struck me it would have been nice to have a woman to take into the stores and buy a new wardrobe for.

Remember the 124 steps I spoke of yesterday. There are not 124. I counted them again yesterday. At a time when I was not suffering from jet lag and a bad stomach. There are 68. Still a lot of steps for this old man!

The effects of jet lag are still with me. I went to bed at nine last night. Did not sleep one minute. Finally got up at 5:30 in the morning to start this blog. I will pay for the no sleep later in the day.

Never got to Milan yesterday to view the Last Supper. The trains were out of commission because of the earthquake.

I cannot let this experience pass. At the dinner party three nights ago, one of the meats was a dark one. Deep purple. Sliced thin. Every one was going crazy over it. They loved it! A bit of lemon and they ate away!

I had a few pieces. Did not particularly like it. Other guests were surprised I did not.

Yesterday similar meat was served to me for lunch. I again was not crazy about it. I asked what is this? It was horse meat! Horse meat is legal in Italy. There are specialty butcher shops that sell horse meat. And lest I forget, donkey also. That was it. No more for me! I explained that horse meat was not legal in the United States for human consumption. My fellow diners were shocked.

The big deal today is for me to go to the bank. I have no euros. Only American money. The exchange process should be interesting. Is cash or a credit card required? Can both be used?

Stephanie Kaple is one of the loves of my life. She lives in Key West. She is known as the Island Shoe Girl. She only wears expensive shoes with high high heels. Looks good in them!

Stephanie now plays bocce. She joined the same bocce league I play in. She wears heels while playing. Not wise from my perspective. But that is Stephanie!

She writes a blog as I do. A recent one was interesting and funny. Take a look at it if you have the time. A short read. www.islandshoegirl.com.

That is all for today folks! Sorry for the length but there is much to share regarding my trip. Tomorrow I leave for Athens to start the Greece phase of this trip. Athens, Santorini, Mykinos and some deserted island. Five weeks will be spent in Greece. Then back to Italy for a while. Portofino and Morocco under consideration for the scheduled end of my trip. If I return. I am enjoying everything so much I might stay.

Enjoy your day!

PENCE LAYING LOW IN INDIANA…..FEARS FOR HIS LIFE was originally published on Key West Lou

[thphls]

How do you explain this?

Some die naturally, some are killed, some are conspired against unto death, some are sabotaged, some cheated out of their rightful inheritance, some are abused, some are stirred up into confusion, some fall into confusion, some have given up, some are desperately tired and wearisome, some slowly killed by their own spouse. How do you explain that? Okay, stay with me; don’t be afraid. The man who wants to kill you is trying to kill me too. You will be safe with me. 1 Sam 22:23.

The premise and concept of a person who is able to transform into another realm often at with supernatural powers or do things out of the ordinary without the spirit of God being a witch in its basic sense is true, it is not the full picture though. There is another side of the coin which is usually not talked about. It is a dormant side but can be effective when engaged and triggered by soul hunting, soul summoning and by certain innate characteristics of a man by the enemy. How? The bible says in 1 Samuel 15:23 “For rebellion is as the sin of witchcraft, and stubbornness is as iniquity and idolatry. Because you have rejected the word of the LORD, He also has rejected you from being king.”. You did good to someone and they pay you with evil and a bad name? pray for them. Rebellious or stubborn people are at the mercy of the enemy.

Rebellion, the blossoming leaves of the fruit of unfaithfulness, which is the seed of covetousness encased in pride and fear. It is usually born in envy, jealousy, anger and bitterness. It is one of the firmest roots the enemy uses to recruit stale witches which the Bible call “blind witches”.The name of our first enemy is “Yourself”.Finger-pointing barely leads our resolutions. Precision, direction and wisdom are perfect resolution arsenals for our victory. Paradoxically, we are our first helper and our first enemy. Satan is the originator and reference point for “using someone and dumping them”. He did it to Adam. He did it to Saul. He did it to many people including us. Ever done something or to someone that you absolutely immediately regretted? Good, you get it then. People who stir you up are also mediums used to active your blind witchcraft if you are a stubborn and a rebellious person, regardless of your status and position. That is why the scriptures admonish us in Ephesians 4;26-27 to “Be ye angry, and sin not: let not the sun go down upon your wrath: neither give *place* to the devil”. Ahab was a king. We concede our place to the devil when we put on his fruits whatever the cause is. He just loves that you are a carrier of his fruits of anger, bitterness and unforgiveness. Ahab was stirred up by Jezebel into a naïve wizard against God out of her selfish interests because she was potent in the kingdom of darkness. Be careful of people who stir you up to sin or into anger and act innocent.We cannot control who hurts us or through darts of the enemy at us but it our decision to carry on with them as weights. We ought to rid ourselves of being vessels to be used to do same to others. Jesus told us we ought to be wise as serpents and harmless like doves.

Hierarchy and authority are simply the whole basis of our freedom unto salvation in Christ Jesus yet we barely ponder on it’s important in our waking life and in the realm of the spirit. If we find ourselves hating authority, desiring carnal freedom from everything and everybody, speaking guile and inciting high-minded disobedience to the ordinances of God and the society he has placed us in we need not anyone tell us we are under stealth but severe attack of the enemy. We are to lay aside every weight that besets us in the enabling love of the Father. We need to fight in love and in the knowledge of the Word. The Holy Spirit, the all-knowing spirit acknowledged the words of the centurion with faith and understanding of authority and made his words eternal in the bible in Mathew 8:8-9. Without the love of Christ, the undying love and unthinkable warmth and joy of His presence I believe there would have been no need to fight the fight of faith. He loves us to the point where my words cannot capture. Not a mere hearsay i’m relaying in words. It is true, His love is tangible and unthinkable.

Often than not, we tend to think the instructions of God are stern and somehow detrimental to our joy but we never ask Him “why?”. Yes, it might feel like it is burdensome but that is actually the response of our corrupt flesh and our brainwashed minds from society’s evil crème-de-la-crème through varying mediums in this waking realm. When the full picture is displayed it would be impossible not to be shocked. Understanding alienates the burden of God’s mind to the natural man. “The fear of the LORD is the beginning of wisdom: and the knowledge of the holy is understanding.” Proverbs 9:10 KJV. If Jesus Christ tells us why we should or should not do certain things into details it can take days to finish and you would certain never ever do it again. I believe, the Bible refrains from outing straitjackets to instructions because there are many ways we can fall into a pit and also the enemy is a reader of the Word also and would have exploited it to finish us off if the example was linear. We thank God the author of the Word, the all-knowing Spirit is alive with us. Insight to the “why’s” are shined forth in our life by His Light but lest we forget not that satan can also transform himself into an angel of light. God, however reigns supreme in wisdom because He created wisdom itself and is wisdom itself! Hallelujah! He wants what is good for us than we want for ourselves. Praise God.

Rebellion makes you ripped for the puppetry of satan. The thug then flips us over several times into spiritual tiredness, forgetfulness and makes us confident in the many reasons he would give you for your rebellion. The enemy has no boundaries and would do anything to get you to be bitter. That is why we cannot live without boundaries. Why would someone constantly try to embitter you about several things in life? What is the end goal here for him? Our soul.

We need to be careful with people who have no boundaries, the thief is the father of the proud. Absalom was recruited by the enemy to bring sorrow to David, his own father, Priest, Prophet and King. Through Absalom’s rebellion to spite David although crestfallen he had already conquered Goliath’s in his life and remembered his God in heaven and then proclaimed divine judgement on the conspirators in a short prayer of 8 words. Hallelujah! with David’s wisdom of old through the help of the Spirit he gracefully dealt with the situation and divine judgement fell on Absalom as he faced his death. Yes, what he/she did to you is unreasonable and painful but remember that the Holy Spirit is the master tactician and you can confide and plan with Him to destabilise anything and cause the enemy to be shocked to an extent he would retract his tools and leave you when you resist him in faith and not with our emotions which is his master area. Talk back! Talk back! Say what God says about you!

Everything costs something. Let’s be sincere. You can get anything tangible & material you want in life without Jesus Christ in your corner. But like everything else, it will cost you something. Some of the cost is too high that a whole generation might not recover from it easily. Christ made himself an offering sacrifice for everybody not just us the people of The Book or Christians as we are called. The spirits people seek do not let know that after you seek them, they have spiritually defiled you. This would cost you a lot of time to recover, spiritually, and in this defilement, it can legally hold claim of your life, blessings, properties and even your unborn children but they do not highlight this when helping you and mentioning the tokens you need to bring for sacrifice.

The word “impossible” is a serious joke in the realm of the Spirit that you will be mocked if you utter such words there. We tend not to wak in the consciousness of this: in our fragile moments, some seek for guidance in desperate times from whomever without knowing the price being paid is exploitive. One thing that kindles the anger of God is divination and idolatry. Necromancy and all forms of invoking dead people through familiar spirits angers the Holy One that not even His chosen ones are spared re: Saul. There is no concord between the dead and the living. None at all. 2 Corinthians 6:15 “And what concord hath Christ with Belial? Or what part hath he that believeth with an infidel?”. Belial means “hopeless ruin”.There is genetically modified Light with shades of darkness. It is a deception. Example; whoever pretends to be your dead relative in your dreams is often a familiar spirit trying to gain your trust and initiate you into their own agenda.It is often cunning deception that headlines on the meeting boards from the camp of the enemy. Mixing light and darkness is the current deception of this eon. If we have darkness our hope and faith is suppose to be Jesus Christ and to gaze on His love, Word and tender mercies daily for His Light to overcome the darkness in whatever area of our life.

In dealing with God, we need to understand that He is and He is a rewarder of those that diligently seek Him. First, we need to establish God is no respecter of persons. Romans 2:11. Secondly, He is Sovereign and 1,000 years is as a day to Him and 1 day is as 1,000 years to Him. “The LORD is slow to anger, abounding in love and forgiving sin and rebellion. Yet he does not leave the guilty unpunished; he punishes the children for the sin of the parents to the third and fourth generation.” Numbers 14:18. According to scripture, this is a legality the enemy exploits often than not to continue in their darkness since God is so loving he does not wish even the unrighteousness would perish and He has exhorted his word above himself.

A generation is often 50 to 100 years so four generations approximately 400 years at most. This bloodline lineage is the transmitter of blessing and also curses. In the naivety of our forefathers and to satisfy their immediate desires they have wandered and done things that affects generations till today. This legal hold are contracts that are binding and present even in the lives of some Christians how much more the lives of those in the world with its many gods and goddesses. In a binding contract, whether is a change of directive, principles, government, ownership, CEO or Chairman it is still binding to the organisation (In this instance family). But there is hope for those that are in Christ who can deliver them from every spiritual Egypt if we cooperate with Jesus through the Holy Spirit.

Most families have evil ordinance(s) of old which would affect every member unless they invoke a Higher power than that power. A family with zero evil trail is possible as there are many and is one that has had men previously by the grace of God break every stronghold in the lineage and set its descendants free in Christ and in abundance. These men who complete their life’s purposes on earth are highly compensated beyond words in the Kingdom of God and in Heaven, their true home. To maintain this great gain, they pass on Christ and the knowledge of His statuses so the descendants are able to live comfortably without oppression. There are many families in existence like that today. Sweatless triumphs, every day, as a result of a grandfathers’ sacrifices and covenants with God. How are people able to prosper regardless of their involvement in this world? There are principles and ways to be successful on the Earth, they work because they are the words of God and God is not a respecter of persons. Romans 2:11 & Acts 10:34. For instance, when someone comes from a financially cursed family, they work and use the principles of God and knowledge of men and are still find themselves deficient over a long time this Is an evident trail of the curse firmly in place resisting its victim(s). Now, a higher spirit can be invoked to spiritually marry a person or contract a superior deal and then all the problems vanish and they become free, this is common practice in Western and Southern Africa, as I highlighted earlier, everything costs something. Some costs are; permanent infertility, unbearable menstrual cycles, unexplained deaths, marital issues, poverty, diseases, etc. There is a stealth spiritual swap of your problems by the power or altar which gifted you your desire. James “every good and perfect gift comes from above [God]…” James 1:17 NIV, no permanently good thing comes from satan. It is only a fake blessing from the many stolen spoils in the camp of the enemy. Siphoning stolen goods in the spirit for your soul is what satan’s cohorts do expertly.

When the people of Israel defeated Jericho and one person decided to take the accursed spoil though God warned their leader Joshua not to let anyone take anything. They then unknowingly went on to lose their next battle although God had promised them victory. The word of God has promised us lovely and great things dearly beloved; these accursed things are some of the things seriously contending with inhabitants of the Earth, both Christians and pagans. As a king you need to search out the matter Proverbs 25:2 KJV. At the other side, because Jehovah Elohim, Jesus Christ, is King of Kings and Lord of Lords and is the name exalted above every other name in the Spirit and on, in and above the Earth and when He delivers, He delivers completely He is the surest bet to total freedom if only we would trust and obey. With faith and the guidance of the Holy Spirit victory is assured. The ability to quiet the many suggestions and voices in this world is essential in reaping true and lasting benefits in this regard. Some of these noises come from friends, families, online, churches and even spouses. So many well-meaning people have led people into deeper abyss of darkness unknowingly but God is merciful He shall establish us and keep you from evil if we yield to His authority.

Beloved, there are many legal grounds the enemy can exploit to take your spirit from your body if you were born by a woman. God’s mercy leaves me dumbfounded that I can say and often convinced whenever a bad omen or thing happens, He definitely tried several times to redeem. If He does not then that was His will, though we might not understand it in its totality: HIs will is perfect. Every human is privy to the mercy of God by His love for the world. John 3:16. In our understanding we are shallow because we barely see more than 1,000 years in all honesty. Those that are born again in Spirit are further up privy to both His eternal grace and mercies. Those that are obedient even through trials and tribulations are then privy to all of His mercies, grace and His good will in Christ Jesus. We are all equal because we a predominantly in a flesh encasement in this realm but truth be told; we are all not the same. There are some problems that only respond to the grace of certain men based on their standing with Jehovah and their exalted positions by reason of covenants and the Graces of God on their lives for His eternal purposes dear to Him. We ought to be humble in this regard to learn and walk with God and not to expose ourselves to the evils of this world in our naivety. He said “My yoke is light and my burden is easy” You are not alone, He said “He would not leave us or forsake us, in addition there are edifying communities He can lead us to be a blessing unto us”.

The daily washing of the water by the Word of God, the Holy Spirit and the blood of Jesus is our divine escape and paramount to our survival than the air we breathe.

It is the glory of God to conceal a thing. May God grant us the grace to be a King and search out the matter in this battle of life where we have been assured continuous and permanent victories. Amen.

Shalom.

[felicityb-reviews]

Block B “Shall We Dance” MV Review

What in the actual fuck, b

Hi guys!! My name is Jace (aka Felicity B), and this is actually happening my review of Block B’s Shall We Dance. *sigh* I know some of y'all are expecting me to drag this for filth (and don’t worry, there are bits that are getting #NoMercy), but… This isn’t half bad?!?!?! Or rather, all bad.

You’ll see.

~The Song~

Shall We Dance is good. It didn’t blow my socks off. And it won’t be not turning me into a Block Basic BBC anytime soon (Zico killed that pipe dream ages ago). But it does what it’s supposed to - provide a soundtrack for niggas to act stupid to.

I’m not mad. Not at all, honey.

The verses are somewhat tame. Or at least, as tame as Block B is ever gonna get in a song like this. Zico isn’t doing any cockatoo impressions, so I consider this a win. And the prechorus, girl…

THE PRECHORUS, GIRL!!!

Jaehyo and B-Bomb can definitely get the kitty cat from me, ladies. Rain wished his falsetto sounded that nice.

The other highlight of the song is U-Kwon’s dance break I guess. The beat kicks into double time, and the “one two three four five six yeah” hook will be stuck in your head for days, fam. Very Nice™.

The one bit of the song I’m not too sure about is the “chorus”. It’s literally just P.O shouting “shall we dance” four times. And he sounds ridiculous. This fool can talk me out of my pants any day of the week, but anytime he raps, I can’t help but wonder what I see in him.

*sigh*

~The Video~

So we talked about the good first. Now let’s talk about the bad. As in, how bad their styling is.

Look, I know Block B has always looked ugly (they even used to make jokes about that shit), but this is BEYOND ridiculous.

How is Zico the best dressed one, y'all?!?!? AND HE NOT EVEN DRESSED THAT WELL!!! Him look like his auntie that the same size as him brought over a bunch of her old clothes and he was like

A Mess™. A whole ass mess, y'all.

Moving on.

The actual video looks like a combination of Rain’s “LA SONG” and MFBTY’s “Bang Diggy Bang Bang”, and I don’t know how I feel about that. On one hand, there is a nice mix of Black and Korean folks (I honestly did a double take at the first negro I saw, cause I thought I was seeing things), and there’s no overt racial fetishization happening here. At least not on the same level as Lifted’s “Look at all these negroes!! We sure love niggas!!” headass video.

But on the other hand.

I am SICK™ and I am TIRED™ of seeing niggas in videos like these and ONLY these!! The only black dude I saw outside of a video that looks like this was BoA’s Only One, and it wasn’t like she picked out that dude to dance with her; Nappytaps (the choreographers for Only One) provided their dancers.

Side tangent - it’s just really frustrating seeing a genre of music that’s HEAVILY influenced by Black people (of the entire diaspora, lest y'all forget Tropical Pop is Caribbean Negro Territory™) sideline us and, at best, treat us like props. You’ll never see a Black person as a love interest in a Kpop video. You’ll never see us seen as beautiful the way white people are. We’re just here to get crunk with. Whatever.

On the bright side, Taeil looked cute.

~The Choreography~

Block B is doin Block B like they’ve always done Block B. Ain’t a damn thing to see or comment on here.

I lied - them foolish. NEXT!!

~Overall and Final Thoughts~

Shall Dance is the first Block B song post Her that I’ve liked. To be honest, it’s the first song post Her that I actually remember *cue So Yesterday jokes*. It’s nice to see them, in a way, go back to their roots. While I’m not against experimentation with one’s sound, at the end of the day, if it ain’t broke don’t fix.

Great job, guys!! Now fire your fucking stylist.

[tanyaodebra]

You 2.6: “Farewell, My Bunny” – Who’s Zoomin’ Who?

Sorry, it’s been a minute. Life. Let’s dive right back in. Well, folks, Henderson is still dead. Apparently any rando can show up at his funeral, but also Kathy Griffin is delivering the eulogy. They really should have upped that background budget so we could feel the fantasy. Or they could have dressed some of those extras as security. Help us out here. Inexplicably, the whole gang is in attendance – well, it’s inexplicable until they explain theme of this episode: the seven totems to true Angeleno status. Once a person sees these seven things that are supposedly unique to Los Angeles, they can never leave. One by one, Joe sees them all. This does not bode well for Lonely Boy; I’m starting to wonder if he’ll make it out of this season alive. Joe and Love continue to wolf the shit out of each other, so we’ll eventually see who the top dog really is.

Looks like Joe’s not the only one hiding a secret stash. Love opens a locker at Anavrin to reveal her collection of mementos from her deceased husband – or are they trophies? A series of flashbacks clues the audience in on Love’s married life. Her husband, James (Daniel Durrant), wants her to take his last name (Kennedy), but does not seem interested in having kids as per her wishes. Side note: James is deaf and there’s no plot reason to have a deaf character – he just happens to be deaf. Kudos to the writers for making this choice. Two sets of flashbacks about James are triggered by her situation with Joe – the first one deals with their distaste for her money, the second ties together the ways they both hid important information from her. It turns out that James’s reluctance to procreate is due to his terminal illness – a reality he’d been hiding for eight weeks. In classic Love fashion, she’s able to turn the lie into the important part of the conversation. She’s been wronged, and that trumps his imminent death. He must console her instead of what should be happening, which is that she should be consoling him. Love finds a way to center her own pain in every situation. If Love is responsible for James’s death, as I believe she is, the fact that she binds James and Joe together puts Joe in a very precarious spot.

Joe is none the wiser, though. He’s too busy tracking Candace’s scent trail. He brings up Raymond Chandler AGAIN – they’re really hammering this LA detective story. But the tables are turned when Joe realizes he’s not actually the detective, because there’s an undercover cop seemingly everywhere he goes. Doesn’t feel great, does it, Joey? The Chandler motif continues when Ellie points out the book Joe’s reading – Farewell, My Lovely. I’d love to make some connections here, but the plot summary on Wikipedia is too complicated. There is a woman who’s lying about her identity, though. Joe tricks Forty into handing over enough info to track down Candace’s address. When Joe turns up at her place, the undercover cop is there. Joe bolts, but is somehow still hours late to a doughnut date with Love – this is the second time they’ve tanked their plans to leave town. The undercover cop is now at Anavrin, but according to Love, she hired him to follow “Amy.” Time will tell if she’s telling the whole truth. Love’s mask slips a bit when she defends her decision to use her vast resources to protect her family. Talking about her wealth is definitely a flex, but she walks it back and promises she’ll can the PI. But when the detective has news about “Amy’s” connection to “Will,” Love’s two-faced nature surfaces as she smiles at Joe during her deceitful phone call. Love’s mask slips again near the end of the episode. She claimed in an earlier episode that baking is her love language, but apparently it’s also her revenge language. She feeds Joe a sabotaged sticky bun after the truth about him has been uncovered. I have a feeling baking will play a role in whatever she ultimately does to Joe.

So many detectives! Let’s not lose sight of Candace, who came here on a mission. Taking a page from Joe’s playbook, Candace obtains Joe’s address from Forty’s production paperwork. Girlfriend is skilled, because she convinces Delilah to rummage through Joe’s apartment solely by her superior room-reading skills – she trashes Hendy after Delilah brings up his funeral. As Delilah hunts for a fictional pair of earrings, Candace unlocks a window for later. Joke’s on Candace, though. Joe’s not home later. Love’s sitting at the kitchen table when Candace breaks in, and she knows it’s Candace, not Amy. Candace loses the ruse and tells all about Joe’s true identity, as well as his penchant for murdering his girlfriends. The audience knows she’s telling the truth when she says she’s trying to protect Love, but does Love believe her?

No detective story is complete without a red herring, which is what Joe’s break-in at Candace’s Airbnb turns out to be. Just when it looks like Joe is going to do exactly what we expect him to do and murder Candace, he gets whacked upside the head and knocked out cold. Getting clunked on the head is classic detective story fare, btw. The viewer assumes it will be Candace finally and rightfully extinguishing her burning bed, but alas it’s the Airbnb host (Madeline Zima). Did you stare at this actress forever, unable to place her but weirdly able to conjure up what she looked like as a small child? Me too! She’s the kid from The Hand That Rocks the Cradle! Well, she’s all grown up now and she trusts no bitch, which is evident from her stack of books about martial arts and rope bondage. You go, girl! Anyway, it all adds up to a big fat zero, since Rachel sets him free.

The penultimate scene is a reckoning between Joe and Love. She knows everything, but Joe convinces her that some of Candace’s story is true, but not the murders. Of course, not the murders. But where is Candace? Candace could have been waiting for Joe alongside Love in a show of solidarity, but she’s notably absent. Love says she paid Candace to stay away. I say Love killed her. It’s weird that Love would bribe her instead of going to the authorities. I guess Love is blind after all, because by getting rid of Candace she’s implicitly buying Joe’s side of the story before she even hears it. If Love is obsessed with Joe, Candace is a very inconvenient element and killing her is the only way to ensure that she stays gone. Love is playing a very advanced game here, so she uses the time-tested tactic of breaking up in order to exert control. Gosh, it just tramples her heart to have to do this, but she absolutely must end things with Joe. In the end, it’s Forty who patches things up on Joe’s behalf. Certainly, Joe will feel that he must earn his second chance. The leash is bound to be very short now. But lest we forget, Joe is a narcissist. Joe does what feels good in the moment, regardless of how his choices may affect others, so he literally thanks Forty for getting him a second chance with Love one minute, then fucks Delilah the next. He’s like a toddler with no object permanence – if the object of his affection is not in front of his eyes that very moment, it does not exist. And, of course, this creep shoots his shot by consoling Delilah about her rape! Ugh, I will really enjoy his murder if/when it happens. Delilah is in definite danger now, though. When Love gets wind of this, and she will, Delilah is toast. Get ready for the “we were on a break” defense from Joe. You hate to see it. Until next time!

[fawkesmulder]

X-Files Fanfic: “Bon Fox, Bad Fox” Chapter 1

I finished the first chapter. My heart is pounding, my palms are sweating, I can’t believe I’m posting this?? 

Much thanks to my sister for being my ba(e)ta. She’s on here somewhere but won’t tell me her url, lest I find out how much of a weeaboo she really is.  

So the story is based on the best film to ever come out of Quebec, “Bon Cop, Bad Cop” (2006). Get ready for a raucous French Buddy Cop AU story filled with cutesy MSR, major Canadiana, and explicit explicitness (in later chapters, anyway). If anyone has trouble with the french bits, let me know and I can make them more understandable??

Oh man you guys my elbows are sweating, I’m so nervous. Okay (covers face) here it is:

Before we Begin:

A SHORT LEXICON OF COMMON QUÉBECOIS SWEAR WORDS (derived mostly from terms used in the Catholic Church. I don’t make this shit up.):

Câlisse = originally comes from the word “chalice”, variant of “fuck”

Ostie = was originally “hostie”, from the word “host” (as in the eucharistic kind), also a variant of “fuck” but sometimes an adverb: “ostie de ___” = “really fucking ___”

Tabarnak = originally comes from the word “tabernacle”, yet another “fuck” variant

Crisse = originally comes from the word “Christ”, a “fuck” variant that, depending on the situation, can be used as a noun, pronoun, verb, adjective, adverb, you name it.

Maudit / Merde = the actual French term for “fuck”, no etymological relation to the Catholic Church as far as I know.

BON FOX, BAD FOX CHAPTER ONE

5:15am; Montréal, Québec. An apartment in the Notre-Dame-de-Grâce district.

Something was buzzing. It probably wasn’t important, but it was annoying as hell.

If I ignore it, thought Détective Fox Muldère of the SPVM, eventually it will stop.

It did.

Muldère traced his eyes quickly back to the french translation of “Hinterkaifeck: Der Mordfall” in his lap, eager to forget the disturbance.

The buzzing recommenced almost as quickly as it had stopped. With an air of exaggerated annoyance, Muldère peeled his eyes away from the book once again — mid-sentence, if you please — to glance at his wristwatch.

Nobody ever phoned him this early. He knew this to be an absolute fact, as Muldère rarely slept past four am on a good day. Suffering a longstanding relationship with insomnia and ineffable boredom, Fox Muldère spent most of his scheduled sleep time self-educating himself on any subject that mildly interested him. He had spent the better part of his adult life drifting through the layers of the SPVM, from Police Psychology to Criminology to the drug squad to his current status as an enquêteur. His newest attempt at satisfaction came from reading books on unsolved murders linked to the paranormal, trying to piece them together in his head.

The phone buzzed again, maybe louder this time. He had never bothered to set up his call display settings. Every time the phone rang, answering it was a gamble. Would it be work? His mother? An angry woman he’d slept with and forgotten to call back?

“Câlisse,” he muttered at the thought of any of those options, reaching over with another bout of exaggerated effort to grab the phone and shut it the fuck up.

“Muldère.”

He listened to the cracked, aging voice of Guy Bouchard, his superior officer at the station, official ranking chain-smoker, and only sometimes an asshat. Calling him in, of course.

“C’est ma journée off,” Muldère tried to cut in, as the Sergeant continued on.

A moment later, he slammed the book shut. In an exaggerated fashion. Muldère’s dramatic outbursts were for the benefit of no one. He lived alone, and liked to keep it that way.

“Okay, okay, j’arrive,” he conceded. He threw the phone into the mess of cushions and heaved himself up off the couch. He wasn’t sure what it was he was so upset about; day off or not, a dead body and a possible murder was exactly what he needed to kill the boredom that would have surely haunted him all day. Maybe it was just the principle of being called in. Summoned. Like a dog. Drop what you’re doing and mobilize your shit.

Whatever, at least it’s something to keep me busy, Muldère reconciled as he slid into the shower and enjoyed the scalding heat against his backside.

7:00AM; Québec/Ontario border

Detective Dana Scully of the OPP pulled down the visor in her front seat to check her reflection.

Hair freshly blowdried.

Makeup noticeable but not overbearing.

Mole under her nose covered to perfection.

Eyebrows tidy and poignant.

Satisfied, she pushed the visor back up and got out of the car, smoothing down the skirt of her crisp new suit.

Her father used to say that fear and excitement were the same emotion, that it all depended on how you choose to perceive it. Keeping this in mind, Scully tried to focus her nerves on being excited, but the truth couldn’t be subdued quite that easily. Formerly a forensic pathologist for the RCMP in the mountainous splendours of British Columbia, Dana Scully had abandoned the position to follow a boyfriend to the non mountainous and humid confines of Southern Ontario, where she was promptly dumped for a blond named Émilie with a meh-quality French accent and much longer legs.

Scully’s decision to stay in Ontario had not been well received by her family, but her chaotically romantic sacrifice had left her feeling like she had something to prove to herself. Cool, calculated Dana Scully did not make mistakes. She would make the best of her choices, and so help her God, she would start her life anew.

It was all this that led her to becoming a detective for the Ontario Provincial Police. She had been a bit surprised at the early phone call this morning summoning her to the scene of a potential murder on her first day, but eager to impress, she sprang immediately into action.

Excitement had all but dominated her body as she was getting herself ready earlier, but was quickly frosting over into fear as she walked towards the bright yellow stretches of police tape blocking off the area.

She licked her lips and took a deep breath, swallowing everything — fear, excitement, whatever— and lifted the police tape over her head to enter the scene of the (possible) crime.

“Detective Dana Scully,” she said to one of the beat cops trying to flag away rubberneckers, flashing her new badge. “What do we know so far about what happened?”

The cop reflexively looked up at the large sign on the side of the road that read “Bienvenue à Québec” on one side and “Welcome to Ontario” on the other. The sign acted as a designated border, the line that separated the two provinces. As Scully’s eyes followed his, the answer to her question came into view.

“We have no idea how he got up there,” the cop said, referring to the dead man lying straddled over the top of the sign. “Looks like maybe he was dropped from the sky or something. He was discovered in the early hours of this morning. No one has gone up there to inspect yet.”

Scully couldn’t stop staring up at the dead man hanging limp over the sign. She was absolutely perplexed. But something else kept her staring as well. The man was dangling off each side of the sign — legally speaking, half of his body was in Ontario, and the other half was in Québec.

“Um,” she started slowly, squinting in hopes of getting a better view. “Do we know whose jurisdiction this is, exactly?”

“No idea,” the cop replied. “Not my department. I was just told to wait for the detectives to arrive.”

“Detectives?” As far as she knew, Scully had been the only one called to the scene.

“Yeah,” the cop said, taking a sip of his styrofoam coffee. “I think Montreal is sending one of their guys to take a look too.”

Scully nodded. “Well, I have experience in Forensic Pathology, so I’d like to get up there and take a closer look at the body as soon as possible. Have you got a ladder?”

The cop nodded and proceeded off, leaving Scully to contemplate the incredulous scene above her head. Unbeknownst to her, another incredulous scene was about to take place.

Coming in from the Québec side of the freeway, an old jalopy of a vehicle sped recklessly towards the crime scene, stopping abruptly at the edge of the police tape, engine revving unnecessarily. A tall, lean man in jeans and a grey t-shirt stepped out of the car and didn’t even hesitate before pulling the tape over his head and strutting around.

“Excuse me,” Scully called out to him. The man turned his gaze to her and smirked, cocking his head to one side. “This is a restricted crime scene area. We need all civilians to cooperate in standing back behind the designated tape.”

The man’s smirk twitched, like he was concealing a laugh. He made his way over to her — by God, he was much taller up close than she had thought — and fished a badge hanging from a lanyard from inside his shirt.

“Muldère,” he said. “Service de Police de la Ville de Montréal.” He slurred his French into a mocking English pronunciation, smiling down at her.

Smug. He was smug. And French. And cocky. Scully had been forewarned about the ongoing rivalry between the OPP and the SPVM, as well as, more majorly, the (mostly historical) rivalry between the Francophone and Anglophone populations of this region. Coming from out west, she had no personal qualms with any Frenchmen of any kind, and decidedly ignored the man’s jostling attempts to start a language war with her.

“Enchanté, Detective. I’m Detective Dana Scully with the OPP.” Her heart fluttered a little bit introducing herself as Detective to another Detective, but she set it aside. There was no way she was going to devote any excitement to anything having to do with this Détective Muldère of the Sad Police Vendettas in Archaism, a much more apt reading of SPVM, as far as his behaviour was concerned.

Muldère continued to smile crookedly at her, sizing her up and down. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a sunflower seed, holding her gaze as he rolled it into his mouth.

“Enchanté yourself,” He replied. “Au moins la ‘tite rousse parle un mot de français.” He laughed to himself, inserting another seed into his mouth.

Scully blinked, watching Detective Muldère spit the two wet, empty shells to the ground at his feet.

Little red. That’s what he had just called her. She was shocked. She was outraged. This was so far beyond professionalism between supposed colleagues. And Detective Muldère was just standing there eyeballing her, daring her with his eyes to make a comeback.

Bite your tongue, Dana. It’s your first day, goddamn it. Don’t make trouble. Don’t let this tall fuckwad get to you.

A seething Detective Scully smiled. “Look, if this case is too much for you and you have somewhere else to be, I can take it from here.” She turned on her pumps and walked away from him. The beat cop from before had just finished setting up the ladder at the provincial sign. She had a job to do and no one was going to stop her from doing it.

Moments later she heard the scuffle of feet as Muldère moved to catch up with her.

“What exactly do you mean by that?” he said to the back of her head.

Scully stopped walking and turned around sharply. “Oh,” she said in mock surprise. She just couldn’t help it. He was under her skin and there was nothing she could do about it. “He speaks English.”

Detective Muldère rolled his eyes, his perma-smirk aggravating her more and more at every corner.

“It means exactly what you heard,” Scully said, sassing her way through a professional bite. “If you’re not going to take me or this investigation seriously, then I’m perfectly qualified to work on my own.”

“Serious? Me? I am the most serious.”

She gave him a reproaching look meant to pass straight through his lungs and choke him.

“The body was found early this morning. As you can see, his torso is draped over the Quebec side of the border—

—“Ouais, pis y’a l’Ontario dans l’cul.”

Scully frowned.

“Sorry,” Muldère amended, “I said ‘his ass belongs to you.’”

“Detective Muldère—

“Sorry, sorry. Okay, I’m being serious. Please continue.” He reached back into his pocket and pulled out a bag of Spitz, holding it out to her. “Seed?”

Scully sighed with a heaviness that moved her whole body up and down. “No, thanks. Anyway, as I was saying, half of his body is in Quebec and the other half is in Ontario. I guess this means we’ll be working the case together until we discover where and how he died.”

Muldère waggled his eyebrows at her. She pretended not to notice.

“I have a background in Forensic Pathology, so I’m going to go up there and take a look at the body.”

Scully started climbing the ladder.

“I’ll stand guard,” Muldère said, perma-smirk in perma-action. “In case any of these lowlifes here decide to try to look up your skirt.”

Scully huffed. “Or maybe you could go and put a call in to your superiors letting them know what’s going on.”

“Aye, aye Capitaine Rousse,” he said with a salute. “Any more orders?”

“Yes, my name is Scully. And secondly,” she added, locking eyes with him, “do not look up my skirt, or it will be the last thing you ever see.”

“I bet it would be worth it.” Muldère quipped, trailing lazily back to his car, glancing back a few times at the salacious little anglo redhead perched up on the ladder.

By the time Scully got up to the top of the ladder, she had reached a very problematic conclusion.

It only figures, she thought to herself, that I would once again be attracted to the wrong kind of man.

[madamehenriette]

(just some of my favorite quotes about Minette from Love and Louis XIV by Antonia Fraser. Highly recommend this book, it's super entertaining so far.)

Henriette-Anne had grown tall, and her slender figure had filled out, her natural grace helping to conceal the fact that her back was slightly crooked. She was a wonderful rider as well as dancer, with a passion for swimming which was perhaps one of the few things she owed to her English heritage. Charles II, the elder brother she reverenced and had recently visited in England to mark her future marriage, was a fanatical swimmer. Somehow she never seemed to need sleep, going to bed late and waking her people at dawn, in contrast to the somnolent Marie-Thérèse.

She had a fine picture collection, including a Van Dyck of her English Family and a Correggio of the penitent Magdalen. Henriette-Anne also loved to act as a muse to the writers. The young Racine (born the year after Louis XIV) dedicated his play Andromaque to her, complimenting her not only on her intelligence but her benign influence where the arts were concerned. But Madame de Motteville pinpointed the real secret of the attraction which everyone (including briefly, her homosexual husband) felt for Henriette-Anne: It was her charm, that “something about her which made one love her.’ a ‘certain languishing air’ she adopted in conversation, in the words of Bussy-Rabutin, which convinced people she was asking for their love ‘whatever trivial thing she said’. In short, she had not been able to become a queen, (...) but to remedy this defect it was her wish to ‘reign in the hearts of honest men; and to find her glory in the world by the charm and beauty of her spirit.’ Protocol dictated that this self-styled Queen of Hearts should, in the absence of the real Queen, head every entertainment, indoors and outdoors, with her brother-in-law, the real King. “Our court rediscovers its laughing face for while Mars flourished, Love languished,” wrote La Fontaine in his “Ode to Madame.” [how to get Minette to love you: write plays about her and tell her she’s pretty...]

If Henriette-Anne really was the Queen of Hearts, her ambition, it seemed to royal-watchers at court, and who was not permanently gazing at the king? That one heart she had captured was that of her brother-in-law. There can be no question that as some point that summer Louis and Henriette-Anne fell gently, happily in love, perhaps not even understanding what had happened to them for a while. Each incarnated the other's ideal. As Marie-Therese would have made a good Queen of Spain, Henriette-Anne, Gracious and cultivated, would certainly have made a wonderful Queen of France. The private life of Louis XIV might indeed have read differently if, by some diplomatic twist and chance, the Infanta had not actually been available. Anne of Austria would have promoted her other niece instead, and given the restoration of Charles II to the English throne in 1660, might well have succeeded. This is not to postulate improbable lifelong fidelity on the part of Louis XIV. Nevertheless, the respect he subsequently felt for intelligent sister in law and the true, deep affection he always bore her -a letter from him years later attests to it - reveals the best of his attitudes to the female sex. And she was a princess. Somewhere an opportunity was missed. [should have married henriette just saying]

Yet there was an innocence about it all, certainly on her behalf. Henriette-Anne believed that she only wanted to please Louis as a sister-in-law, but 'I think she was also attracted to him in another way. Similarly, she thought he only appealed to her as a brother in law although he actually attracted her as something rather more." [Ah, so he was more attracted to her hmmmm!]

Henriette-Anne with a brown and white spaniel Mimi she adored which had been given to her by Charles II, she even danced a Court Ballet with Mimi in her arms. [A WOMAN AFTER MY OWN HEART OKAY!]

Unlike the robust Athénaïs, Henriette-Anne never felt well during pregnancy, and needed various pain-killing remedies including opium. But the real cause of her melancholy and distress was the unkindness of her husband. This cruelty was the repeated theme of her letters, either to her brother Charles, or to her old governess, Madame de Chaumont. It was not imaginary. The English Ambassador, Ralph Montagu, wrote to a colleague at the end of 1669 that if Madame had married an English country gentleman with five thousand a year, she would have led a better life than she did in France, for Monsieur ‘takes pleasure in crossing his wife in every-thing’.Compared with this malevolence, often taking the form of public rudeness, her husband's sexual preference hardly upset her. There had to be a certain kind of philosophic acceptance of such matters in an arranged royal marriage (especially as he performed his marital duties regularly with the aim of begetting an heir).

In a passion of anger and loss, Monsieur withdrew to his distant property of Villers-Cotterets, dragging his wife with him. ‘We go today,’ she wrote miserably on 31 January, ‘to return I know not when,’ and Henriette-Anne spoke further of ‘the fear I feel that the King may forget me'. This departure again Louis could not stop outright – the rights of the husband were paramount – but he certainly showed no sign of forgetting his sister-in-law. He bombarded the exile with presents from some mythical Court Lottery: caskets full of cash, jewelled garters, perfumes and glove, even some country walking shoes with lavishly expensive silver buckles.

All in all Henriette-Anne cannot have been sad to part from the court at Lille before travelling to Dunkirk, where a British squadron awaited her for the journey to England. She had a long interview with Louis before departure and he clasped her hand tightly and tenderly in farewell. The disagreeable mood of Monsieur had not lifted: referring to his wife's marked pallor, he chose to meditate on the message of an astrologer who had predicted that he would marry several times … He duly made a last-ditch attempt to block the expedition, and made no affectionate sign of farewell.

Henriette-Anne arrived at the cliffs of Dover at dawn on 26 May. She got an ecstatic reception not only from her brothers King Charles and James Duke of York with his wife Anne (whose little Anne was currently in her household in France) but also from James Duke of Monmouth, Charles's handsome, twenty-one-year-old illegitimate son. To the annoyance of Monsieur, Henriette-Anne had had one of her light-hearted flirtations, an exercise in gallantry, with Monmouth at the French court.

Jollifications, many of them by sea, where the ‘fearless and bold' Henriette-Anne walked on ‘the edge of ships', covered the diplomatic negotiations considered vital by both kings. The way had been well prepared in advance and accord was reached by 1 June. And joy of joys, Louis XIV (not Monsieur) had agreed to an extension of her visit, so that Henriette-Anne actually remained in England until 12 June.

All too soon Henriette-Anne had used up her extended leave and had to return to the French court – and Monsieur. As she departed, her brother Charles was in visible anguish, rushing back three times to embrace her, seemingly unable to let her go. The French Ambassador commented that he had not realised until he witnessed this scene that the cynical English King was capable of feeling so much for anyone.

In spite of her torments, Henriette-Anne managed to retain that graceful quality which had marked her all her life. Now the court rushed to their adored Madame's side, Louise and Athénaïs among others. To Monsieur, she said sadly: ‘Alas, you have long ago stopped loving me, but I have never failed you.' The scene with the King was more affecting. He embraced her and embraced her again as the tears fell. She told him: ‘You are losing the truest servant you ever had.'

The stern Father Feuillet, a local priest of Jansenist sympathies, was introduced. He provided little solace: when Madame was convulsed with suffering, he suggested that this was a suitable punishment for her sins. Then the greater-souled Bossuet, now a bishop, arrived. It was Bossuet who gave her the Sacrament and Extreme Unction and promised her forgiveness. Later the English Ambassador, Ralph Montagu, arrived. It was typical of Madame's good manners that she tried to tell him in English about an emerald she wanted to bequeath to Bossuet lest the Bishop be embarrassed. Finally, she kissed the crucifix Bossuet held out. Henriette-Anne, Princess of England and France, died at two o'clock in the morning on 30 June. She was just past her twenty-sixth birthday.

In order to assuage the horrified grief of Charles II, Louis ordered a state funeral as for a Queen of France, while one of Henriette-Anne's rings was delivered back to her brother. In an even greater departure from tradition, Louis sent Queen Marie-Thérèse to the ceremony incognito. (The King himself by custom never attended such rituals.) It was Bossuet's oration at these obsequies in Saint-Denis on 21 August which crowned the life of Henriette-Anne with the nobility it deserved. He stressed the shortness of her life: ‘Madame passed at once from morning to evening like the flowers of the field.' He harked back to her early years in France: how ‘the misfortunes of her House could not crush her in her youth and already at that time we saw in her a greatness which owed nothing to fortune', she who had a head and heart even above her royal birth. But now: ‘O disastrous night! O frightful night! When there arrived all at once this astonishing news: “Madame is dying! Madame is dead!”' And the Bishop told Louis XIV that Madame had been ‘gentle towards death as she was to all the world.’ 

Just as La Fontaine had saluted Henriette-Anne for the recovery of ‘our court's laughing face', so Madame de Sévigné wrote to her cousin Bussy-Rabutin that ‘all happiness, charm and pleasure' had departed from the court with her death. The Comtesse de La Fayette put it quite simply: it was ‘one of those losses for which one is never consoled.’

[lightlorn]

Ship Bias for the Yakuza muses

i have the worst takes. ll accepting.

akira:

kyodai. i didn’t expect this ship to hit me as hard as it did, but you know those gifs of aerith hitting a dude with a chair over the head a la the wwe? that’s nishikiryu suddenly coming after my whole life. danny does not and refuses to help with this newfound love for this ship, bc he is an enabler and i care him. i always got The Vibe playing kiwami that something was up between my boy and his kyodai, that it wasn’t yumi he coveted in that relationship. and now after all this time i have just accepted that tragic childhood friends turned sworn brothers turned enemies owns my ass. oh well.

my hc reina is a lesbian (tho if i ever have a partner that doesn’t align to this that wants to explore the relationship, hmu) and idk that nishiki has chemistry with anyone else. i’m boring. i only have nishikiryu.

homare:

majitani: for all the violence inherent in their interactions, nishitani really is the only one in the omi side of the underworld to respect majima. others use him, manipulate him, and want to kill him. nishitani plays by majima’s rules to keep him from getting in trouble with his superiors, respects his abilities as a fighter to the point of demanding a rematch, and openly invites majima to give up on those who use him to ally up with nishitani himself -- no strings attached. he gives majima actual help during his plotline, and lest we forget.... dies sending the man off to safety. under the shows of aggression, nishitani is one of the few that really seems to be on majima and makoto’s side. and i think that’s worth a lot. the way he treats majima when the guy has nothing says a lot about what the dynamic could have been, but alas. y0 maji is allowed no breaks.

that’s it. i’m also boring and predictable and only have one ship. i know fandom goes berserk for sagawa and nishitani as a dynamic but i personally hate sagawa and my nishitani is of the same mind based on what i have cobbled together from dialogue.

shizuka:

answered here.

[thesnhuup]

Confronting Racism, Past and Present

Our Board of Trustees meets in mid-winter for what we have called a “learning retreat,” going with my leadership team to a place where we can expand our thinking, to learn from some other area of work or industry, and to engage with thinkers and doers in other fields. One year it was Washington, D.C., where we did a deep dive into policy. Another year it was Silicon Valley to engage with new technology. Last year it was LA, where we visited SpaceX, heard from experts in entertainment, and met with Mayor Eric Garcetti. This past week we went to Alabama, to the cradle of the Civil Rights Movement in Montgomery and Birmingham, a fitting place to think hard about diversity, inclusivity, and equity. For most of us, maybe for all of us, it was the single most powerful experience of our time at SNHU.

I’m still processing why it was so. Almost everything we learned we knew at some level, intellectually, but this felt more visceral, often like a punch to the gut and a clasping of the heart. We know that the gun violence of a place like Chicago is out of control and exacting a terrible toll on the children and young people who live in what is effectively a war zone on American soil, but then Arne Duncan joined us with a group of the young men from his Chicago CRED program and we heard the reality of their lives. One had been shot ten times. Billy, the learning coach, had served twenty years for the murder of one of Arne’s best friends and the basketball hope of the neighborhood (a story told in ESPN’s 30-for-30 episode “Benji,” in which Billy appears). The story of the dinner he then had with the victim’s family was a knee buckling story of redemption and forgiveness – not a Hallmark version, but raw and true and ongoing. It’s a story I’ll never forget and one I really can’t recount here – I’m not good enough a writer to do it justice.

Arne shared that in the elementary school classrooms he can ask kids to raise their hands if they know someone who was shot and every hand goes up. He asks them to keep their hands raised if they know five people who were shot — all hands remain up. Ten people? Most hands. Fifteen people? More than half the hands. Twenty people? Half the hands. Think about it – these are little children in an American city. If they were white children, we would have a massive government effort to address the problem. This was a gut punch moment.

We spent time with our colleagues in Birmingham, one of our first urban eco-system learning pilot sites, and had a panel with the amazingly talented team Mayor Woodfin has assembled to address Birmingham’s challenges, including a similar wave of gun violence in the city’s poorest neighborhoods.

Not coincidentally, these are the same neighborhoods that were “redlined,” set aside for Blacks, as official city planning policy.

I had always heard the expression and assumed it was a tacit understanding. It was instead official policy, planned, and its effects are still being felt decades later. Arne’s program in Chicago aims to give young men an alternative to the violence, through work pathways. In Birmingham, we are working to create educational pathways to work through LRNG, our newly acquired community impact group. Billy made a simple and yet deep insight: if you live in a war zone and fear for your life, you carry a gun. If your little sister is going hungry and there is no work, you do whatever it takes to get money to buy food. If you live with incessant fear and hopelessness, you self-medicate through drugs or alcohol. These are rational choices when seen through that lens. Arne and others doing the hardest work imaginable in the hardest places in our country are trying to create hope and a different set of rational choices. I hope that our work with the city of Birmingham will provide a pathway to education, and connect talent with opportunity.

While in Birmingham, we visited the sacred ground that is the 16th Street Baptist Church, where in 1963 white supremacists planted a bomb that killed four little girls.

This storied church is where the heroes of the Civil Rights Movement met, and often preached, including Dr. Martin Luther King, the resolute Fred Shuttlesworth, an amazing man who is not as widely known as he should be, and Ralph David Abernathy, and where the 1963 Children’s Crusade was organized.

We have all read about the heroic struggle for equal rights, but there was something about being in the place that was incredibly powerful. One feels a kind of gravity, the weight of a history that suddenly feels less distant or abstract. It was a feeling I’ve had on the battlefields of the Somme or in the Killing Fields of Cambodia — the presence of those who haunt these places. It was true of Kelly Ingram Park, right across the street from the church and the site of the demonstrations where Theophilus Eugene “Bull” Connor had dogs released and fire hoses used on marchers.

The images from the church bombing and the brutal repression of the marchers made headlines worldwide, sparking outrage across the U.S., and led to the passage of the Civil Rights Act of 1964. Voter suppression and an ongoing attempt to undercut the act, including demonstrably false charges of widespread voter fraud, are stark reminders that the most basic civil rights remain under threat even after all these years.

If there was any doubt of that fact, it was shattered by our visit to the newly created National Memorial for Peace and Justice, a stunning memorial to all those killed by racial terror, including thousands of lynchings, in the 19th and 20th centuries. It is the first time I’ve seen in the U.S. a formal coming to grips with the racial hatred of our past in the way one sees in Berlin, which lays bare its guilt around the Holocaust.

Every metal piece, reminiscent of tombstones, represents a county and the names of those murdered there. While they are mostly from the southern states that enslaved people, New York, Oregon, California, and Illinois are among the northern states also represented. Racism knows no boundaries in America then or now.

The “crimes” for which people were murdered are shocking.

Lynchings were not rare. The Memorial is stunning in visually and physically capturing the scope of the multi-decade domestic terrorism that created a mass migration north, ethnic cleansing in today’s parlance.

Lest we take some comfort in the notion that these were the acts of some small, psychotic group of terrorists, the nearby Legacy Museum reminds us that thousands of people would turn out to see the violence, bringing children and whole families. Postcards were made and sold. As Bryan Stevenson would remind us, the perpetrators of this systemic terror were not just the uneducated and backward. Complicit were the best educated politicians, business people, clergymen, and yes, academics. And that history is not so distant, extending into my lifetime.

The Memorial and the Legacy Museum were the brainchild of the aforementioned Bryan Stevenson, the crusading lawyer and author of Just Mercy. Founder of the Equal Justice Initiative, Bryan has fought against the death penalty (which overwhelmingly reflects racial bias in its application) and mass incarceration. The Museum draws a clear and unequivocal line from slavery to racial terror to mass incarceration and a deeply racist criminal justice system. Later that evening Alabama put another Black man to death, a jarring and vivid reminder that the injustice remains that close.

Bryan met with us and gave a talk that was at once enraged and inspired. The MacArthur Prize winner was an inspiration, a master storyteller, and reminded us that however hard the challenges are today, they pale in comparison to the fights and the suffering that was endured by those who came before and that it is to them that we have a responsibility to continue the struggle for civil and human rights.

It’s how we honor their sacrifice.

How elevated and inspiring the fight can be was made clear to all of us when we spent over an hour with fabled Judge Myron H. Thompson, the first Black federal judge in Alabama. We sat in his courtroom, the courtroom where Judge Frank Johnson ruled in key civil rights cases, including the Rosa Parks case that struck down segregation in public transportation and the ruling that allowed the march from Selma. Judge Thompson, who has also ruled in famous cases, including Roy Moore’s Ten Commandments case and Planned Parenthood vs. Bentley, reminded us that in this melting pot of a country (some would say “salad”), it is the Law that acts as the pot, that keeps it all together. He reminded us that we were sitting in seats once occupied by Rosa Parks and Dr. King. It was absolutely inspiring and that old beautiful 1930s courtroom, witness to so much history, seemed like church.

As we walked back to our hotel, one member of my team, with tears still in her eyes, said, “I thought I knew. This was like a 2×4 to the side of the head.” At dinner, someone else said, “I’ve never cried so many times in one day, both out of sadness and inspiration.” It was against the background of these remarkable three days that the Board of Trustees unanimously approved our new Strategic Plan for Diversity, Equity, and Inclusivity, which we will release in the coming weeks. They did so because it is a superb plan. They also did it with a deep and abiding resolve that SNHU should play its part in countering this country’s long and ongoing racism and genocidal origins. The Legacy Museum begins with American Indians, the far too often neglected origin story steeped in bloody genocide against a whole people, acknowledging that we have so far to go as an institution and as a country.

On our evening news, the embarrassment that is Virginia politics right now, and in the chants of “Don’t shoot” that ring throughout American cities, we have stark reminders that before we can have reconciliation, we need truth. The truth about America’s ongoing racism is hard to bear, as all who were with us this week would attest, but it did not feel defeating. It felt freeing and empowering and humbling. As it does in so much of its work, SNHU will now put its resources into doing its part. At a time when American higher education is seen as part of the problem, we have to be part of the solution. Access is a starting point and we’ve worked hard on that part of the calculus of hope. With purpose and determination, we will focus on equity, diversity, and inclusivity.

http://bit.ly/2TIVLd1 from President's Corner http://bit.ly/2Bu6WyQ via IFTTT

[dionis499blog-blog]

Fortnite v-buck generator: eleven Factor You're Forgetting to carry out

Gamers, youthful types in any case, don’t feel to note such matters. They’re just after assault rifles (ideally the Famous SCAR), pump shotguns, bolt-action sniper rifles (the scope is often a boon), chug jugs, slurp juices, bandages, medkits, and defend potions. They see, and covet, skins that look cool but have no bearing on sport Enjoy; for twenty bucks, you are able to don the Leviathan or the Raven. Or they fixate on dance moves, the so-called victory emotes you may have your avatar accomplish, in the warmth of struggle or after a get rid of. The Floss, the Contemporary, the Squat Kick, the Wiggle—these have spilled out into the globe. It's possible you'll see men and women about you, or Specialist athletes on Tv set, breaking into Odd dances. The just one often known as Go ahead and take L is significant nowadays within the Bundesliga and at Minute Maid Park.

V BUCKS NO SURVEY

Plenty of completed players glance down their noses at Fortnite, the best way, perhaps, that some jazz and blues diehards, in 1964, dismissed the Beatles. The dances, the alliterative location-names, the dearth of real postapocalyptic menace: these can point out a lack of seriousness that to some would seem spell-breaking. A classmate of Gizzard Lizard’s, ZenoMachine, a gamer for longer than appears to be plausible (he commenced taking part in Team Fortress two in kindergarten and now develops his individual games), is the eighth grade’s resident Fortnite Scrooge. “To start with, I’m not a admirer with the polygons,” ZenoMachine advised me. We were on the park bench, following university—a scarce hit of daylight. “It's a hi-res texture but small-res polygons.” Gizzard Lizard had warned me that I wouldn’t fully grasp ZenoMachine, but I gathered that he was critiquing the sport’s aesthetics. He favored a realer glance. He objected to sure inconsistencies. The pickaxe, as an example, which gamers use to demolish partitions and properties, results in Just about no damage to other players being a weapon. “How can that be?” he said. “I see why a great deal of men and women like Fortnite. It targets gamers who aren’t skilled. Nonetheless it violates the regulations of consistency.” He claimed that The 1st time he performed he received—by hiding out until everyone else experienced practically been killed off. This is known as camping, which is frowned upon by normal players. “If a thing so simple as player preference affects one other players’ expertise, you’ve obtained a layout flaw,” ZenoMachine explained.

ZenoMachine develops his very own video games using a System called the Unreal Motor. Fortnite, mainly because it takes place, is built over the Unreal Engine, much too. The game will be the development of a corporation identified as Epic Game titles, based mostly outdoors Raleigh, North Carolina. In 1998, Epic launched a first-man or woman shooter referred to as Unreal, which relished only moderate achievement but which, Virtually accidentally, had an enduring affect around the evolution of video video games. Epic applied Unreal’s fundamental architecture, and a few of its elements, to help make what came to generally be generally known as the Unreal Engine, a simple platform that supports all way of video games, be they shooters, brawlers, platformers, or sandbox R.P.G.s. It’s generally a collection of applications that builders can use to layout and build video games along with other simulations. Rather than ranging from scratch in, say, C++, the favored graphic-coding language, impartial builders along with other organizations use the Unreal Motor to generate their own online games. (The licensing with the motor, subsequently, offers Epic the income move to commit time and sources to the event of hit games like Fortnite.) On a yearly basis, Epic utilizes present online games, a number of them all but overlooked, to soup up the Unreal Motor, making sure that it can tackle an at any time additional complex variety of requires. Fortnite was the very first Unreal Motor four release. Amongst other matters, Epic had to adapt the engine that can help its servers accommodate the huge volume of information that has to be processed instantaneously when 100 players are competing in only one Struggle Royale spherical. The concern of which steps have an effect on Many others, and from what length, on this extensive storm-sieged island—the outdated if-then difficulty—is way more complicated than it would appear.

“Imagine Fortnite as a visible form of media,” Jamin Warren, the editor from the lifestyle-and-gaming journal Eliminate Screen, instructed me. Whatever Fortnite’s attract like a video game to play, it is also evidently probably the most beguiling 1 to look at. As online video-game spectatorship fills arenas, and siphons a technology far from precise sports activities, Fortnite is becoming essentially the most viewed game on YouTube—by March, there had been Pretty much a few billion sights from the countless sessions that players had uploaded—and the best match on Twitch, the streaming platform. Looking at isn’t just for spazzes any longer. “It’s established a kind of global arcade,” Warren stated. “In place of a couple of Children seeking around the shoulder of the recent-shot more mature brother or regardless of what, down on the mall, you have got many people observing, and the person actively playing the game is a millionaire.”

The medium’s breakout star is called Ninja. He is a previous professional Halo player named Tyler Blevins, who may have mentioned that he will make in excess of half one million bucks per month by streaming his Fortnite sessions, and his totally free-associative commentary, on Twitch (that is owned by Amazon). His YouTube channel has over 10 million subscribers. Very last month, he hosted a Fortnite Event in Las Vegas, within an e-sports activities arena, and Practically 7 hundred thousand individuals tuned in to his Twitch stream. I’ve listened to lots of teens seek advice from him as The us’s largest entertainer—which is not as hyperbolic mainly because it Appears. In April, Ninja rated larger than any athlete on the earth in “social interactions,” a evaluate of social-media likes, responses, shares, and views. Cristiano Ronaldo was No. 2. In March, Ninja consented to some Fortnite session with Drake.

Blevins, that's twenty-6, comes from outside the house Detroit and life in the vicinity of Chicago (he won’t say exactly where) along with his spouse, who handles his enterprise affairs. He streams ten to fourteen hours each day, normally from about 9 A.M. to 3 P.M. after which from 6 P.M. right until Anytime. All informed, he logs about three hundred hours a month. What a single sees is his video game display screen, along with his avatar in what ever skin he has decided on, and, within an inset, a perpetual shot of Blevins himself. A ninja headband girds a Bieber-ish shock of hair that he dyes distinct shades: emerald inexperienced, platinum, yellow. He’s a lean, boyish guy who appears to make an work to keep up some semblance of the smile continually. His spiel is goofy, caffeinated, and reasonably cocky. He does impressions. In March, he was mumbling some rap lyrics as he performed, and by some means the phrase “indica” arrived out as the N-word. Amid the backlash, he apologized, type of, and, when it came time for me to speak to him very last week, his supervisor’s just one affliction was which i not request him about it, as he’d currently mentioned what there was to mention, which was, partially, “I guarantee that there was no mal intent (I wasn’t even seeking to say the term—I fumbled lyrics and obtained tongue-tied from the worst probable way).” A scrupulous journalist might have referred to as off the job interview, however the teenagers I’d been speaking to in regards to the video game were being so amazed that I would speak with Ninja that I caved. At the final minute, nevertheless, Ninja bailed, proclaiming health issues. Melt away! (“I’m really sure that was BS,” a kind of teens texted me. “I believe he was streaming these days.”) At any level, Ninja’s sensitivity is a sign that players like him are coming into the mainstream. They have got to look at the things they say.

Onscreen, the millionaire maintains the environs on the gamer boy. The camera normally takes within an acoustic-tile ceiling, wall-to-wall carpeting, bare drywall, and a fourposter mattress. There’s a framed Detroit Lions poster propped versus a wall, alongside a mini-fridge stocked with Red Bull. Ninja can be a lifelong gamer, but he helps make some extent to remind his fans, lest they get the fall-anything bug, that he did very well in class, performed soccer and various sporting activities, concluded college while Keeping down a career at Noodles & Organization, and perhaps appeared, together with his family, on “Family members Feud.” The game skill is legit. He wins a little something like 50 percent multiplayer game you can play with friends of your hundreds of video games he plays each individual 7 days, from all comers. He’s a crack shot and it has a nose for that substantial floor. As usually as not, it seems he’s hardly paying attention. He’s examining followers’ messages out loud, similar to a chat-radio host, or jabbering with Yet another Fortnite star, for instance Dr. Lupo or KingRichard, if they’ve teamed up for any game or two: “The recoil on this factor is Silly”; “You said you experienced a full shield, ass”; “So hold my dick”; “That male was trying to consume a chug jug. What a noob.” All accompanied by occasional bursts of gunfire. “To any one observing the stream, I hope you men are enjoying the written content, man.”

Gizzard Lizard’s shoot-out in Tomato Town befell on the last evening of April, which was the last evening of Season three. Anticipation was functioning higher. On the list of ingenious innovations of Fortnite is always to introduce seasons of about two months, as on the cable-tv collection, also to integrate new plot and activity factors. (Past week, inside of a crossover masterstroke, Thanos, the indestructible villain of the new Avengers movie, dropped in on the game—that's, gamers could adopt a Thanos pores and skin—and so, for some time, the Fortnite set gleefully schooled many Thanoses in a means that the Avengers couldn't.) On April thirtieth, a comet that were hovering around the island was alleged to strike right after midnight. For days, meteors were showering the sport. Teasers—the most recent being “brace for impact”—experienced influenced a raft of speculation and conspiracy theories. At first, people today expected the comet to hit the crowded city setting referred to as Tilted Towers, but some clues led others to forecast, properly, that the comet would wipe out Dusty Depot, which was thereafter to be called Dusty Divot.

It absolutely was hard to do research on an evening such as this; Gizzard Lizard returned to the sport. He played on a PC he’d designed at school. It didn’t have a graphics card. He’d hardly ever been a huge gamer—his mothers and fathers were fairly stringent about screens and experienced never ever consented to an Xbox or perhaps a Wii—though he’d played Minecraft for a while. This level of obsession was one thing new. He noticed on his find-your-close friends bar that lots of schoolmates were being participating in, so he FaceTimed just one who goes by ism64. They teamed up and hit Fortunate Landing. Gizzard Lizard wore an earbud underneath a set of earphones, to ensure he could speak with ism64 whilst listening to the seem of approaching enemies. From the distance, it appeared that he was speaking to himself: “Enable’s just Create. Be careful, you’re gonna be trapped less than my ramp. I’m hitting this John Wick. Oh my God, he just pumped me. Come revive me. Create all-around me and come revive me. Wait around, can I have that chug jug? Thanks.”

I’d been struck, looking at Gizzard Lizard’s online games for a couple of days, by how the spirit of collaboration, amid the urgency of mission and danger, appeared to bring out one thing approaching gentleness. He and his buddies did favors for each other, watched one another’s backs, available encouragement. This was something that I hadn’t witnessed A great deal of, say, down with the rink. One particular could argue which the old arcade, Using the ever-existing risk of bullying and harassment and also the obstacle of saying dibs, exposed A child to the planet—it’s character-setting up!—but there was a little something to be explained for this kind of refuge, regardless of whether it did entail assault rifles and grenades.

After which you can the John Wick was on him. “Oh God! Oh God!” Foiled yet again.

A John Wick was an achieved player who experienced earned a skin that bears a resemblance for the character performed by Keanu Reeves inside the “John Wick” motion pictures. (Officially, the skin is called the Reaper, presumably to prevent licensing costs, but players get in touch with it John Wick.) It absolutely was available to anyone who had attained all hundred tiers of the sport in Season three—a mix of accomplishment and knowledge which would have necessary taking part in for involving seventy-five and 100 and fifty several hours.

As the last several hours of Time 3 expired, gamers scrambled to succeed in Tier a hundred, and get their John Wick skins. Gizzard Lizard was nowhere near. He’d started off the year as being a noob. Appear the subsequent early morning, Day Among Time 4, he experienced a intend to put inside the hrs to receive to Tier 100. It could take severe commitment. For The very first time, he acquired a thousand Fortnite V-bucks, for $9.ninety nine, with which to purchase skins. He went Along with the Carbide, a sleek one which brought to thoughts a wetsuit. This was The very first time he—or, more to the point, his mother and father—had at any time put in anything but quarters over a sport.

[un-nmd]

Recent listening—

The Mothers of Invention, Weasles Ripped My Flesh (1970) Strikes a somewhat psychotic balance between the whimsy of a Ween and the all-out avant of a Beefheart. The musicianship’s all there lest you fear that Zappa’s noisy conundrums were meant to hide a lack thereof—his magic band equivalents are able to don ‘general public’ masks and jam away just like any contemporary fellow, as they do on “Directly From My Heart To You” and “My Guitar Wants To Kill Your Mama” (note the electric violin on the former). But to those with ears of gentle predisposition: beware, and don’t be fooled, for the joke’s on you. The visceral beasts behind those vaguely satirical eye-holes are let loose more often than they’re contained. Take the two characteristic collages, “Didja Get Any Onya?” and “Prelude To The Afternoon Of A Sexually Aroused Gas Mask”: chaos, yes, but ritualistic chaos; Zappa, wielder of the wild. The sheer number of ideas, themes, and allusions introduced and just as quickly passed over in the space of, for each, less than four minutes, is nauseatingly impressive. E.g. about halfway through the latter, whose title suggests Debussy’s own ...d’un faune, some Satanic call and response gives way to the distant strains of the second subject of the first movement of Tchaikovsky’s Pathétique, over which some madman projects an uncanny valley imitation of a big cat growling—then final tremors from kit and a deep down electric rumbling to close. And if you thought music was one-dimensional (audio, you could argue, perhaps is) wait till you hear Zappa break the fourth wall on “Toads Of The Short Forest” which itself ends on a parodic consonance that’s rich with the same commercial irony of the album’s parting words— “Goodnight, boys and girls”—which follow one and a half minutes of some of the harshest noise you’ll ever hear. If you thought Penderecki was aggressive listen to this and reconsider.

Various artists, Planetarium (2017) You would think that with the extra personnel Sufjan would be somewhat protected from the subsuming ambition that fed Illinois and Adz to over an hour each—or that he’d personally outgrown it, as these mature words here would suggest:

A lot of those flourishes and gestures and aesthetic wanderings on earlier records were smoke and mirrors, a lot of obfuscation that were probably the result of me feeling either inadequate or feeling coy. There’s a lot of role playing and constructing facades.

But the 76-minute run-time indicates otherwise. Perhaps it’s the subject matter. These four gentlemen’s ode to the cosmos is as much about space as it is about substance—by which I mean: aside from the planet portraits they also craft sonic voids to match that of the great vacuum, and call it ‘ambient music’ so its justifiable. Is Muhly to blame? If so, its at least theoretically intriguing for its marriage of post-minimalism and popular music. It makes for dull listening though. You accept it the first couple of times but there’s no way I’m sitting through “Sun” or “Tides” or the “Moon” coda for a third or further. However with “Black Energy” the suspended dissonances are at least something for the ear to work on, and “Halley’s Comet” and “Black Hole” are short enough to accept as outros/intros to tracks preceding/following, with the latter also being interesting for its similarity to certain parts of Badalamenti’s score to Fire Walk With Me. But of the actual songs?—“Jupiter” and “Mars” quickly go from overwhelming to simply overcrafted. Likewise “Earth” is overcome by temporal grandeur, but it is defensible in the same way that the Mahler symphonies are, i.e. gushing Romanticism kills itself yet in doing so also transcends itself. “Pluto” and its interstellar string line provide the appropriate sappiness required of a work named Planetarium. The real gems, however, are “Neptune”, “Uranus”, “Saturn”, and “Mercury”—is it any coincidence that these are also the most Sufjan-esque?

John Coltrane, The Olatunji Concert (1967) This was all the Gods could muster: a cheap, dingy mic, a 30-sec intro, time for two jams with the latter cut off before the final hit—there the master laid down his pen. Like J.S. centuries ago it was, fittingly, on his signature move. Did he know it would be his last live recording? The notion would at least have been entertained as by then he was probably well into the throes of the cirrhosis that would eventually take him. Trane’s apocalyptic final will and testament, the culmination—if only chronologically—of a lifetime’s innovation, comes at you through an otherworldly haze, through cigarette smoke and spirit vapours, through half a century (exactly) of sonic decomposition of tapes that were at a poor enough quality to begin with. All that’s pretty is shed away, left behind for the blind and the shallow to fuck with. This is the primal essence. Trane, on the precipice, delivers a performance of catastrophic immensity. This was no Mahler 9, no sweet surrender—with one foot in the grave he raged.

Deep Puddle Dynamics, The Taste of Rain... Why Kneel? (1999) And re-calibrate again for the emcees in this realm require of the listener a completely different approach. Here the gamut of receptors is tuned less to harmony, instrumental skill, or ‘compositional rigour’ (in the Western art sense), and more to verse, cadence, dialect, timbre, rhythm, and so forth—it’s only empty if you ain’t looking hard enough. And four voices means there’s plenty of variety to go round. The interplay between the distinct bodies to their voices makes them stronger as a unit, à la Tribe preceding. E.g. I don’t think I could handle an entire full-length full of Doseone’s nasal delivery but on this the other three contextualise the texture space he resides in so that his grating-ness means something. (See his entry on “The Scarecrow Speaks”.) Another point of difference between this and the records surrounding: I’ve had genius.com open for probably half my listens. The pace, density, and abstraction of the ideas expounded deserve more comprehension than a fleeting ear’s able to discern; the work is the word, mostly, so read the libretto. We open with Slug: “Descending on the centre / from the outskirts of obscurity”. An apt heads up for such is how you approach the meaning to these tracks, most of which exceed five minutes. Within them the majority of time is spent dealing in Impressionistic strokes of free-verse, free-associative syllables strung streaming out to the potent symbology of, say, a candle flame (as on “The Candle”) or the psychological landscape of a peeling ceiling (as on “Heavy Ceiling”—distant progenitor to Courtney Barnett’s “An Illustration of Loneliness”). However at times a rhyme catalyses the crystallisation of these supersaturated abstractions—here’s Sole towards the end of “Thought vs. Action”:

Man, I once had an idea but it didn’t get me anywhere Read The Art of War when I should have been out fighting Why is it the mass is unexposed to so-called great thinkers until they die? And why do they live in fear Of the fighters afraid to leave their insides?

But wait! Don’t forget ‘compositional rigour’ just yet as a certain hook on the track just discussed, the chant chucking nouns at each crotchet (“catalyst, cataclysm, fallacy, fortitude, medulla...”), appears also on “Deep Puddle Theme Song” and “June 26th, 1998”, albeit with different words, and as different answers to different questions. And formwise you’ve got the partition between the ‘98 tracks and those from June 26th, 1999. There’s a palpable maturation from the former to the latter. In the year of ‘98 they had more answers than questions—see the noun chant above, see the youthful arrogance on “The Scarecrow Speaks” and “I Am Hip Hop (Move the Crowd)”. And even the cynicism that closes #1 has with it a little bit of nihilistic tongue-in-cheek. One year on and they’re a lot more tired of the world. That sly grin’s nowhere to be found on lines like these...

How is it I’m motivated to endure Eight hours of pure unadulterated boredom? Then sit in front of another computer for Four more hours using the same old drum set Trying different loops, can’t find one to fit Maybe this is why I sit in front of a pad of paper, pen in hand with a blank mind And I ask myself Is the writer’s slump the best form of meditation? Rhetorical, don’t have an answer And I also don’t expect one.

...and all that’s left is a deathly wit...

It ain't all love, it's confusion and a waste of time It ain't all time, it's confusion and a waste of love It ain't all waste, it's confusion and some time to love It ain't all confusion, it's love and some time to waste It ain't all that It's all of the above So scared into this And you are And you wonder from the shores how deep the puddle is. 

...borne of the same fin-de-siècle dread that fed Radiohead’s OK Computer.

Alvvays, s/t (2014) Music that’s dense and complex and meticulous will never be difficult to write about, or, for some, even to listen to, because there’s always the task of ascribing theory to composition to hide in. Such an approach, however, can neglect what you might say to be the primary purpose of music: evoking a meaningful emotional response in the listener. This, to trained ears, can be tempered by knowledge and understanding of the underlying theory, but for the most part it is governed by right-brain perception; that is, the Dionysian response as opposed to the Apollonian. For example: I could write about how on “Dives” you can developmentally derive the verse theme from the prelude’s sinister synth line, or about the 3/2 bars on the refrain to the same and how Molly’s melody overlays a 6/4 structure in a sort of inverse hemiola to the colossal opening of Brahms’s 3rd—or, instead, I could write about the sweet, sweet ache I am immediately plunged into upon the first words to the first song (”How / Do I get close to you? / Even if you don’t notice / As I admire you / On the subway”), or the simultaneous melancholy of lyric and uplift of melody on the chorus to “Archie, Marry Me”, or the crack in my heart that accompanies, every time, Molly’s crack up to that high note on “Ones Who Love You”, that velvet vowel vocalise that’s recalled, in spirit, on the final seconds of their latest single when she, unexpectedly, epiphanically, goes up the register to a transcendent 5th scale degree falling to the major 3rd on what itself is a 6-3 on the I, i.e. a first inversion founded on yet another radiant, overtone-heavy 3rd. Point being, who really cares about the details when all you can think about is that it’s making you soar, or in some cases, sore (in the chest).