#london prizefighting

[anythingtowin]

Heavyweight champion Floyd Patterson and his trainer and manager Cus D'Amato. For years D'Amato was accused of protecting Patterson from a formidable group of top heavyweight contenders.

[haveyoureadthistransbook]

A Lady's Finder by Edie Cay

goodreads

Lady Agnes is a scandal thanks to her sister’s marriage to a prizefighter. Or rather, she should be, but as a charitable spinster-to-be, she remains firmly invisible, even to those she loves. Always dutiful, Lady Agnes should be the toast of her family, but only if she marries well. Finding the prospect of wedding a man unpalatable, Lady Agnes cannot be the social savior of her sister. Suddenly, receiving attentions from the unpredictable and surprisingly resourceful Mr. Jack Townsend, Lady Agnes finds herself believing he might love her and not her dowry. After being overlooked for so long, can she believe he cares for her, or is she a means to an end as her family insists? Jack About Town is London’s best Finder of Lost Things. What few realize is that Jack transcends the spheres of men and women, existing as both, or perhaps neither, sex. True, his most lucrative finds are pornographic artifacts for rich toffs. But now he has found Lady Agnes, a meticulous, generous, knock-down incredible lady who wears men’s boots. Best of all, Lady Agnes accepts him in his entirety—a jewel so rare that even Jack is surprised he could find it. When Jack is commissioned to steal from Lady Agnes’s cousin, can Jack find a way to prove his love and still earn the money he needs to protect himself and his home?

Mod opinion: I haven't heard of this book before and it doesn't sound like my type of genre.

[lovelylogans]

the parent trap

CHAPTER THREE: en garde

The boys come to blows. (With practice épées, but in their minds, it’s equally as serious.)

⁂

Oh, yes. Remus is settling into camp just fine.

Specs and Tie-dye—he learns their real names are Teagan and Nick—were, to his absolute delight, absolutely terrible at cards and unflaggingly good sports about it. 

Even when Remus managed to win Nick’s prized nail polish, contraband stolen from his sister, he’d simply shrugged and congratulated Remus on a good game. Remus had celebrated the occasion by painting his nails a sickening shade of green chrome. 

(He, of course, generously let Nick paint his own nails, though he’d chosen a ridiculously bright highlighter yellow. It was kinda cool, really; all the bees in camp seemed fascinated by the color, which had Nick regretting his decision by lunch the next day.)

The first week passes in a blur of finally managing to memorize everyone’s names, though he almost never used them, getting his bed as close to a nest of dirty clothes and his blankets as possible, and finding the kitchen window with the loosest latch so he could sneak into it after hours and steal contraband.

The best part: his counselor, when Remus had swaggered back into the cabin with armfuls of popsicles, had simply shrugged and gone back to writing a letter to his girlfriend back home.

Summer camp, he writes in a letter home to Patton and Virgil, is going AWESOME.

⁂

Now here’s a sport that Roman can really thrive at.

None of this nonsensical American football—no. Fencing is where Roman will make his reputation. He’s rather pleased with himself, actually—fencing was cool. Maybe his success at it would, by proxy, make him cool.

“Halt!” Marvin cries as Roman’s landing a perfect hit at the dead-center of the chest, and Monroe falls on his back to the cheers of the rest of Maple.

Monroe takes off his helmet, grinning up at Roman. “Touché!”

Roman reaches down to help him up as Marvin Jr. cries out, “All right, excellent, kids! The winner and still undefeated champ from London, England—Mr. Roman James!”

Marvin Jr. takes his hand and raises it in the air, as if Roman’s some kind of prizefighter, and the rest of Maple cheers and claps for him, and Roman feels like he’s on top of the world. He turns to rush up to his cabin-mates, whose hands rain down on his back in approval.

He’s distantly aware of Marvin saying, “Do we have any challengers? Oh, come on, fellas…”

Roman takes a moment to drink from his water bottle.

“Awesome hit, Roman!” Asher says, patting him on the shoulder.

“Yeah,” Monroe says, “how’d you get so good at this stuff anyway?”

Roman shrugs, pretending at humility. “I did theater in school—the stage fighting’s stuck with me, I suppose.”

“Well, it’s wicked,” Asher says, then, “that’s right, isn’t it, wicked?”

“Yeah,” Roman says, grinning, “wicked” and they high-five.

“All right, James, you’ve got a challenger!” Marvin calls.

“Here I go,” Roman says, slightly muffled by his helmet, and he turns to face his competitor; suited in green-and-white, helmet and foil already in place, ready to begin the match.

“Go, Roman!” Maple cries as they meet in the center of the makeshift ring, foils clacking briefly together. 

“Fencers ready?” Marvin asks. Roman nods.

“Prête—allez!”

The opposite fencer attempts some fancy maneuver with kicking up the foil from the ground, managing to catch it and swirl it around in some embellishment.

“En garde—Fence!”

And they’re off.

The challenger’s thwacking at his foil repeatedly, as if that’ll somehow get Roman to trip up his guard; he parries all of them easily, keeping his footing as the challenger charges forward. 

The challenger steps out of the ring onto woodchips. Roman lunges, attempting to land a hit just to end the match, but the challenger bounces off of a tree, and Marvin doesn’t call foul even though he’s clearly out of bounds.

Then the challenger slashes his foil through the air, and Roman dodges—again, and to the left—Roman spares a look at Marvin, who still isn’t calling foul, and just barely manages to block the stranger’s foil from hitting a passerby.

“You could’ve hurt someone!” Roman says, furious.

“He wasn’t looking where he was going!” The challenger scoffs, and the match begins to grow fierce.

This challenger clearly has no semblance of strategy—their foil bounce off each other, each parrying each other’s every attempt at getting close enough to land a hit—and Roman’s back hits a wooden post.

He spins out of the way just in time for the foil to land in the post.

Right where his face would have been.

“You seriously could hurt someone!” Roman yells, and clearly Marvin isn’t about to bother stepping in—he plants his hands and cartwheels over a haybale, just to gain some ground away from this—this hacking, whirling dervish of a maniac.

He has the challenger with his back to the haybales now—he attempts to conduct the game legally, though it makes the challenger yawn, putting his face in front of the mask—and Roman snarls, infuriated by this.

The challenger takes immediate advantage, and attempts to disarm him—the foil flies in the air, hovering for an impossibly long moment—Roman runs up to the cabin, leaning over the railing and , gaining the upper ground, hand in the air, and he manages to seize the handle just in time.

“Nice catch!” The competitor says, before he promptly begins chasing Roman up the cabin stairs.

“You’re mad!” Roman yelps, twirling out of the way and doubling back, “completely barking mad!”

“Thanks!” The challenger says brightly, as though Roman’s paid him the highest compliment, and then sidesteps the foil, plants his hands on Roman’s chest, and gives him a great, hard shove.

Roman shrieks as he falls over the railing—he braces himself for a hard fall—but—

SPLASH!

He surfaces—not that the water’s very deep—and coughs, shocked, the wind having been knocked out of him. He’s landed in some kind of trough—really, why on earth was there a trough there? He’s grateful—he could have broken a bone from a fall of that height!

He could have gotten really badly hurt! Not just the fall—during at least five different points in that match!

But Marvin does not seem to care in the slightest. 

“O-kay, that was quite a show!”

Marvin’s approached the green-suited competitor, hoisting his hand in the air.

“I think we’ve got ourselves a new camp champ—from California, Mr. Remus Parker!”

“He cheated!” Roman protests, furious, and finally manages to extract himself from that ridiculous trough—really, who just put water in some random receptacle like that?!—and shakes off the excess water as best he can, though the suit’s quite waterlogged.

But Roman’s protests—and the protests of his cabin—go unheard over the raucous screaming of the Pines; Marvin Jr. is too busy looking at his clipboard to register this complaint.

Roman storms over to put away his foil, taking off his helmet and tucking it under his arm.

“This is absolutely ludicrous,” Roman says, to the loud agreement of Asher.

“He shoved you in the trough!” Asher declares, pointing over his shoulder, where the cheater must be standing. “That’s gotta be against the rules!”

But all fell on stubborn ears; at last, Marvin Jr. looks up from his clipboard, only to say in a mild tone of voice. “All right, boys, now shake hands.”

With a dirty rotten stinking no good cheater?! Marvin Jr.’s out of his bloody mind!

“Come on, boys, be good sports. Shake hands.”

Roman, with a great roll of his eyes, turns around just in time to hear a loud, nasal sigh.

And then he jerks back in shock.

It’s like they’ve stuck a mirror in the ground.

The mirror image pulls back too, eyes bugging out, but it’s like it’s Roman. Same freckles splashed across his cheeks from spending time in the sun; same height, same brown eyes, same brown hair, even the same stubborn cowlick!

But then, it’s like a funhouse mirror, on second glance; the cheater (the cheater! yes! this boy cheated!) has a ghastly streak of white hair throughout his too-long hair; unkempt where Roman was neat, exaggerated in expression where Roman was calm, and, oh yes, a cheating cheater where Roman was honest!

Roman swallows, but he sticks out a hand.

After a moment’s hesitation, the cheater sticks his out. Yes, that’s just the same, too, except, Roman notices with distaste, that the cheater has bitten his nails down to the quick, his chrome nail polish chipped. And, ugh, how is there so much mud caked under them?! Roman’s are neatly trimmed and clear.

But Roman clasps it to shake all the same, real and not a mirror at all; it’s damp, like his, but warm, shockingly so.

The other boy—Remus Parker, hadn’t Marvin said?—yanks his hand back as quickly as he can manage, mussing his already messy hair.

“Why’s everyone staring at us?” He says, loud.

“...Don’t you see it?” Roman says.

“See what?!” Remus says with a scoff and a dismissive shake of his head.

“The resemblance between us!”

The other boy’s eyebrows shoot up his forehead.

“Resemblance?” Remus repeats. “Between… you and me?”

Roman nods, still stricken; yes, there’s that smirk on the other boy’s face, the same on Roman’s practiced in the mirror before, the one that he tries to use to demonstrate nothing anyone ever says bothers him.

“Let me see,” Remus says, mockingly putting a thoughtful finger to his temple. “Turn sideways.”

Roman huffs out a breath, but pivots to display his left profile; Dad always says that statistically, someone’s left side is almost always going to be their good one.

“Noww the other way.”

Roman rolls his eyes and acquiesces. He feels like he’s in a police procedural to get his mugshot.

“We-ell,” the other boy drawls. “Your eyes seem a bit crossed—you don’t have to try that hard to look at me, I’m right here.”

Roman clenches his fists, tops of his ears burning, as Remus Parker’s cabin mates laugh at him.

“That nose—well, don’t worry, I bet you’ll grow into it.”

Roman resists the urge to cover his nose with his hand.

“And your teeth are like someone shoved a crumbling Jenga tower in there, but hey. That’s Brits for ya, innit?”

And an awful attempt at a British accent too! Roman’s positively fuming.

“But do you want to know the real difference between you and me?” Remus says.

“What?” Roman says snidely. “That I know how to fence and you don’t? Or is it that I have class and you don’t? Take your pick.”

“Why I oughta—”

Roman would be delighted by this utterly American line if it hadn’t been accompanied by this brute clenching his jaw and taking a closer step. As it is, Roman sets his jaw and takes his own step forward.

“Boys, stop,” Marvin Jr. is saying in the background, and Roman is about to take another step forward, and damn that he doesn’t know how to enter fisticuffs when a hand comes down on each of their shoulders.

“Now Remus—”

Roman glowers at Marvin. He doesn’t have that ghastly streak of white through his hair!

“Roman—I mean—”

Remus takes a moment to pull a grotesque face at Marvin before returning his attention to Roman.

“Now Roman—Remus—I-I mean—oh, whoever you are, it’s time to break up this little love fest—”

The boy snarls at him—snarls! Like some kind of animal!—and Roman has to resist the urge to snap right back at him, even as they’re jostled away from each other.

“Whoa,” Asher says, to the general mutterings of agreement of cabins Pine and Maple.

⁂

The discussion of the fencing match and the shock of the identical combatants carried over, Roman found, through lunch, dinner, and even during pre-bedtime downtime when Roman was trying to write a letter to home with absolutely zero mention of it.

He’s absolutely sick to death of this conversation. And yet.

“I mean, don’t you think it’s weird?” Asher pushes.

Roman presses down a little too hard on his pen, where he’s trying to describe the activities he’s gotten introduced to since arriving at camp. I’ve found I’m rather a dab hand at kayaking…

“For the thousandth time, yes, of course I think it’s odd,” Roman says wearily. …spent the whole morning that day in the lake, which was very beautiful (sketch enclosed)...

“You’ve seriously never met this guy before.” another cabin mate pipes up.

Roman rolls his eyes, carefully sorting through his sketches to select the most picturesque for his father. “I’ve seriously never met him before.”

“Nothing? No mention of a weird American cousin or anything like that?”

“I don’t have any cousins our age,” Roman says, settling on a landscape that shows the sun dappling beautifully through the leaves and landing on the glittering lake. “The closest age cousin I’ve got is my dad’s age, and he’s not even technically my cousin, he’s my dad’s cousin.”

“Weird,” Asher says with a shake of his head.

“Weird,” Roman agrees, hoping he’ll be able to resume his letter in peace now that they’ve hashed it out for the billionth time. 

…I’m getting along just fine with my cabin mates, and my counselor hardly seems to have a care about what shenanigans some of them get up to—breaking into the kitchen for sweets and the like. 

It seems to be a bit of a tradition to do that kind of thing anyway; I guess the reasoning is if we do small bits of rebellion, we won’t turn our attention to absolute chaos. Not that I’ve been joining in outside of enjoying the occasional contraband snack, I assure you (so long as you don’t count swiftly establishing myself as the predominant poker talent in the cabin)…

“...dunno, what are your theories, then?” he can hear Asher say to another kid in the cabin, as if Roman isn’t even there. Roman grits his teeth and presses his pen back to paper, perhaps a bit firmer than he did before.

…be sure to tell Grandfather that his new deck of cards has come in handy and I thank him again for the gift. I’ve taught them a few new card games, too, and there’s rumors of them trying to teach me one—have you ever played something called Egyptian Rat Screw? I guess it’s fairly similar to Beggar-my-neighbor. Americans, as usual, have their own take on things. That might be the plan for the evening, if I don’t have any takers for poker this evening.

But that’s proven rather popular. People seem to think they can defeat me.

Someone storms in from outside, clearly in the midst of a rant.

“—my whole allowance, it’s absolutely insane—”

“Who took your allowance?” Asher asks.

“That Remus Parker kid,” he says. “He’s bleeding everyone dry. He’s like a freak poker prodigy.”

A smile creeps across Roman’s face. “Is he now.”

There is a great turning of heads to Roman’s bunk.

More specifically, there is a great turning of heads to Roman’s cubby of pride, where he has placed every trophy he’s wrought from every poker game he’s played in camp.

Every undefeated poker game.

“Say, Roman,” he says slowly. “I don’t suppose… you’d want to win it back for me, would you? I’d get you whatever you wanted from the kitchen. All summer long, even.”

Everyone looks very tempted by that offer. Let alone Roman, who is always a little nervous about the potential of being caught out in the kitchens anyway.

“C’mon, Roman, please,” Asher urges. “I know you want to. Don’t you want to get back at that dirty stinking cheater?!”

That does it.

“Yes, of course, let me just finish this so we can drop it in the post box on our way there—”

He turns and quickly jots off the ending line of his letter, then signing it Love from, Roman James in a great swooping signature that his dad had helped him perfect.

Off to win what will surely be a rollicking poker match!

⁂

Remus tsks in delight as he extends his arms, having to use more than his hands to be able to pull in the sheer quantity of quarters, dollars, chewing gum, candies, nail polish, and—the most sacrosanct—a key to get into the kitchens someone filched from some stupid counselor! No more jimmying open windows for Remus! That will definitely make fulfilling his nighttime cravings easier.

“Sorry, gents,” he says smugly and not at all apologetically as the majority of the Catalpa Cabin’s riches tumble into his lap. 

There’s a great chorus of rumblings as Remus begins to sort the dollars from the quarters, and the food from the money, ostentatiously fanning himself with them. “Any more takers?”

The door to Pine Cabin opens, and Remus cranes his neck over the crowd of spectators that have crowded into the space; he snorts at the sight.

“No refunds, Monroe,” he says. “Should’ve known better than to bet all your money on a two-pair.”

“He’s not going for a refund,” a very, very familiar voice rings out over the flock of Maple Cabin.

They all part to reveal Remus’ clone from an alternate, much dweebier universe.

“But I’ll give it the old college try.”

Remus snorts, pushing his sunglasses up onto his head.

“Sure, James,” he says. “Take a seat.”

Roman James tucks himself tidily atop the bed, hands folded.

“Hold’em? Omaha? Seven Card Stud?” Remus fires off.

“We’ll do a classic Texas,” Roman says.

Remus snorts. Figures. He probably doesn’t even know to ask if they’re playing Short Deck or not.

“Fine,” Remus says, beginning to shuffle, but Roman makes a sharp noise of protest.

“After your stunt at the fencing grounds? You’ll have to forgive me to think you’re not stacking the deck in your favor.”

Remus shrugs, unoffended. He probably would if he knew for a fact he’d get away with it.

“Someone else will have to deal us in, Parker.” Roman says pointedly.

“Fine,” Remus says, settling his sunglasses back on his nose. With the glass root beer bottle beside him, Remus probably cuts what Virgil would call an intimidating figure. 

He hands the cards to the first set of hands that take them. It turns out to be someone from Catalpa; probably good. He doesn’t want James to cry cheater again if someone from Pine had dealt them both in.

Remus can play this in his sleep. Classic Texas Poker, it’s a shoo-in. Clearly he’d bruised more than just James’s body when he’d shoved him in that trough; he’d bruised his ego. 

Shame that James was about to stake his honor on the game that Remus had been playing practically since he was born.

The crowd around them is heavy; Pine, stacked up behind Remus, and Maple, stacked up behind Roman, seemingly as a matter of Cabin Pride or principle. 

The real interesting read of the sway were any Catalpas—even a few of the older boys from Rowan and Sequoia filter in after a while—switching their vantage points from one to another, whispering to each other and gasping appropriately when things get added to the pot.

Remus gets the card. The. Card. Just the one he needed.

Remus smirks at the sight.

“Tell you what, James,” he says. “Let’s make things really interesting.”

Roman arches an eyebrow.

“Loser jumps into the lake after the game.”

“Excellent,” Roman says, examining his cards.

“Butt. Naked.”

There’s a chorus of sniggers erupting from the flock of pre-teenage boys.

A slow smile curls over Roman’s face. “Even more excellent.”

Remus grins back. Oh, when that stuck-up English prude has to go down to his skivvies, or whatever screwed-up word they use for underwear…

“Start stripping, James,” Remus says smugly. He smacks his cards against the table, face-up.

“Straight! In. Diamonds.”

Remus smiles.

“Oh, you’re good, Parker,” Roman begins to hum, a tune that Remus thinks he’s probably heard somewhere…

“But not good enough.”

Remus’ smile drops.

“In honor of my homeland,” Roman says. “God save the Queen, Parker.” 

Roman flips around his cards to display a royal flush, covering his smiling, humming mouth. 

Of spades.

No way, Remus thinks, furious—but he’s the one who passed off the cards to Catalpa, there’s no way he could have—

Remus forcibly shoves down any anger. He can use that later.

To come onto his turf, to challenge him at his thing, all because of a measly little shove?

This meant war.

“Well,” Remus says, removing his sunglasses, and puts his biggest grin on his face.

“Anyone going to give me some music for this? No?”

He dramatically whips off his green, Walden-branded bomber jacket, tossing it in the general direction of his bunk. 

“Come on then, boys, time for me to put on a show! Probably a better one than his lily-white pasty ass would’ve given you!”

And so Remus begins to sprint to the dock, tugging off his shirt in the process, to the great chorus of preteen footsteps behind him, laughing and whooping the whole way down.

⁂

It’s difficult to see their way down to the lake, but fortunately some of the boys from Sequoia had gathered candles so, at least, Roman wasn’t tripping over his own feet on his way down there.

Not that he would have been mocked for tripping; it seems that winning back Monroe’s allowance and handing over a key for the kitchen to their preeminent food heister, Antony, seems to have solidified a place of popularity within Maple, even spreading out to these witnesses from Sequoia and Catalpa. 

The expression on Remus’ face when Roman had won—! It surely made up for the disrespect of being shoved into a trough, of all things. And for this indignity to be from Remus’ own suggestion, only to come back to bite him!

Yes, Roman thought, as he gathered his packed-up-sock full of candy, dollars, quarters, and even his own pounds; victory certainly is sweet.

Meanwhile, Remus had finished his run down to the lake, and was standing amidst the lot of them, staring out at the wide expanse of the dock in nothing but his pants.

“Well,” Remus says. “The pièce de résistance.”

Remus seems entirely unaffected as he officially strips down, and begins to run down the dock.

“CANNONBALL!” He bellows, with little care that any dozing counselors might hear him, and tucks himself up into a perfect ball, letting out a truly impressive splash.

“C’mon,” Asher says, “Grab his clothes!”

“Wait—” Roman says, “what—?”

Too late—Monroe is already lunging for Remus’ messily deposited shirt, and Sequoia and Catalpa are scattering for their own cabins, and Asher picks up his pants, and all that’s left are the shoes and everyone’s running—

“Guys!” Roman says, running after them. “Wait!”

But there’s nothing he can do to stop them—he can only keep pace with the rest of them as they bolt back to Maple, clinging tight to his contraband.

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[transbookoftheday]

A Lady's Finder by Edie Cay

Lady Agnes is a scandal, thanks to her sister’s marriage to a prizefighter.

Or rather, she should be, but as a charitable spinster-to-be, she remains firmly invisible, even to those she loves. Always dutiful, Lady Agnes should be the toast of her family, but only if she marries well. Finding the prospect of wedding a man unpalatable, Lady Agnes cannot be the social savior of her sister.

Suddenly, receiving attentions from the unpredictable and surprisingly resourceful Mr. Jack Townsend, Lady Agnes finds herself believing he might love her and not her dowry. After being overlooked for so long, can she believe he cares for her, or is she a means to an end as her family insists?

Jack About Town is London’s best Finder of Lost Things. What few realize is that Jack transcends the spheres of men and women, existing as both, or perhaps neither, sex. True, his most lucrative finds are pornographic artifacts for rich toffs. But now he has found Lady Agnes, a meticulous, generous, knock-down incredible lady who wears men’s boots. Best of all, Lady Agnes accepts him in his entirety—a jewel so rare that even Jack is surprised he could find it.

When Jack is commissioned to steal from Lady Agnes’s cousin, can Jack find a way to prove his love and still earn the money he needs to protect himself and his home?

[masterzmei]

⟨Jon Moxley. Trans male. he/him. 45.⟩ We just saw Zmei Lazarevich entering Haymann’s Distillery. I heard through the grapevine that they are a Sports Writer and Combat Sports Commentator and sometimes go by Koschei the Deathless. Although he is with the media, he can sometimes be envious, demanding, or even belligerent but I’ve also heard some people say that they were (begrudgingly) fatherly, objective and quite disciplined.— Moss. they/them. 23. EST. violence against children (<10)

AESTHETIC | MUSIC | ASK | LONDON FALLING

[sideblog of kingbriar]

STATS

Real name: Zmei Lazarevich [Dead name: Yekaterina]

Code name: Koschei

Alliance: None (could be bought)

Job: former Prizefighter (Heavyweight Boxing champ/No-Gi Grappling & BJJ NAGA champ/etc) and Olympic Boxing Coach, current Sports Writer and Combat Sports Commentator

Age: 45

Physical: 6', 225 lbs

Birthplace: Podolsk, Russia

DOB: December 10, 1978

Star sign: Saggitarius

Gender: Trans Male (he/him)

Sexuality: Demisexual, Biromantic

FC: Jon Moxley

BIOGRAPHY

Second child from a blue collar family on the fringes of Podolsk, both parents worked factory jobs (mother only part time to manage children). Occasionally watched by a neighbor, an unmarried doctor that worked nights and was the first to make some offhand mention of the “mental illness” that led to homosexuality or people believing themselves to be “the wrong gender” and how they were “treated”. He disappeared from his apartment without a trace when Zmei was 10. To this day Zmei thinks about whether that man was gay and trying to help a fellow queer, or was just trying to correct him early.

Factories had been shutting down or laying off mass amounts of workers already as the union fought about 8 wars with itself, but shut down quickly after Communism and the Soviet Union officially fell in 1991. The family was left scrambling. Zmei was 13.

Scrappy kid needs money? Prizefighting is easy to fall into with so many laid off, angry men looking for an excuse to beat someone up. Zmei starts spending more time focusing on strength and technique, and blue collar Russians are Riddled with machismo and unattainable ideas of masculinity. This does not help the transness, especially with having to “pose as a boy” for safety. 

Rising tension within his family and himself pushed Zmei to run away at 16 with some badly forged paperwork and a dream to one of the new democratic states. Moldova was still largely disorganized, and he was able to get some better, if still inconsistent refugee documentation, but it used the name Zmei and listed him as male. He bounced around continental europe a bit before landing in the UK at 18 (1996), where he is able to officially start to medically transition in ‘96-97 (T, Reassignment Surgery, etc) with NHS access

Instead of purely doing illegal prizefighting, Zmei discovers unsanctioned death matches on the Indie wrestling circuit (turns out, gender is stored in a Crimson Mask and a broom wrapped in barbed wire), and various coaches try to take this kid with a lot of Survival Skills in for actual training in a range of styles (Boxing, Brazilian Jiu Jitsu/Submission Grappling, etc) to build technique  so he isn’t so reliant on weapons and blood in matches 

After training for a while, he signs up for a beginner NAGA tournament and does much better than expected, which sparks a Deep competitiveness in him. Focusing in on one title, medal or belt at a time, he trains right with single mindedness and deadly focus that gives him a real sense of calm. Winning is  almost addictive, training almost to the breaking point then collecting a new trophy and starting over again, collecting local/national recognition in both boxing and grappling. A lot of his money still comes from being a punk indie wrestler who’s always willing to bleed or do a wild stipulation match for cash and collecting extra from all the people who bet against him.

In 2015, Zmei was competing in a Master Expert Super-Heavyweight No-Gi NAGA championship, and was put into a deadly knee lock for nearly two minutes. He refused to tap, and eventually was able to power out of it when his opponent tried to shift his grip and win the round by pinfall before collapsing. Forcing his way out of the lock had fractured his patella and pieces of his upper tibia, leading to irreparable damage to both ACL and MCL tendons. To this day, Zmei uses a cane when walking/standing for more than a couple minutes, but he DID. NOT. TAP.

Zmei’s more surprised than anything when he’s contacted by the Underdog’s parents about coaching their son for the upcoming Olympics, then realizes he’s accumulated more practice and skill along with titles and credits than he’d realized and after his injury has gained decent renown in British Combat Sports. Besides, it’s boxing, so as long as he can correct Kaan’s footwork, his coaching doesn’t require his knees to be in top shape.

The fallout of the Embezzlement Scheme hits him hard, especially when people start to investigate to see if he was involved at all, and it suddenly looks Very Suspicious that his immigration paperwork doesn't line up after he technically immigrated illegally to avoid persecution for being queer in post-soviet Russia. The fall from grace isn’t pretty, and he’s messily outed to the public.

He handles it as well as he can. Stays in sports, but tries to disappear a bit, facelessly scripting for the anchors who are actually seen on TV and writing weekly sports columns for the paper. But words are hard and he misses his people, misses the rush of a good match and the infectious primal energy of watching someone bleed. On his own time, he starts guest commentating on indie wrestling shows, which slowly leads back to his old home: illegal dark matches in a seedy basement or old warehouse. Seeing himself in a lot of the scrappy kids trying to make a name for themselves, he starts to coach again, then eventually gets tied up in booking; matching up pure boxing/BJJ/etc if fighters want, but reminding fighters that the audience wants/spends more money on bloodsport.

Despite the state of his knee, training with the wide variety fighters in the underground circuits keeps him sharp. If he wanted, he could absolutely kill a man seven different ways with his cane, standing on one leg. He hopes he won’t have to.

OTHER NOTES

Zmei - name comes from dragons in Russian folklore. Sometimes they are male or female, purely multi-headed serpents or humanoid, and generally very mutable. Trans dragon name. 

Mans whole torso is Covered in various scars, especially from barbed wire, glass, thumbtacks, the Forks™️ etc in death matches. He’s a lil too proud of how well his top surgery scars blend in with the rest, esp 20ish years later

Potential Connections: 

 Underdog - Mr. Miyagi type vibe? once and future coach? They find each other again in illegal fights a couple years later and reconnect?

Tower/Combat types - Fights are always open, grinder needs meat and he’s willing to help them beef up 

Gang Leaders - Zmei is many things, but Rich isn’t one. If needed, this old master could be hired by either gang, or even the govt strike team for the right financial compensation.

Doctors - Mans is chronically in pain from something, whether that’s his knee, a back that’s taken too many bumps, etc or just checking in on his dosage of T that he’s been on for about 20 years.

Casino folks/Gamblers - It's a low form of entertainment, but gladiatorial combat is lucrative. Is the Red Rose casino looking for a business deal? Are they trying to shut this gambling den down, or completely neutral to a Neutral party?

[radio-ghost-cooks]

if my ocs had theme songs pt 1

Tarou - Heaven Knows I'm Miserable Now by The Smiths

everyone would assume that since he's famous and fabulously wealthy he's pretty happy! but due to that fame, Tarou is seen as untouchable and his father's put so much pressure on him to find "the perfect girl" that he's scared to pursue love once he does find it, even though it's the one thing he really wants

Hanako - Nobody Makes Sense by Pinocchio-P

Hanako has a really hard time relating to the people around them due to being raised in London's East End and suddenly being surrounded by rich and important people. they've all but lost sight of why they love life, but then Leo shows up and reminds them how beautiful the world is, even if people rarely make any sense to them

Hajime - Odo by Ado

Hajime regularly participates in prizefighting, and honestly enjoys it, even if he gets hurt quite a bit. his fighting prowess has led to him becoming quite a bit arrogant and just a little rude, however. he recognized it was happening and tried to change it, but he couldn't break it for a very long time

Leo - Kimi Wa Dekinai Ko (You Are A Useless Child) by Kikuo

as a child, Leo had a very hard time communicating his needs with his parents and teachers, leading them to assume that he's incapable and stupid. really, he's very bright and creative, with clothing design coming naturally to him. finally, after seeing just what Leo can do, people are realizing they had him all wrong; they just refused to listen to him.

[triviareads]

I want to try historical romance because some of the books you blog about sounded interesting but I don't want anything too old or hard to read. I prefer books with medium spice (my favorite YA is Red White & Royal Blue and I like Elle Kennedy).

Do you have suggestions for me?

Hi! A lot of historicals in my experience fall in that "medium spice" bucket in that there are a handful of quality sex scenes sprinkled throughout the book. Of course, they're a bit more explicit than new adult books like RWRB, but still "medium spice" in my opinion. Full disclose I have not read Elle Kennedy but I've been informed as to what you can expect from her books in terms of sex stuff, so here are my recs accordingly:

Try Sarah MacLean— she's been writing HR for over a decade and her voice feels relatively contemporary while still delivering an immersive historical setting. I'd strongly recommend starting with Nine Rules to Break When Romancing a Rake. It's all about a woman taking back control of her own life rather than succumbing to passivity, and the hero is very smooth and very very hot. And it has great fat rep.

After that, Sarah's Rule of Scoundrels series is definitely worth checking out since it introduces you to the underworld side of the subgenre as it's centered around a gambling hell. My favorites are A Rogue By Any Other Name (childhood friends who fell out, and he forcibly marries her for her land and now doesn't know what to do because Feelings) and One Good Earl Deserves A Lover (nerdy heroine seeks out gambling hell co-owner for sex lessons). If you want to get even more grittier, her Bareknuckle Bastards series is about three siblings who escape their evil father and become prizefighters in London and eventually come to "rule" the underworld. My favorite is Brazen and the Beast, which is about a businesswoman and one of the siblings (named Beast!) whose first meeting involves her finding him tied up in her carriage, them kissing, and her promptly shoving him out said carriage.

Sarah's latest Hell's Belles series has the most contemporary tone because it's about a feminist vigilante girl gang righting gender/class/race/sexuality-based wrongs of the era. My favorites in this series are Heartbreaker (a social chameleon heroine who breaks unwanted society matches and a stern brunch daddy duke who has always *seen* her), and Knockout (sunshine heroine who specializes in explosives, and a grumpy cop hero), which just came out.

Adriana Herrera writes gorgeous historical romances that feel so classic while also proving to naysayers that you can write diverse characters and settings without feeling anachronistic. A Caribbean Heiress in Paris has a Dominican heroine who is in Paris to sell rum from her distillery, and enters into a marriage of convenience with a Scottish whisky distiller.

I'd also rec Adriana's An Island Princess Starts A Scandal— it's a sapphic romance between a silver fox heroine/railway magnate and a Venezuelan heiress who asks her to take her around Parisian lesbian hotspots in exchange for land critical to a railroad.

Since you like Red, White, and Royal Blue, I'd recommend checking out K.J. Charles, who writes m/m historical romances that are humorous and have great banter while still packing suuuuch an emotional punch. The Secret Lives of Country Gentlemen is about a baronet who finds himself being blackmailed by his smuggler ex-hook-up, but end up working together. A Nobleman's Guide to Seducing a Scoundrel is the next book in the series and comes out September 19th— it's a romance between a new earl and the smuggler-secretary he hires, and I'm obsessed (here is my review).

Vivienne Lorret's Mating Habits of Scoundrels series also deliver on the humor and banter along with girl gang shenanigans and great romances. My favorites are My Kind of Earl (a nerdy heroine/bit o'rough hero with a side of beetroot bombs) and How to Steal a Scoundrel's Heart (the heroine is "ruined" and agrees to be the hero's mistress except, well, Feelings).

Also! If you want to try out the genre by starting with novellas, Alexandra Vasti's Halifax Hellions series is free if you subscribe to her newsletter. It has all the hits spread out across three books: best friend's brother who's secretly in love with the heroine, an older, kinky hero who hates himself for wanting to "corrupt" a heroine who absolutely wants it, and a heroine who makes up a husband for Reasons only to find out that he's real... and she must fake-marry him.

[bibliobethblog]

Hello everyone, happy Friday to you all! I’m off work now until Wednesday so that’s the perfect excuse to hopefully get a lot of reading done. Here’s three new beautiful hardbacks I’ve added to my TBR. I’ve only read one Kate Atkinson book before (currently re-reading Life After Life) but am determined to catch up on all her books. This is her latest release and I’m planning to buddy read it with @emmasbookishcorner at some point! Set in the Roaring Twenties in London in a country still recovering from the Great War, London is the focus for a delirious nightlife. In Soho clubs, peers of the realm rub shoulders with starlets, foreign dignitaries with gangsters and girls sell dances for a shilling a time. Nellie Coker is a ruthless ruler, ambitious for her six children. But success breeds enemies. Beneath the gaiety lies a dark underbelly, where one may be all too easily lost. Confession time - the middle book was a total cover/title buy. I #kellvery little about it before I decided I had to have it. Luckily the synopsis was just as good as I had hoped. In an alternate world, We learn about a Mass Dragoning in 1955 where 300,000 women spontaneously transform into dragons…and change the world. Finally, I was eager to get my hands on Demon Copperhead as soon as I heard it was being released. It has been described as a once in a generation novel that breaks and mends your heart in the way only the best fiction can. A boy is born during a traumatic birth to his single mother in a single-wide trailer looking like “a little blue prizefighter.” Raised in poverty and growing up in the middle of the modern opioid crisis, Demon is born on the wrong side of luck, the affection and safety he craves is as remote as the ocean he dreams of seeing one day. The wonder is how far he’s willing to travel in order to get there. I’m also planning on buddy reading this with @emmasbookishcorner I’d love to know your thoughts on any of these books or authors. Let’s have a chat in the comments! #bookstagramuk #scottishbookstagrammer #morebookslessproblems #shrinesofgaiety #kateatkinson #whenwomenweredragons #kellybarnhill #demoncopperhead #barbarakingsolver #booksicantwaittoread https://www.instagram.com/p/CmhLQgwrk1Y/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[freedformwriter]

Sunday, 18 August

Pitched above the incessant cry of seagulls, a child chortles with uncontained glee as they watch a RNLI tractor pull a lifeboat in across the Margate harbour. That’s funny, is it? asks the dad. Yes, obvious. It is a tractor in the sea. Such nonsense. But delightful nonsense. I sit on the shallow steps that ring the harbour and extend the Turner Contemporary – that definitive flagship of coastal regeneration – and watch the combination of the high tide and the high season. It’s a windy morning, so it has to be the sheer ease of access that’s lured people in. They don’t swim but continue standing and chatting with their land-based peers. A woman about my age bumps down the stairs, steering a bike with one hand and holding an ice cream in the other without hesitation or misstep. She radiates physical hardihood from her practical t-shirt – shout out to Brixton cycles – to her sure-footed scandals. A hot flare of jealously goes through me. But the prevailing mood is flip-flop frivolity. A mixed group of a half a dozen friends move through, taking up lots of space and making inexorable for the water. One man hops awkwardly ahead to dip his hands into the sea. His performative splash of one woman is well received by the group. This christening performed, they are off. He trips coming back up the stairs and swears. Polish, I decide. A very slim person arrives wearing full coverage pink fuzzy gloves, along with a pink tank and shorts. Gender is a nonsense, obviously, but in deference to the entirely pink outfit I am going with she/he. She carefully peels off the fuzzy gloves, fishes out her mobile, and starts a conversation about how she’s flushed her other mobile down the toilet. She didn’t even notice until she went looking for it. The brain fog has been that bad. Yes, mate. I’m going to take your advice. I’m going to do it, she promises. Static amid these arrivals and departures, a family sits in front of me, replete with pram and bulging beach bags. The four-year-old poses for a selfie with her mother, pointing to her wide grin with an index finger like a prizefighter.

I’ve finished my tea that I brought out in a keep cup. Walking back down King Street, I pass the medley of boutique restaurants and consignment shops. New Zealand flags festoon the Real Fruit Ice Cream corner shop. It’s real fruit ice cream, an older woman walking in front of me observes, that must mean it’s healthier. And that’s why the owner of this chain now lives in a plush pad in Ramsgate. I push open the door to my borrowed home. The front room is peerless Down From London chic complete with eclectic vintage furniture, a prominently displayed record player with the correct vinyl displayed, and, more of a novelty, a fishbowl full of vegan condoms. It’s this sex positive entrepreneurship that made the move possible. Moving to the player, I lower the needle and dial the volume up. For all its hipster affect, Avalon is a damn good record,

[historicalbeauties]

Bare-Knuckle Matches

Boxing has a long and storied history, rising and falling in popularity through the ages due to a variety of influences. The first recorded fight took place in London in 1681, a bare-knuckle match that is the forerunner of modern boxing. But early boxing did not have the same rules as today’s sport. It was extremely violent, allowing moves that included eye-gouges, head butts, choking and more; some boxers died as a result. It was in this atmosphere that Elizabeth Wilkinson Stokes and other women in the U.K. took up the sport.

Female Boxers Enter the Ring

Although Stokes probably had fights that went undocumented, the first appearance of her name in print came in 1722, when she beat Hannah Hyfield in a 22-minute match. In the fashion of the day, men and women boxers promoted themselves by boasting about their abilities while challenging other fighters. Stokes called herself the “European Championess” and fought at various venues. While challenges to fight were printed in newspapers throughout England, the bouts themselves were not covered. However, it appears Stokes remained undefeated throughout her career.

Women Boxers Fight in Pairs Matches

Boxing was a popular event in Great Britain, and although many did not favor the inclusion of women in the sport, others supported and even reveled in it. Elizabeth also fought in pairs matches with her husband, James Stokes. It was common during the early 18th century for female boxers to marry and fight alongside their husbands in couples’ events throughout the British Isles. Some of the contests during Elizabeth Stokes’ career include:

Stokes vs. Hanna Hyfield, 1722, in Hockley, England

Stokes vs. Mary Welch, 1726, at Stokes’ amphitheater in London

Elizabeth and James Stokes vs. Mary Welch of Ireland and future husband, Robert Baker, 1727, in London

Stokes vs. Ann Field, 1728, in Stoke Newington Parish, England

Elizabeth and James Stokes vs. Sarah and Thomas Barret of Ireland, 1728

Elizabeth and James Stokes vs. Mary Waller and Charles Wright, 1729

Weapons were also used in some of these early boxing matches before specific general rules were established. Although most of her bouts were boxing-only events, Stokes was also known for her skills in using a dagger and short sword.

The Entertainment Aspect

Boxing was banned in other European countries until the early 19th century. While it grew in popularity elsewhere during the 1800s, female boxers fell out of favor in England, perhaps due to an evangelical Christianity movement that sent the sport underground. Female martial artists became a form of entertainment and were seen mainly in night clubs and shows. Yet there had always been some sensationalism in promoting women boxers. An advertisement for one of Stokes’ 1726 bouts said the participants would fight in petticoats that fell just below the knee, drawers, stockings and pumps.

First World Championship Bout

Women’s boxing saw its first world championship bout in New York City in 1888, between Alice Leary and Hattie Leslie. The fight was ferocious, with both combatants receiving black eyes before Leslie won the match. The press belittled the women and the event. They caused such a commotion in the community that both women, plus Leslie’s husband and many others, were arrested and charged with “aiding and abetting a prizefight.” Yet female boxers continued to participate in the sport, and the 1904 Olympics, held in St. Louis, hosted an exhibition match.

^Hattie Leslie

[anythingtowin]

Jack Dempsey, then the former heavyweight champion and retired, works out with "The Golden Greek" Jim Londos, well-known professional wrestler.

#anythingtowin #pugilism #bkb #pugilist #bareknuckle #boxing #ultimatefightingmanual #ufm #boxer #boxingtraining #martialarts #bareknucklefc #bareknuckle #bareknuckleboxing #ukbkb #kindle #selfdefence #fight #fighting #streetfighter #fighting #ufc #mma #combatsports #bkfc #trainingmanual #bareknucklefighting #devlin #bigal #bigaldevlin

[extasiswings]

I got a bit distracted between the safe haven baby fics and updating the Woke Up Married fic and writer’s block + life has been crazy but! Have an update!

Chapters: 5/? Rating: E for eventually Relationships: Evan "Buck" Buckley/Eddie Diaz (9-1-1 TV) Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Eventual Smut, Romance, I Don't Know Where All This Plot Came From But Here We Are, Canon-Typical Violence

Summary:

Evan Buckley, Marquess of Holbrook, hasn’t moved regularly in polite society for years—not since his sister, the Duchess of Kendall, disappeared only three years after her marriage to the duke. Instead, he vanished as well, into the dark underbelly of London, ultimately re-emerging as one of four owners of London’s most exclusive gambling hell, where secrets are currency as much as money itself. But within the walls of 118 Bow Street, the question remains—is the young lord looking for redemption? Or revenge…?

Eddie Diaz, displaced American and Covent Garden prizefighter, has a reputation for being unbeatable—or at least, he did before he started losing. But not all is as it seems, and the Hellfire Club happens to be in need of a man in a ring…

When worlds collide and secrets are revealed, will the lives of both men change for the better? Or will everything they hold dear go up in flames?

[handeaux]

Legendary Pugilist John L. Sullivan Won A Championship In A Cincinnati Bout

Off the top of your head, without consulting your phone, can you name any of today’s heavyweight boxing champions?

In 1890, everyone knew the name and fame of John L. Sullivan. He was a frequent visitor to Cincinnati and was easily the most famous celebrity of that era. “Jawn L.” was so famous, the people who shook his hand became celebrities themselves. "Let me shake the hand of the man who shook the hand of John L. Sullivan" became a Victorian catchphrase.

Sullivan is remembered as the first and the last. He was the first heavyweight champion of gloved boxing and is also recognized as the last heavyweight champion of bare-knuckle boxing. Sullivan was enormously successful, the first American athlete to earn more than $1 million in his lifetime. Depending on which boxing historian you consult, Sullivan may have earned the first heavyweight crown awarded under the Marquess of Queensberry Rules by winning a fight right here in Cincinnati.

That fight actually occurred just outside Cincinnati. Boxing, although enormously popular throughout the 1800s, was mostly illegal. When word got around that Sullivan was booked to take on Dominick McCaffrey at Chester Park out on Spring Grove Avenue, he was arrested on a warrant sworn by Cincinnati’s Law and Order League under an Ohio law prohibiting prizefighting. McCaffrey went into hiding at a roadhouse near the Zoological Gardens to escape a similar detention.

Sullivan was hauled into the courtroom of Judge Alex B. Huston and testified that he was indeed scheduled to fight McCaffrey, but only in a sparring demonstration. The dubious judge was eventually convinced on learning this “sparring” match would have both pugilists wearing gloves. Since almost all boxing up to then had been conducted under the bare-knuckles London Prize Ring Rules, Judge Huston agreed that the gloved bout did not constitute a real prizefight and could proceed.

Nearly 15,000 spectators packed the grounds and grandstand at Chester Park on 29 August 1885. Although it was later developed as an amusement resort, Chester Park at that time was basically a large horse-racing track. (“Chester” was the proprietor’s favorite horse.)

Sullivan and McCaffrey slogged through seven mostly indecisive rounds until the referee called the contest in Sullivan’s favor. Although many, including the Enquirer, objected to that decision, it was eventually agreed that Sullivan had fairly won on points, if not style. After pocketing $1,000 and a commemorative ring, McCaffrey conceded that Sullivan was the legitimate world champion – the first title achieved while wearing gloves.

Just four years later, Sullivan won the last title fight conducted without gloves, against Jake Kilrain in 1889. He finally lost his championship titles to “Gentleman” Jim Corbett in 1892. Throughout his career, Sullivan augmented his boxing earnings on the vaudeville circuit. Sullivan’s on-stage performances attracted quite a few feminine fans, including the “Jersey Lily,” Mrs. Lillie Langtry. As Al Thayer of the Cincinnati Enquirer related the incident in his 1894 book, “Ah There! Pickings from Lobby Chatter,” Mrs. Langtry and drama critic Mary H. Fiske, who wrote under the pen name “Giddy Gusher,” wangled their way into a private meeting with the champ through black-face comedian Lew Dockstader:

“Lew Dockstader told me a good story on John L. Sullivan, the other day, that has never been published. While the champion was in training for one of his matches, Mrs. Fiske, “The Giddy Gusher,” now deceased, told Lew she would like to go to his training quarters and take Mrs. Langtry with her, the latter being very desirous of seeing Sullivan. Lew and John were old friends and the latter said he would be glad to meet the ladies. On their arrival at the Sullivan quarters they were introduced, and, after shaking hands, the champion said: “Ladies, would you like to see me strip?” Of course he meant to show them his muscle, but the “Jersey Lily” was “not on” and she blushed to the roots of her hair. “The Gusher” winked at Lew and said: “We should be proud to.” And Sully stripped.”

For most of his career, Sullivan was a notorious drinker, and it was another stage performance that brought Sullivan and his appetite for demon rum to Cincinnati in 1891. The Cincinnati Enquirer (23 Apr 1891) tells the tale:

"John L. Sullivan made a spectacle of himself during the performance given by his company at the People's Theater last night that was not edifying. Among other things, he said he was drunk, and glad of it."

According to the newspaper, Sullivan was registered at the Gibson House but spent most of his time at Belle Curry's bordello on Broadway. Madam Curry might well have wished the big lug had confined himself to the Gibson, because Sullivan made a mess of her "resort." He kicked over a tray of glasses, beat up an employee named Fannie Frazier, demolished chairs and other furnishings.

Word of the champ's exploits reached Cincinnati Police Chief Philip Dietsch, who decided to take matters into his own hands. The Chief marched down to the People's Theater and confronted Sullivan.

"Sullivan," Chief Dietsch said, "you are a fine specimen of manhood. I wish I was as big and I would tackle you myself."

"You are a good sized little man yourself," said Sullivan, "but you will have to excuse me; I have been drinking."

The Chief agreed that Sullivan had been imbibing, a good deal.

"Well, I am not the worst fellow in the world," Sullivan said, "and I am not as bad as people say I am."

Chief Dietsch called it a draw and Sullivan continued to enjoy the freedom of the city. The Enquirer opined that Sullivan should appreciate the courtesy he was shown, but one imagines that Chief Dietsch was relieved not to engage in fisticuffs with the former heavyweight champion of the world.

[justforbooks]

Sean Connery, Oscar Winner and James Bond Star, Dies at 90

Sean Connery, the Scottish-born actor who rocketed to fame as James Bond and became one of the franchise’s most popular and enduring international stars, has died. He was 90.

Connery, long regarded as one of the best actors to have portrayed the iconic spy, was knighted by Queen Elizabeth II in 2000 and marked his 90th birthday in August. His death was confirmed by his family, according to the BBC, which notes that the actor died in his sleep while in the Bahamas. It’s believed he had been unwell for some time. His last acting role had been in Stephen Norrington’s “The League of Extraordinary Gentleman” (2003).

Connery was an audience favorite for more than 40 years and one of the screen’s most reliable and distinctive leading men. The actor was recently voted the best James Bond actor in an August Radio Times poll in the U.K. More than 14,000 voted and Connery claimed 56% of the vote. Global tributes poured in for Connery on Saturday following news of his death.

In a statement, Bond producers Michael G. Wilson and Barbara Broccoli said Connery “was and shall always be remembered as the original James Bond whose indelible entrance into cinema history began when he announced those unforgettable words, ‘The name’s Bond… James Bond.’

“He revolutionized the world with his gritty and witty portrayal of the sexy and charismatic secret agent. He is undoubtedly largely responsible for the success of the film series and we shall be forever grateful to him,” said the producers.

However, Connery — who made his debut in the first Bond film, “Dr. No” (1962) — also transcended Ian Fleming’s sexy Agent 007, and went on to distinguish himself with a long and mature career in such films as “The Wind and the Lion” (1975), “The Man Who Would Be King” (1975) and “Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade” (1989).

His turn as a tough Irish cop in Depression-era Chicago in Brian De Palma’s “The Untouchables” (1987) brought him a supporting actor Oscar.

Even as he entered his seventh decade, Connery’s star power remained so strong that he was constantly in demand and handsomely remunerated. In 1999 he was selected People magazine’s Sexiest Man of the Century, and from his 007 days to “Entrapment” (1999), opposite the much-younger Catherine Zeta-Jones, his screen roles more than justified the choice. Age seemed only to intensify his sex appeal and virility.

In his early career, his physique was his main asset as he modeled and picked up acting jobs where he could. In 1956, he landed the role of a battered prizefighter in the BBC production of “Requiem for a Heavyweight.” Good notices brought him to the attention of the entertainment community, and his first film was “No Road Back,” a B crime movie in 1956. He seemed doomed to play the hunk to ageing leading ladies, as he did opposite Lana Turner in “Another Time, Another Place,” or roles that stressed his looks such as “Tarzan’s Great Adventure” in 1959.

It was easy to dismiss him in films like “Darby O’Gill and the Little People,” but his Count Vronsky to Claire Bloom’s Anna Karenina on the BBC brought him some respect and the kind of attention needed to raise him to the top of the Daily Express’ poll of readers asked to suggest the ideal James Bond.

After an interview with producers Albert Broccoli and Harry Saltzman, he landed the role without a screen test, according to Saltzman. It was a controversial choice at the time, as Connery was an unknown outside Britain. But 1962’s “Dr. No,” the first of the Bond films, made him an international star.

His stature grew with the ever more popular sequels “From Russia With Love,” “Goldfinger” and “Thunderball,” which arrived over the next four years. Bond gave Connery a license to earn; he was paid only $30,000 for “Dr. No” but $400,000 for Alfred Hitchcock’s “Marnie” and was soon getting $750,000 a film.

His initial efforts to break out of the Bond mold, however, proved fruitless. Films like “A Fine Madness,” “Shalako” and “The Molly Maguires” were well-intentioned attempts that did nothing to shake Connery as Bond from the public consciousness. After 1967’s “You Only Live Twice,” he left the Bond franchise, but he was coaxed back for 1971’s “Diamonds Are Forever.” He looked old for the role, and the series seemed tired, so with that, he left Bond behind — though money would tempt him back once last time in 1983 for “Never Say Never Again.”

He took a major misstep with sci-fi film “Zardoz,” and his career seemed to be foundering.

But he bounced back in 1974 with a supporting role in “Murder on the Orient Express” and the following year with “The Wind and the Lion” and “The Man Who Would Be King,” two bold adventures featuring a mature, salt-and-pepper-bearded Connery. “Robin and Marian” (1976) opposite Audrey Hepburn was not a popular success, but critics embraced it, and the film cemented Connery’s reputation as a versatile, serious screen actor.

In the late 1970s, there were more missteps such as “Meteor,” “A Bridge Too Far” and “Cuba.” But he scored in Terry Gilliam’s “Time Bandits.” It wasn’t until after his last Bond film that his standing as a box office star caught up to his critical reputation, thanks mostly to two huge worldwide hits: “Highlander,” which was not a big hit in the U.S., and “The Name of the Rose,” which was also much more popular abroad.

BAFTA gave him a best actor award for “Name of the Rose,” and he received his Oscar for “The Untouchables.” After that, he was an instant greenlight any time he agreed to take a role even if some of them, such as “The Presidio,” and “Family Business,” were not so hot.

Pairing Connery and Harrison Ford as father and son in the third “Indiana Jones” film was an inspired move, and the film grossed almost half a billion dollars worldwide.

Meanwhile, “The Hunt for Red October,” in which Connery played a defecting Soviet sub captain, was also a major hit in 1990.

By the 1990s, he was so popular that his uncredited cameo as King Richard in “Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves” became one of the film’s highlights.

He was still a force to contend with in the foreign market, as “Highlander 2,” “Medicine Man,” “Rising Sun,” “Just Cause” and “First Knight” proved over the next several years. His salary was regularly $5 million and above.

One setback was a bout with throat cancer in the early 1990s, but Connery rebounded with a burst of activity. He starred with Nicolas Cage in 1996 actioner “The Rock,” playing a character that drew more than a little on his history as James Bond. In 2000, he essayed a very different role and received positive reviews for “Finding Forrester,” playing a reclusive writer who bonds with a young black basketball player who’s an aspiring scribe himself.

Nevertheless, he continued with action roles well after his 70th birthday, playing the legendary adventurer Allan Quatermain in 2003’s “The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen.” He announced his retirement in 2005. He voiced a James Bond videogame the same year, and he subsequently did some other voice acting, playing the title character in the animated short “Sir Billi the Vet” and reprising the role in 2010 for “Sir Billi,” which he also exec produced.

Thomas Sean Connery was born of Irish ancestry in the slums of Edinburgh on Aug. 25, 1930. Poverty robbed him of an education, and by his teens he’d left school and was working as an unskilled laborer.

At 17, he was drafted into the Royal Navy, but he was discharged three years later due to a serious case of ulcers.

He returned to Edinburgh and worked a variety of jobs, including as a lifeguard. He took up bodybuilding and placed third in the 1950 Mr. Universe competition.

After moving to London, he learned of an opening in the chorus of “South Pacific.” He took a crash dancing and singing course and, surprisingly, landed the role, in which he stayed for 18 months. He was “hooked,” he said, but spent several years paying his dues in small repertory companies in and around London before anyone else became hooked on him.

Connery was devoted to his native Scotland and used his stature to press for the re-establishment of a Scottish parliament. When the body reconvened in 1999, 296 years after its last meeting, Connery was invited to address the first session, where he was greeted with a thunderous ovation. The next year, when he was knighted by Queen Elizabeth II — an honor he called “one of the proudest days of my life” — he asked that the investiture be performed in Edinburgh.

Connery published his autobiography, “Being a Scot,” co-written with Murray Grigor, in 2008. Besides his knighthood and his Academy Award, he received many kudos over his long career, including the Kennedy Center Honors in 1999 and the American Film Institute’s lifetime achievement award in 2006.

Connery was married to actress Diane Cilento from 1962-73. The couple divorced in 1973 and Cilento died in 2011. Connery is survived by his second wife, painter Micheline Roquebrune, whom he married in 1975; his son by Cilento, actor Jason Connery; and a grandson from Jason’s marriage to actress Mia Sara.

Daily inspiration. Discover more photos at http://justforbooks.tumblr.com

[dishearteningmediocrity]

I haven't seen anyone post this interview with Colin Clive before, and it's quite a good one. So anyway, here's an article from the Birmingham News-Age-Herald on March 4, 1934, written by Gladys Baker. The text might be kind of hard to read, so here's a transcript. (I didn't transcribe the other article about May Robson, so apologies to all you May Robson fanatics out there; let me know and I will do it):

“Gotham’s Matinee Idol: Colin Clive” By Gladys Baker, Special Correspondent to The Birmingham News-Age-Herald

New York--Today when no man is a hero either in fiction or the theater unless he has robbed a bank or murdered his grandmother it is a welcome relief to find a man who is a “gentleman” in all that the word implies.

I am speaking of Colin Clive. His personality and very fine work as the leading man in “The Lake,” the Katharine Hepburn play, made me insinuate my way back stage to his dressing room to find out if he (like the very careful Camille) were two different persons “off stage and on.”

I found a charming, ingenuous young man who looks as if there were so much more he could say--if he would.

My job was to make him say it!

Clive is tall. His eyes are very deep blue and very alive. Hard eyes to fathom. His manner rather shy, but delightful. After offering cigarets and a highball (Englishmen I’ve noticed have a sense of Southern hospitality!) we started talking about the theater.

The inevitable question: “Why did you go on the stage?”

“Why does anybody do anything? My family were all army people--members of the Bengal Lancers--and I was in the army until a smashed knee wrote finis to that.” (and now I knew the reason of that limp which has been described by some as a romantic pose).

“Then I landed in London job hunting. That is the obvious reason, but of course, knee or no knee, I would eventually have come to it. That inner urge that makes a man paint, write, or go in for sculpturing, was unconsciously driving me in that direction.”

He smiled--no, laughed. “Lord, but I was pretty awful in the beginning. Only, 10 years of repertory cured me of that--I mean my worse faults.”

“You believe in repertory, then?”

“It is the only thing. It is necessary, it is absolutely essential if a person wants to become a first-rate actor. Without repertory background I would never have dared attempt ‘Journey’s End’!”

It was Mr. Clive’s interpretation of the leading character in “Journey’s End” which established him in London’s inner circle known as “Artists of the Theater.”

He belongs to the thinkers of the stage. He can stay perfectly quiet during a scene and makes his audience think with him. He plays always with a fine restraint and a sympathy which communicates itself definitely. He is one of those rare persons who can play an entire scene with his back to the footlights and still dominate the stage.

Actresses have told me of his great generosity--speaking in the vernacular of stage folks--he does not try to steal the show.

*****

He is modest, almost to a fault, and is embarrassed at praise. I spoke of his excellent work in the movies. He said: “Sheer luck. I really don’t know anything about movie technique--the theater, perhaps--but I’ve been doing that for 16 years.”

Nevertheless he has made such a name for himself in the cinema that in the last six weeks three of the major companies have been bidding for his services. Warner Brothers won. He leaves Sunday morning for Hollywood and the Warner lot.

“Monday, I start the ‘Key,’ with Edna Best and beyond the first scene I’m entirely ignorant of the play. What a marvelous country you are!” He laughed and then grew serious again. “That is all right for me, for I’m a hardened sinner, but for beginners who suddenly find themselves facing big parts with no experience to help them, it is not an easy task. Those who have the real stuff win but they are the exception. The screen like the stage is beginning to demand experience from its actors.”

“Acting is a whole time job. There is more to it than the casual observer would think. The layman doesn’t realize for instance that the well modulated voice that he hears from the stage or the screen is the result of many tedious hours spent in coaching under voice culturists. The rhythm, grace of movement is not just a gift from the gods but is gained from well trained muscles--the outcome of daily sports or calisthenics.”

“Don’t you ever feel the need of relaxation?” I asked.

“Yes,” he smiled, “actors are only human after all. I find mine mostly in reading.”

This hobby was not surprising for I had been told that whenever a friend of his becomes ill that instead of the usual boxes from confectioners and florists he sends books by his favorite authors: Victor Hugo, Anatole France and Voltaire.

Noting a bottle of brandy on his dressing table, I asked him if he found liquor necessary as a stimulant for his work.

“No, the actor who must get his inspiration from a bottle of liquor finds himself in the same place that a business man of the same habits would find himself in. For acting is a business and dependability one of the chief assets. However, that doesn’ t mean that I’m a teetotler--drink has a good place in life.”

***

Among his best friends are Edna Best, Herbert Marshall, and Noel Coward--all of whom are his near neighbors in Kent, where he has a country place. He’s really a gregarious person. He refuses even to have breakfast alone. Found in that position he postpones the breaking of his fast until a congenial companion is annexed.

Another sport he enjoys is prizefighting. In fact, his first choice for the film-of-the-year would be “The Prizefighter and the Lady” (which showed in Birmingham as “The Conquering Sex”). It is testimony to his acting adaptability that he came straight from parts in musical comedy (“Rose Marie” and “Show Boat”) and created the dramatic role of Capt. Stanhope in “Journey’s End.” After which he played in “Overture,” a play written by one of his closest friends--the late William Bolitho.

This adaptability extends likewise to his geographical adjustment. “For the last six years I’ve practically commuted between London, New York and Hollywood. If it’s possible, I always go by plane.” He is one of the few movie celebrities on the coast who refuses to sign a long-term contract. One picture is all any company can be sure of his services. Tactfully he admitted that he disliked playing in the cinema. “One never gets the same reaction from the screen as you do from having an audience right close up.”

I ventured to ask about the “leading lady”--not of the stage or cinema--but of his own life.

“She’s not easy to describe,” he said earnestly. “I suppose you would call her a brunette, for her hair is dark, very dark and slightly bobbed except about the ears; she has deep, understanding eyes…”

“Oh” excitedly, “an Italian beauty?”

He threw back his head and laughed, really in a most un-British gesture. “No, to tell the truth this lady who rules my life is from Scotland--”

“Oh!”

Another merry laugh: “You see I’m speaking of my little Scotch terrier, ‘Brenda,’ who really makes a slave of me.”

Having had his joke he told me about his wife. She is a charming French woman who prefers life in Europe to “commuting” about the world with her celebrated husband. It is not as unusual as it sounds that Clive should have chosen a wife with Gallic ancestry since his own early life was passed entirely among French people. In fact, until he was 6 years old his vocabulary included not a single word of English.

[thedefinitionofwarlock]

‘Headcanons’ - Other Recurring Canon Characters

Dr. John Heimdall Watson

human

somewhere in his 30′s

typically considered average in appearance, though some think his moustache unattractive

soul-blade:  Ossifer  (shard of bone, barely larger than a toothpick)

was sent to the Battle of Maiwand in Afghanistan, where he ended up shot through the left shoulder; contracted ‘enteric fever’ from the filthy conditions of the hospital at Peshawar, lost a dangerous amount of weight; once he recovered he was discharged from the army

ended up back in London, nearly penniless and in desperate need of employment, proper nourishment, and a permanent place to live; his old school acquaintance Stamford introduced him to Warlock Holmes  (or more like, pushed Watson onto Warlock so he could move out of 221B and be ‘freed’ from Warlock’s unusual company)

Watson agreed to move in, especially upon learning he would only have to pay one sovereign, once, for the entirety of his rent - as well as move in at exactly midnight and walk in backwards over the threshold

was given the far larger of the two bedrooms, while Warlock occupied the almost closet-sized other

he noticed several strange things occurring around Warlock but ignored them, until the latter received a ‘message’ from Moriarty’s entrapped soul and a letter from Inspector Grogsson both talking about a murder case; Watson tagged along and ended up being an immense help; since then, he’s gotten more and more involved in cases and dealing with the supernatural/magical world

Mrs. Hudson

human

in her 70′s

barely 4 feet tall, wears battered pink house slippers; was “a tough old spinster, as advanced in age as she was regressed in height and interpersonal skills”, with “the eyes of a weasel, the heart of a shrew, and a scowl to rival any of the grand inquisitors who had so troubled Spain in the 1400s”

would sometimes appear unannounced outside the door to their rooms, staring with supreme disapproval at whoever first opened it

was a very avid collector of French smut novels, which she attempted to conceal around the house

Warlock and Watson agreed to only rely on her for the washing of dirty dishes - though even these would sometimes be returned in pieces, as if broken out of spite

Inspector Vladislav Lestrade

vampire

true age unknown; appears to be in his mid-50′s

small, pale, and hunched, with beady eyes, a Romanian accent, and a wide maw of overlapping fangs (usually speaks in a tight-lipped fashion to hide his teeth)

often has a complaint for every occasion

holds ‘annihilist’ views - believes there should be nothing, would happily destroy all of creation (even himself) if given the power - yet still quietly values being considered a friend

an Inspector of the London police force, has risen to the position through his knowledge of blood and assistance from Warlock and Grogsson - though his success is resented among his Scotland Yard peers

Inspector Torg Grogsson

ogre

age unknown

stands at least 7, even 8 feet tall; difficult for suits to fit his thickly-muscled body; has coarse brown body hair and sandpapery stubble on his chin

often has his fists wrapped in cloth like a prizefighter’s, also wears a battered bowler hat (dented from repeatedly hitting his head against doorframes he walks through)

has an intense admiration for gentle and graceful people

speaks basic English

has a tasteful eye for interior decoration

often easily falls for women, especially if they’re pretty and kind-hearted

an Inspector of the London police force, rose to his position through his skill at intimidating criminals into confessing and assistance from Warlock and Lestrade - though his success is also resented among his Scotland Yard peers

Irene Adler

human

likely in her late 20′s/early 30′s

rather attractive; has piercing green eyes and quite short brown hair (to make it easier to wear wigs in her disguises)

‘adventuress’ and a vaunted contralto

grew up poor and orphaned, taken in by Moriarty in her youth, but has now gone her own way and has her own aims

current possessor of both the Heart and the Cruciator, after murdering Godfrey Norton

has become a sort of nemesis to Watson, as she sometimes foils his plans or is involved in cases

seeks “the answer to the human question ... How can we make ourselves happy? Fulfilled? How can we win this strange game we find ourselves thrust into?”

Professor James Moriarty

sorcerer

age unknown

used to appear as an austere, black-clad man with small dark eyes; current appearance changes, as his soul/concept possesses various people

soul-blade:  Kullek  (blade roughly the size of a butter knife)

mastermind of various criminal enterprises, often gives his agents magical artifacts to further facilitate such deeds

seeks a form of immortality - wants to exist at every point in history, in every dimension; can’t bear not to know a thing and doesn’t want to miss out on any of it, including dying in various ways; simply put, he wants omniscience

was Warlock’s ‘master’ back in the mid-1600s for a while; abandoned him after the fifth ley line was opened beneath Baskerville Hall in 1643; took him on to not only teach some control but to learn how to turn base metals into gold, abused and maltreated Warlock when the boy was repeatedly unable to properly explain the process

had his physical body killed by Warlock’s soul-blade some time later, cast down into a deep well; his soul/self-concept survived, though, and for a long time was entrapped within the threads of Warlock’s own soul

when the soulbinder Milverton died (murdered by Irene Adler), enough threads vanished for Moriarty’s ‘soul’ to escape and continue his nefarious work - largely by possessing various people/creatures

Mary Morstan

human

entirely average in appearance - height, build, face, with plain hair and drably colored/cut clothes

believes she is owed whatever she wants due to being an orphan, continues trying to use that fact to her advantage despite being a grown adult

worked as a governess for the Forresters until being soul-bound and unhappily married to Watson (due to Warlock’s interference, as he wanted to lessen Watson’s involvement with Moriarty and Irene Adler in particular, since Warlock could sense the doom encroaching upon his friend ever since meeting Adler)

thanks to her portion of the Agra treasure and marriage to a now-established doctor, she enjoyed a comfortably lavish lifestyle and took full advantage of that

was possessed by Moriarty at one point, who used her frequent social gatherings as a cover to coordinate with his agents; ended up being pulled into a deep chasm in a ‘magicless’ area of Switzerland