#man's just living in a state of perpetual goodwill with the rest of the world 🔫

[everydayducksoup]

Because I can finally post it: here’s my absolute shithouse off-my-ass this-is-secular-school-now-I-can-write-REAL-politics-into-my-work essay. “Who Gets Eaten and Who Gets to Eat: Morality and Socioeconomic Mobility in Aravind Adiga’s White Tiger and Stephen Sondheim’s Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street”

In a society where honest work just doesn’t cut it, there’s always murder- at least, for the protagonists of White Tiger and Sweeney Todd. Both works make use of fictional narratives and stylistic language to destabilize narratives of wealth as moral judgement and expose the forces in society which push individuals, especially amongst the lower class, into immoral action and emotional detachment in exchange for socioeconomic stability and advancement. With Adiga presenting the story of driver-turned-entrepreneur Balram Halwai, and Sondheim the Victorian English revenge drama of Sweeney Todd’s mass murder and cannibalistic enterprise, the ‘dark side’ of capitalism, justice, and class dynamics comes to light.

In his essay, “capitalism, caste and con-games in Aravind Adiga’s The White Tiger”, Snehal Shingavi presents us with two common narratives about poverty- where it is either “overcome by virtue of moral fineness (so that to be rich is to deserve) or by moral corruption (so that any upward mobility marks ethical opprobrium)”(Shingavi 7). However, neither of the works presented adhere to this conflation of wealth with morality, because they take a different look at the way our society works. In Sweeney Todd,  it is constantly emphasized that vice and immorality are universal traits: in the song Epiphany, Todd sings “we all deserve to die/ even you Mrs. Lovett/ even I” (Sondheim 38), and similar judgements are made throughout the rest of the play. Meanwhile, The White Tiger expresses the opinion that goodwill is only an option for those with privilege- “here, if a man wants to be good, he can be good. In Laxamangarh, he doesn’t even have this choice.” (Adiga 262).

This decision to separate morality from the act of gaining capital does something incredibly important: it undermines the idea of the poor as apolitical or moralizing figures, establishing their autonomy. When we acknowledge this, we can more thoroughly experience the injustices that drive these characters to violent means. Both protagonists are literally denied justice- Todd is framed for a crime by Judge Turpin and sent to the penal colony as part of his plan to steal his wife, Lucy; and Balram is expected to take the blame for his master’s wife when she runs over a young child. The statues of law are shown to be ineffective within modern society due to class imbalance- the reality is, as Balram says, “the rule of the jungle”. Both protagonists take on cannibalism (one literally, the other figuratively) as their own brand of justice outside the system that has failed them. Sweeney and Lovett sing, in A Little Priest: “the history of the world my dear/…/is who gets eaten and who gets to eat”(Sondheim 48), while Balram expresses the new caste structure of postcolonial India as “there are just two castes: Men with Big Bellies, and Men with Small Bellies. And only two destinies: eat—or get eaten up.” (Adiga 54)

Rather than marking the distinction between rich and poor through morality, these works employ the binary of filth and cleanliness as a signifier of socioeconomic position. From the first, Todd describes the poor of London as “vermin” and claiming that the subjugation by the upper classes “(turn) beauty into filth and greed” (Sondheim 2). Similarly, Lovett’s introduction, The Worst Pies in London revolves entirely around the spectacle of how disgusting her situation is: “is that just revolting?” (Sondheim 9). This state of perpetual impurity is both a direct result of economic equality, and a contributing factor in its continuation. Adiga  demonstrates the impact of cleanliness over filth by showing Balram successfully “passing” in middle-class society by copying his master’s habits- he stops chewing paan, starts brushing his teeth, dresses simply, changes his posture, and he is suddenly unrecognizable as the poor driver he still is. The authority given to anyone who can present well enough within the expectations of their society strips yet another layer from the connection between ethics and wealth- through appearances, Lovett’s pie shop is successful despite selling its clients human flesh. However, this effect is not only felt through the common motif of a façade, as it also serves to prove that the currency of this society is necessarily aggressive.

The White Tiger presents this struggle through the metaphor of the rooster coop:

“hundreds of pale hens and brightly colored roosters, stuffed tightly into wire-mesh cages…pecking each other and shitting on each other, jostling for breathing space…on the wooden desk above this coop sits a grinning young butcher, showing off the flesh and organs of a recently chopped-up chicken… the roosters in the coop smell the blood from above… they know they’re next.” (Adiga 147)

This analogy presents the inherent violence in the situation: if you are a poor rooster, no matter how much you preen your feathers or how peacefully you stand, your neighbors will only continue to peck at you and try to climb over you, and you will still be in line for the slaughter. If you are the rich butcher, the only way you can survive is to continue killing chickens, because that is your trade, regardless of how nicely you treat them, and if you let them out of the cage you lose it all. In order to gain power in this society, Shingavi points out, one must forsake both their origins, their emotional ties; and their morality, their societal ties. For Balram, this is the killing and torture of his family by the state, which relieves him of his caste; and the murder of Mr. Ashok, which relieves him of his servitude. For Todd, it is the knowledge that “Lucy lies in ashes” and he’ll “never see Johanna” (Sondheim 44); as well as his plan to murder the Judge. The disconnection of morality and capital allows for a system wherein justice is obtained through violence, the truth revealed through con-games, and social mobility and betterment come at the cost of human lives.

However, the values of the system do not reflect directly on the people within it- Balram, Todd and Lovett are still emotional, human figures, who have the capacity for grief and empathy. Both protagonists harbor a young boy throughout the course of the story- Balram his nephew Dharam and Lovett and Todd their young employee Toby- neither of which are related to their grander schemes. Both openly grapple with the loss of their familial connections, with Balram commenting “I’ve got no family anymore. All I’ve got are chandeliers” (Adiga 97) and Todd addressing a monologue to his lost daughter in the song Johanna (Quartet): “Goodbye, Johanna/ You're gone, and yet you're mine… And though I'll think of you, I guess/Until the day I die.” (Sondheim 63) The biggest distinction between the two works comes through this aspect: Balram succeeds in separating his personal life from his business and channeling the cold methods of the system even in his charity- giving bribes in exchange for the life of a young boy killed by one of his employees- while Lovett and Todd let their emotions drive them to ruin.

In his essay, “Mayhem and Morality in Sweeney Todd”, Alfred Mollin points out the way Sondheim uses musical references to demonstrate Todd’s descent into righteous rage and madness. The use of the music of the Dies Irae from the Requiem Mass, a piece which is immediately recognizable to a western audience as representing a sort of divine “judgement of the wicked and the good”(Mollin 3), shows that his intentions lie directly outside of the give-and-take of the system around him. In this sense, Balram’s parallel in the play is more in the character of Mrs. Lovett, who acknowledges the entrepreneurial potential of their situation and acts almost exclusively out of “thrift”- almost, because she is also in love with Todd. This affection goes directly against the preestablished tenant of the system, emancipation from emotional ties, and thus leads to their downfall. It is only fitting that Shingavi would refer to this tenant as a “murder”, as it is literally the realization that Lucy is alive, brought about in the third act of the play, that sets off the eventual demise of Lovett and Todd.

These narratives present the worst faces of our modern, heavily unequal society- the failures of justice, of capitalism, and even of human empathy. Through them, we can see past the façades imposed on daily life, worn by rich and poor alike in their pursuit of self-betterment. They express a more nuanced story of class inequality and the forces that control our society, recognizing that bringing about a just and fair environment is not a matter of taking out the boogeymen of billionaires or capitalism, but rather a process of unlearning and replacing systems that value aggression as social capital. The authors acknowledge the autonomy and potential for both good and evil present in each member of society and analyze how the world around it undermines them. These works remind us that- regardless of our personal stance or our actions- we function within the same cannibalistic system. Like the chickens pecking each other in the rooster coop or the public eating Mrs. Lovett’s pies- if we are not working to change the system, we are accomplices in this cannibalism.

[yarunaningen]

⭐—INTERACTION CALL!!    Feel free to refer to THIS PAGE for some of the default             crossover examples if you want to play,          but are unsure how to kickstart interaction!

ᴡʀɪᴛᴛᴇɴ ғᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘʀɪɴᴄᴇss

🚀—“Jｏｉｎ ｗｉｔｈ ｙｅｓｔｅｒｄａｙ'ｓ ｆｏｅ ｔｏ ｓｍａｓｈ ｆａｔｅ,

                                                    💫 — ａｎｄ ｇｒａｂ ｔｏｍｏｒｒｏｗ'ｓ ｐａｔｈ

                                                                             ｗｉｔｈ ｏｕｒ ｏｗｎ ｈａｎｄｓ!”  

  Time had made the Earth beautiful; more beautiful than he had ever known it to be. Perhaps closer to its older beauty - in times before the Spiral Wars, the Beastman regime. Centuries before, when the nurturing soil had more than death planted beneath, strewn across its regions - before; closer to now. Now, it was that peace reigned across the world; flowers cradled its continents in a softer, fragrant embrace. Time, the gentle hand of an enigmatic man who watched over it, and also, by a dream held long ago by a most precious, compassionate individual. Viral indulged in the soothing sensation of a warm breeze against his skin; a feeling so absent in the perpetual stillness of space-travel. 

   He had returned to Earth, only briefly, like always. The Galactic Spiral Peace Summit had carried forth, met success, and was well into a restful phase of maintenance. Better minds than his were more adept at processing the subtleties of negotiation and regulation. But he loved his mission as a goodwill ambassador; and he loved his station as captain of the Chouginga Daigurren.  

  That vessel was a bridge for him, as much as it was a bridge to the races and worlds who would find refuge in all that it represented. Once, his creator and king had possessed it. And later, his first human comrade commanded its helm, as well. Now, he did. The weight of its venerated flag was constant upon his back, and within his heart. ‘Simon the Digger’ was not the only one serving an eternal promise.  

   Viral had come back to Earth for two reasons: the first, he had reports to issue directly to the President. And, it was the anniversary of a fated union, long since passed, and ever mourned. Ensconced within the Beastman’s heavy forearm was a small bouquet of wildflowers encircling an arrangement of blush-pink blooms, not unlike camellias. And not unlike camellias, they harbored a simple sentiment, “I miss you.”  

  Time had passed. And immortal, he was prepared for that. ...wasn’t he?

   After all, this was not a reality so far from that of a thousand realities he would likely face. He would have to get used to it, he mused... standing before lovingly adorned memorials, dreamlike in their serenity - representing a place once occupied by some irreplaceable, unforgettable existence.

  The Beastman nestled the arrangement among so many others, their subtle affinity nearly lost among the sea of blossoms and subtle illumination.   

   ❝Nia.❞

   He said her name from time to time, speaking to her idly, to note the little things she might have liked.... and to keep the sound familiar on his tongue. At just the surface of his immortal life, there were already names that drifted strangely in the air when spoken, as if by syllable, the sound understood that there would be no one to answer.

  ❝This year, as well, we will be watching over the peace that your hands built.

                   This year as well...❞

                        "We will miss your smile.”

   His first memory of her - two or three lifetimes ago, for them. She was just a child then, a diminutive human, unlike any he had seen. Hair spilling in every direction, it moved with her down a hallway; weightless, dreamlike. He had been a youngling, then, himself - but, created for war, he was growing much faster than she. Scarcely even a cadet, he’d caught a glimpse of Nia by accident, by chance. Feline eyes caught by mistake, on the soft, flower-like gaze of Lordgenome’s youngest. At the time, Viral did not have a comprehension of the concept of “kindness.”   It was only later,  he realized that was the warmth that overtook him in those silent seconds. He simply knew that he had been transfixed, easily stilled, by the reflective colors that stained her eyes.

                                                  “This is the daughter of my King.”

                                               “This is the Princess of we Beastmen.”

    And so their destinies remained seemingly bound by that fleeting moment. Even now, Viral wouldn’t concede the time or the distance between them, now. He smiled in recollection, in front of her memorial, and spoke nothing of endings nor partings.

   ❝Don’t you think it’s beginning to resemble you? 

                                               This world that you loved.❞

  Wildflowers sprawled from one end of his vision, to the other. Vibrant shades, muted shades, tall blossoms and lush carpets of velvet hues - the previously barren Earth drank in each memory of her that passed Simon’s rough hand, and offered captivating blooms in return. Viral had watched the quiet conversation between the two, over the elapsing years, and through them, he continued to learn some of the deepest, softest lessons a Human could teach another.

  Suddenly, a low sound pulsed in his ear, and the Beastman touched the communication device that hooked around the taper of his ear to initiate the transmission between himself and those aboard the Chouginga, distantly orbiting the Earth from above, 

  ❝Secure. Go ahead, Bridge.❞

『"ᴄᴀᴘᴛᴀɪɴ. 

  ɪ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ʏᴏᴜ ᴅɪsᴀʟʟᴏᴡ ᴄᴏᴍᴍᴜɴɪᴄᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ᴡʜɪʟᴇ ʏᴏᴜ'ʀᴇ ᴠɪsɪᴛɪɴɢ ғᴀᴍɪʟʏ, ʙᴜ-”』

   ❝It’s fine. We just finished our talk.❞

    He bowed his head towards Nia’s stone grave. It was an unyielding claim that one called “Nia Teppelin” had existed, had lived on that world, and had graced it with gentle strength, and compassion. It was just one testament to the woman who had instilled a unity between the Beastman remnants and the Human victors; one gesture to the woman who fought an impossible battle to overturn the forces opposed to love and life, It represented the peace that reigned in place of tyranny, of grief. The memorial was one testament of endless reverence for Earth’s last little Princess. 

      He was another. 

   ❝I’m about to re-launch back to you.❞

『"ᴀᴄᴛᴜᴀʟʟʏ, sɪʀ, ʏᴏᴜ ᴍɪɢʜᴛ ᴡᴀɴᴛ ᴛᴏ ʜᴏʟᴅ ᴏғғ ᴏɴ ʀᴇᴛᴜʀɴɪɴɢ ᴊᴜsᴛ ʏᴇᴛ. ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ's ᴀɴ ᴀɴᴏᴍᴀʟᴏᴜs ʀᴇᴀᴅɪɴɢ ᴏɴ ᴛʜᴇ sᴜʀғᴀᴄᴇ. ᴡᴇ'ᴠᴇ ʀᴜɴ ᴀ ᴅɪᴀɢɴᴏsᴛɪᴄ sᴡᴇᴇᴘ ᴀɴᴅ ᴄʀᴏss-ᴀɴᴀʟʏᴢᴇᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴀᴛᴀ, ʙᴜᴛ... ᴛʜᴇ ᴇᴍɪssɪᴏɴ ғᴀᴄᴛᴏʀ ᴍᴀᴛᴄʜᴇs ᴀɴᴛɪ-sᴘɪʀᴀʟ ᴇɴᴇʀɢʏ.

 ᴘʟᴇᴀsᴇ ᴀᴅᴠɪsᴇ."』

    The Beastman’s sharpened gaze trained to the side, towards the shocking report at his ear. A pale brow arched in alarm. ‘Anti-Spiral’?’ He wanted to doubt at the possibility, but his data analysis officers were unmatched in the field; they wouldn’t have contacted him if they had harbored even the slightest suspicion that their findings were in error.   

 ❝Understood. Transmit coordinates of the anomaly to my Ganmen and forward ‘investigative response’ to the President. Push through my request that he delay further Earthbound reentries until I either signal for reinforcements, or clear the alert.❞

『”ᴄᴏᴘʏ. ʙʀɪᴅɢᴇ ᴛᴏ ʀᴇᴍᴀɪɴ ᴏᴘᴇɴ. ʙᴇ ᴄᴀʀᴇғᴜʟ.”』

  Trepidation faded from his mind, as a ferocity to protect that which they had all so painstakingly, ardently, created rose to the potential challenge. His Ganmen, the Enkidurga, was a reconstructed, resized version of the colossal “Tengen Toppa Enki Durga,” the massive Ganmen that he had piloted alongside the other Dai-Gurren Dan members, against the Anti-Spiral, years ago. From within its cockpit, he logged the coordinates of the alarming signal. Within moments, he was on the move.

       It wouldn’t take long for the state-of-the-art Ganmen to reach the site indicated, and Viral would descent to the ground with caution in mind, and fire in his blood.  

   Words, archaic in his memory, but very near his thoughts, “Spiral Nemesis...”

            Could something so utterly ruinous truly come to pass?

                    He scoffed between sharp, unforgiving teeth,

                     "Tch, just who the hell do you think I am?”

                          🐾—ɪ'ᴍ ʜᴇʀᴇ ʙᴇᴄᴀᴜsᴇ ʏᴏᴜ'ʀᴇ ʜᴇʀᴇ ,                                     ‘ǝɹǝɥ ǝɹ'noʎ ǝsnɐɔǝb ǝɹǝɥ ɯ'I

                                                   ʏᴏᴜ'ᴠᴇ ɢᴏᴛ ᴀ ᴘʀᴏʙʟᴇᴍ ɴᴏᴡ!”                                                             “!ʍon ɯǝןboɹd ɐ ʇoƃ ǝʌ'noʎ

[ophelia-jones]

Thorns part 8

Lacey was back in the room she had once been so grateful for. She had earned her place in the saviors. Negan had put her through so much shit trying to break her, but he didn't know she had been forged in fire years before the dead began to walk.  Her old man had been on disability for a bad back - but his back wasn't his real problem; his real problem came in a bottle. A liquor bottle, a pill bottle - he was a real multi-tasker.

Her mom had gotten sick when Lacey was just a baby, and her older brothers had more or less raised her. They were only boys - 6 and 8 when she was born. They did the best they could. Most of the things they had came from the dumpster outside of the local thrift shop. Things that weren't good enough for goodwill, but they were better than nothing at all which is what they had. 

The other kids at school called them white trash or avoided them altogether. The few of them that did give them the time of day were ordered not to by their parents usually. It was a lonely existence, but at least they had each other.

When their dad got it together long enough, he would take them hunting and fishing. Once or twice they had gone camping - but it wasn't far off from the way they lived every day, and at the campground there were too many eyes on them for comfort. One time some things came up missing and Jamie and Brandon were accused of being the ones who took them. Dad had packed them up and taken them home after that, giving them a whipping with a green switch he cut off a tree.  He disappeared into his room with a six pack and watched tv for the rest of the weekend. 

Lacey hadn't realized other parents didn't lock themselves in their rooms for long stretches, forgetting to feed their children. 

Brand got a job when he was sixteen, flipping burgers at the local dairy queen rip-off restaurant that was only open for a few summer months. There was one in just about every little northern Michigan town, specializing in fried food and soft serve.

Things got better for a little while, but when school started again their family felt the pinch that his lack of income brought. It wasn't long before he took up with the local pot dealer, making better money for less work. Jamie, too, decided to take up this venture. Within a couple of years Lacey was helping them with a sizable grow in the run down barn on a neighbors property. She was homebound and wasn't using it anyway, they reasoned. 

It was when she was 16 that she discovered she had a better resource - men would pay good money to look at her. She was dancing at the topless club in the next town before her seventeenth birthday and by the time she was 21 she had built up enough savings to get a place of her own. Before she was 30 she owned the bar. She took better care of her girls, too. Her brothers worked as bouncers, they were brutes and most people were scared at the very sight of them.  They also provided the sort of recreational herbs and pharmaceuticals she couldn't legally sell at the bar.   She lived in a complex and perpetual state of pride and shame. She had made it out of the poverty she had been born into, but in ways that polite society rejected. She had money but she was still white trash.

She was lost in memories of the life before, the things she had thought were important and struggles she thought were brutal back then. She couldn't be bitter about it though, because it had prepared her better than most for this new world. 

She had seen death and violence and cruelty back when the rest of the world was able to look away and pretend it wasn't there. 

She was drawn out of her thoughts by a knock on the door. Before she had a chance to ask who was there, the door swung open and Negan appeared with a tray.

"You skipped dinner." He said, sitting the food down on the bed beside her.

"I'm not hungry." She told him.

"C'mon," Negan said playfully, spooning up some mashed potatoes and bringing it to her lips. "Here comes the airplane, open up the hanger." She blinked at him but refused to play his game.

"Don't make me do the airplane noises." He teased with a crooked grin. She bit her cheek, irritated that she could be amused by the man she had witnessed commit murder just hours ago. The man who was effectively holding her prisoner. 

"Oh, I saw that! You know you want to smile. You can't help it, I'm adorable." He joked and Lacey couldn't hold it back any longer. She covered her eyes with one hand and laughed despite herself. 

"You're a fucking lunatic." She told him.

"You love it." He grinned, putting the spoon down on the plate. "I've missed you. You are the only person who gets away with talking to me like that." He reached out and ran a strand of her hair between two of his fingers.

"I'm not going to sleep with you, Negan." She told him plainly. She wasn't arguing with him or being rude, simply stating a fact. He chuckled softly. 

"You're the one who can't stop thinking about it. I never said a word." He grinned, nudging the tray toward her.

"Why do you let me talk to you the way no one else can?" She asked, picking the spoon up and taking small tastes of the mashed potatoes and gravy. There were chunks of meat in it she couldn't quite identify. Beef from a can or jar, maybe. Negan's eyes grew distant and he looked down at the bedspread beneath his hand.

"You remind me of someone. Someone special." He told her in a moment of sincerity which surprised even himself, she suspected. She didn't know what to say, so for a long time she didn't say anything. She managed to eat more than half of the meal he'd brought before he found his voice again. 

"Were you so convinced I would kill you? Is that really why you didn't come back?" He cocked his head to one side and studied her closely.

"I knew I couldn't rule it out." She replied with a slight nod, but she couldn't meet his eyes.

"Yes, you could've. I'm telling you, right now, you could have known I wouldn't hurt you." He told her, his voice not much more than a low grumble. 

"I've seen your rage, Negan. And I know that you believe any sign of weakness will bring about suffering for the people you have promised to look after. If everyone here believed I ran off to join the only group that has been able to put a dent in your shining armor, how could you not kill me?" She sighed.

"Because they will believe what I tell them. My word is law." He stared down at Lacey. "You should have had more faith. After all, you're the one always telling me 'you're better than this'. Was that just smoke you were blowing up my ass?" 

"No." She admitted. 

"Then what was it? Why didn't you find a way back, to tell me what had happened? Don't tell me its those idealists you took up with. You don't buy into all of that 'peaceful rebuilding' communist bullshit. I know you better than that."

"I don't know. I mean, maybe there is something to it. Rick says there has to be something more, something to move toward instead of all the last man standing bullshit humanity has always done. I used to think the survival of the fittest stuff was how we built everything we had achieved but maybe it was what led to our downfall. Maybe …" she sighed and lay back against her pillows, her wavy brown hair pillowing behind her head and shoulders. "Maybe it's just the pregnancy hormones changing my brain." 

Negan smiled at that and reached out and rested a hand on her subtle baby bump.

"Is he moving yet?" He asked, and the way he looked at her nearly tore Lacey's heart out. If she were young and naive she would have mistaken that look for love. 

"No. I get my appetite once in awhile again though. Thats a good sign. She isn't making me throw up all the time anymore." She rested her own hand beside his. "Their doctor said everything is normal enough." She assured him.

"Well, I'll still send our guy up to check you out tomorrow. Just to be safe." He told her as he rose and stretched his long, lean form. She nodded in agreement. 

"Negan?" She spoke as he stepped out the door. He turned and raised his eyebrows at her questioningly.  "Thank you."

"For what?" He arched a jet black eyebrow at her. 

"Believing me, I guess. For … protecting me. I know you are always saying you want to, but until real recently no one has ever followed through on that." She told him before rolling over onto her left side and tucking a pillow�� between her legs.  She was suddenly exhausted. Negan smiled to himself slightly as he closed her door behind himself