#monday live banker

[mycryptosuite]

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[growingstories]

Teamwork

Once upon a time in Frankfurt, there was a young and ambitious banker named Daniel. Fresh out of university, he landed a prestigious job at an investment bank, earning a good salary and living a comfortable life.

Daniel was introduced to his direct manager, Oliver, a handsome and beefy 40-year-old. Oliver was known as the deal-maker of the company and needed a partner to expand the business. The targets they aimed for were incredibly high, but Oliver assured Daniel that as long as they reached their goals, how they worked didn't matter.

Oliver shared his personal routine with Daniel, explaining how he worked out in the mornings to stay in shape. He used to play soccer but now enjoyed watching his son play, dedicating his weekends to family time. Oliver's physique had changed over the years, now sporting a muscular chest and strong arms with a slight layer of fat over his abs. He laughed it off, saying his wife Birgit didn't mind and didn't have to worry about other girls trying to steal a fit and handsome banker.

The duo delved into the workings of the job, with Oliver explaining the bonus system. Each week's target saved throughout the quarter would contribute to their bonus. If they had a bad week, it would be offset by a good week. However, if they received four warnings due to consistently failing to meet targets, they would be let go. They were tasked with convincing clients to invest, managing both existing and new clients. Their secretary would fill their agendas, and they received a weekly spending fee of €2000 for gifts, meals, and travel (with hotels being an additional cost).

In Daniel's first week, he accompanied Oliver to all of his meetings and experienced the grueling schedule of a banker. Oliver would start at 7:30 am, have morning office meetings, go over the day's plans with the secretary, and have a coffee meeting at 11:30 am. Lunch was an elaborate affair at a fancy restaurant at 12:45 pm. The afternoons were filled with car and Zoom meetings, and Oliver would head home at 6 pm to change and put his son to bed before going out for dinner meetings at 8 pm.

The pace was exhausting for Daniel, but he believed he would eventually get the hang of it. Determined to maintain his fitness, he started his days with a run as he was naturally tall and lean, not a fan of the gym. He sought advice from Oliver and began planning his own meetings. Though it was normal for Daniel to not reach his target in his first week, he began to worry when he realized he wouldn't meet his second target by Wednesday.

Daniel confided in Oliver, and to his surprise, Oliver offered him a deal with an easier client. The condition was that Daniel would buy him a nice bottle of champagne for their Friday night drinks. Daniel agreed and signed a promising deal, reaching his first target and buying Oliver the promised champagne. The following morning was rough for both of them due to the excess drinking. Daniel skipped his morning run, opting to stay in bed all day watching Netflix.

Oliver, on the other hand, went to Starbucks to wash away the grogginess with a big caramel coffee and whipped cream before watching his son play football. Later, he took his son to a pancake restaurant, indulging in his usual Saturday routine.

The weeks went by and Daniel and Oliver made a bet. The person who failed to reach the monthly target would have to bring coffee to the other person every morning for the rest of the month. Daniel, getting the hang of things, won the bet, with Oliver bringing coffee and two donuts every morning for them to share before their meetings. This routine continued for another four days, and before they knew it, the month was over, and Friday night drinks were on the horizon. Daniel had been dealing with hangovers every Saturday during his first month of working with Oliver.

On a Monday, Oliver delivered some news to Daniel. There was a big client in town who could only meet early in the mornings, meaning Daniel couldn't go for his usual run, and Oliver would have to skip the gym for a few days. They met at a coffee place at 7 am to prepare and had a satisfying breakfast, ensuring they wouldn't get hungry until their 1 pm lunch meetings. However, as the days went by, those small bites turned into full lunches, sometimes even second lunches with other clients. Daniel noticed Oliver's belly starting to protrude more, jokingly poking at it. Oliver laughed it off, assuring him that he would lose the weight once the client was signed.

Three weeks went by, and they successfully signed the client, reaching their monthly targets. Daniel achieved a bigger win, so he declared that it was Oliver's turn to bring coffee for the rest of the month. Oliver complied, bringing a box of a dozen Dunkin' donuts for the entire week. During their meetings that afternoon, the box quickly emptied as they indulged in a donut during each session.

Daniel began to notice love handles appearing and grew worried. He had never had to be conscious of his eating habits before and was always naturally lean. Wanting to take action, Daniel decided to go for a run one morning. However, Oliver advised against it, as there was a new client who needed early morning meetings. With multiple clients coming in, that pattern persisted for another month. Oliver also started noticing Daniel's weight gain but kept quiet about it. Instead, he continued bringing donuts every morning.

After six months of morning meetings, double lunches, Friday night drinking binges, and hangover food the following morning, both Daniel and Oliver had become significantly larger. Their waistlines had increased, and they both went up at least a clothing size.

Their boss was thrilled with their results and rewarded them with a substantial bonus. As their success continued, the targets became even higher, and their boss entrusted them with his prestigious clients, which required their special attention and demanded more from them.

Daniel and Oliver embraced the challenge and prepared their days together in the early mornings, engaging in double lunch meetings. Daniel took charge of early dinners while also joining Oliver for late dinners with important clients. They had target after target to meet, and as a result, their weight continued to skyrocket.

Daniel attempted to go for a run after months of inactivity, but he quickly stopped after only 10 minutes. He was out of breath, and his knee joints ached. Frustrated, he complained to Oliver, who sympathized, recounting how he struggled to catch his breath while running after his son's soccer ball. Oliver proposed a gym session, and together they struggled to squeeze into their gym clothes, ultimately abandoning the idea for a sauna session instead.

Week after week, their office was filled with food, snacks, and lavish drinks, and their weight continued to climb. However, they didn't seem to mind as their hunger for money and success overpowered any concerns about their physical health. Both Daniel and Oliver became fiercely competitive, pushing themselves to secure as many targets as possible.

After two years of this exhausting and competitive routine, both men had become fat. Still, they didn't let that deter them from their goals. Their boss, approaching retirement, presented them with a plan to take over the business. They worked diligently, crafting a financial proposal, and their boss gave them six months to make it a reality.

During those six months, they traveled the world, moving from one big client to another. Their days weren't as long, but they were welcomed everywhere with the finest food and drinks, attending parties at each stop. They truly lived a lavish existence, indulging in more food and becoming even larger. Daniel had nearly caught up to Oliver's size.

At the end of the six months, they finalized their proposal and presented it to their boss, who was thrilled and agreed to hand over the business to them. With their new roles, they acquired more prestigious clients than ever before.

To celebrate their success, they embarked on an all-inclusive trip to the Maldives, with Oliver bringing his wife along. It was a time for bonding, relaxation, and pure indulgence���three weeks of carefree living. Their competitive streak remained, as they wagered on how many brownies they could eat in the morning, indulged in ice cream at lunch, and drank champagne at night. They were stuffed all day, and by the end of the first week, they had grown even fatter.

After returning to the office, everyone noticed that their new bosses had become even fatter but seemed happier than ever. Secretaries started ensuring that every meeting had snacks and treats readily available.

Their business flourished, leaving clients highly satisfied, and the demand for their services grew even more. Five years into Daniel's banking career, he had become enormous, causing worry his among family. They urged him to diet and exercise, but he brushed off their concerns, instead opting to consume yet another sausage.

Oliver's wife, on the other hand, had no complaints. Her husband's size made her feel secure in their relationship, and the steady flow of money allowed her to indulge in new handbags weekly. However, they both knew they had to pace themselves. Simple tasks like tying shoes became nearly impossible, and even a short walk was a burden.

Realizing they needed assistance to handle their growing business, they decided to hire two proteges. These fresh, fit individuals joined their bosses for a month, trying to keep up with their demanding schedule. The question remained: would these newcomers achieve the same level of success?

And so the saga continues, with Oliver and Daniel's empire expanding, their weight reaching new heights, and their hunger for prosperity persisting, as they strive to conquer the world of finance. The end.

[sneakyblinders]

the royal wedding of small heath

A/N: I was going to post this in one big fic but it’s so long... and I’m not finished quite yet lol enjoy pt 1. PT 2 HERE warnings: soft tommy. for my tommy and his darling wife!au. language, mild sexual themes.  1.9k words

The Garrison was bustling with people. People milled about, this way and that, people Tommy recognized, and people he didn’t. The musicians that Arthur had hired for the event were fantastic, just the exact music Tommy had wanted. None of the new stuff, and all of the stuff Tommy and his brothers held dear to their hearts.

Family members from near and far gathered here today after the rehearsal to celebrate with Tommy and his bride.

He made his way over to the bar, where Harry was rapidly pouring shots for a group of men lined up at the bar Tommy could only assume to be some of your cousins. Not men he knew. “Gentlemen,” he greeted them.

“Mr. Shelby, we appreciate your generosity tonight.” The oldest of them said, leaning over the other two to shake Tommy’s hand.

“It’s my pleasure.” Tommy told him before asking Harry for another bottle of whiskey for the table.

“She looks mighty pretty tonight, Mr. Shelby,” Harry told him, handing him the bottle.

“That she does, Harry. That she does.” Tommy glanced back over his shoulder, hearing your laugh as your sister told some ridiculous story from when you were children to John and Finn.

He turned back towards your table, bottle in his hand. He made his way through the crowd, beginning to itch in his suit. He was far too worn out from all the people that were abso-fucking-lutely everywhere this week. People from your side of the family had started pouring in on Monday from all over England, the United States and fucking France to witness the Shelby wedding. The Royal Wedding of Small Heath is what the Birmingham papers had called it when your engagement announcement ran in the papers. Your mother had bought every paper she could get her hands on and sent the clipping to every family member she could think of.

“It’s pretty rare that someone like us marries someone like Thomas Shelby.” your mother had told you, eyes peering at you over her glasses.

Someone like us.

You’d been raised in London, your parents both modest people. Your father has worked as a banker ever since you could remember. He made a decent living, but with you, your older sister and brother and mother to take care of, there was never really much extra money to go around. You lived well, and had everything you needed, but the wants were never really attended to.

So when you accidentally met Tommy one evening on your way back home in London, your mother insisted it was fate. And a few months later, you deemed that she was right.

Tommy returned to your table, setting the bottle of whiskey down. John snatched it up and poured his and Arthur’s glasses full once more. “Are you doing alright, Sweetheart?” he asked, adjusting in his seat, his arm around you.

“Yes,” you beam up at him. “Are you?” you ask, a hand on his thigh.

“Never better.” he told you, love pouring from his chest.

“If I see a more lovesick man I’ll drag him here so you can have a competition,” John laughed. Esme elbowed him in the ribs. “What? I’ve never seen ‘im like this.” John told his wife.

“Pay him no mind, love.” Esme told you. You giggled, squeezing Tommy’s thigh under the table.

“I generally don’t.” you told her.

“And that, Tommy, is why we love her!” Arthur cackled, raising his glass to his lips and throwing back the whole glass of whiskey.

Your mother apprehensively approached the table. She’d been here for a bloody week and a half and Tommy had barely been able to get his hands on you for fear of her popping up and claiming your whole relationship to be an absolute travesty. “Dearie, your father and I are getting quite tired, would it be alright if we retired for the evening?”

Tommy sighed when you stood up to hug your mother. “Of course, of course. Tommy,” you turned to look at your fiance. “Would one of your brothers escort them to their lodgings?” you asked.

“I’ll do it, love. Happy to.” Arthur told you, standing up. “Anything for you, love.” he threw you a tipsy smile.

“Thank you, Arthur. Mother, remember, we must be at the estate by nine.” you reminded her.

“Yes, of course. We will be there.”

Your mother hugged you goodbye, your father waiting patiently by the door. Arthur lumbered after them, making sure they got there safely. It was only a block away, but stranger things have happened in Small Heath.

After your parents left, other guests started to trickle out of the Garrison, whether to settle in for the night or go get rowdy somewhere else, no one knew. Tommy quietly observed the rest of the people, smoking his cigarette, arm around your shoulders as you talked to your sister.

“Are you ready, sister?” Emile asked.

“For what?” you asked with a confused look on your face.

“To be a wife, of course. And all it entails.” she told you, a suggestive tone in her voice.

“Emile!” you scolded her, eyeing Tommy, who acted as if he wasn’t paying the slightest bit of attention to your conversation. “Not here!”

“Thomas, wait ‘till you see the things our cousins from France bought her.”

“Emile!” you scolded again, cheeks flushing hot. Thankfully John and Finn had gotten up to fetch more beer.

“It’s alright, love, everybody knows you won’t be out in public for at least a week after tomorrow.” Tommy told you, a devious look on his face.

“Thomas!” you scolded, a look of disbelief on your face. “Ganged up on by my sister and fiance. Unbelievable.”

“We’ve been in cahoots this whole time, sister. How do you think he picked the ring the right size?” Emile asked, peering at you over her wine glass.

You look at Tommy, who was smirking. “She’s right, love. Phoned her and asked the second I knew I was going to propose.”

“Which was when?” you asked.

He leaned in closer to you, lips to your ear. “That night after I took you to that restaurant in London–what was it called–”

“Wiltons.” you reminded him.

“Ah, yes, Wiltons. I took you back to my hotel and–”

“Okay, I know what day you’re talking about now.” you tell him, pulling away from his lips. He’s smirking at you. “Cheeky man.” you tell him as he lights a cigarette.

“Only bad thing about him, he smokes like a freight train.” Emile joked.

Tommy smiled, cigarette in his mouth. “You get used to it.” you tell her, thankful Tommy was tolerant of your sister's childish remarks.

You sat in silence, Tommy’s thumbs drawing sweet circles on the back of your hand as your sister went to find your brother. “Do you think everyone will behave tomorrow?” you ask Tommy.

“They will, my love. I will make sure of it.” he tells you, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

“Where is Ada?” you ask, suddenly noticing her absence.

“She said they will not be making an appearance until tomorrow.” Tommy said, rolling his eyes.

“Because of Freddie?” you ask.

“Yes, because of Freddie.” he confirms, putting the butt of his cigarette in the ash dish.

“It’s not fair to Karl, keeping him from his family.” you tell Tommy, snuggling closer into his side.

Tommy sighs. “I know, my love.”

Polly comes over towards the table, a smile on her face. “Are you two ready for tomorrow? Dress all picked up?”

“Yes. It’s hanging in the room at the estate.” you tell her.

“Thomas, did you pick up–”

“Our tuxedo’s from Mr. Zhang, yes, Pol. I did.” he says flatly.

“The baker came to me this morning and said he would deliver the cake around noon.” she rattled off all the delivery times of the various things. Flowers by nine, musicians would arrive by four, and the estate would be bathed with white roses and greenery by one in the afternoon. Polly had been an integral part of the wedding planning, going with you to every dress appointment, every catering and cake testing. Tommy waved it all off, telling you, “Whatever you want, Darling, all I care about is the bride at the end of the aisle.”

A little before midnight, the party came to a close. Everyone left, leaving you, Polly and Tommy to discuss various particulars of the impending wedding day. The musicians packed up their things, and Tommy handed them a rather thick wad of money.

“Thank you, Mr. Shelby.” the bassist said.

“Thank you, you all did a wonderful job tonight.” Tommy told them sincerely, showing them to the door and locking it behind them.

“Alright, you two might as well start saying your goodbyes. Can’t see each other until she walks down the aisle, Thomas. It’s bad luck.” Polly told him. “I’ll wait outside, love.” she told you, walking to the car that John was waiting in. You were going to spend your last night as a single woman at Polly’s place, sleeping in Thomas’ old bedroom, that he had only just vacated, telling you his wedding present to you was rather grand.

He stood up and walked over to the old gramophone and began to play one of John’s new records. Some of the slow jazz that was popular then. “Will you dance with me?” he asked, turning to you, eyes straining to make out all your features in the dark.

A few lonely candles were still lit, giving the pub a warm glow. “Yes, Mr. Shelby, I will.” you stand up to meet him in the middle of the pub.

He pulls you into his chest and you rest your head against his heart. “I swear to you,” he whispers lowly. “I will spend all my life loving you, and you alone. You are the single best thing to happen to me, my angel.”

You smile against his chest, feeling his heart beating in his chest. “I love you, Thomas Shelby.” you tell him, melting into him.

“I love you.” he whispers.

Your ring sparkles in the faint rays of light, casting small rainbows on the ceiling. It was far bigger a diamond than you thought practical, but Tommy would not hear of a smaller diamond. You were quite nervous to see the wedding band he had picked but he assured you that you would love it.

“I can’t wait to see you in your tuxedo tomorrow.” you tell him, looking up at him.

He smiled softly at you. “Enjoy every minute of tomorrow, Sweetheart. Anything you want, you can have, okay?”

“Will life always be like this?” you ask.

“Like what?” he asked in return.

“Anything you want, in the blink of an eye. The snap of my fingers.” you say, still in disbelief.

“That is my goal, love.” he tells you, reaching down to kiss your lips.

The kiss is cut short by John bursting through the doors. “Will you let her come on? Polly won’t quit complainin’ about the cold. You have your whole lives to kiss.”

Tommy kissed you again, John throwing his arms in the air and huffing before turning around to walk out the doors again. You hear him faintly yell to Polly, “He won’t let go of her, Pol!”

“I better go.” you chuckle, looking into Tommy’s eyes.

“Sleep well, my blushing bride.” Tommy teases you, pressing one last kiss to your lips.

“Goodnight, Thomas.” you tell him.

He walks you to the car, where John is thoroughly annoyed now. “See you tomorrow!” Tommy says, a mischievous grin on his face.

[muzaktomyears]

A new article/book excerpt about how Mal Evans' archives were preserved - and Yoko Ono's role in it - includes these paragraphs about what's actually in them:

It was around the second day on the job when Kutti happened upon the four bankers boxes. Almost immediately, she could tell that they held contents of a particular significance. As she sifted through the boxes, she gazed at what seemed like vintage photographs of the Beatles — thousands of them. And then she found a manuscript titled "Living the Beatles’ Legend: Or 200 Miles to Go." It was an oddly formatted specimen — printed in all caps. And further still, she discovered a spate of leather-bound diaries. Leafing through their pages, Kutti was able to ascertain that the boxes must be the property of Malcolm Evans, a name that meant nothing to her. From the looks of the booty that lay before her in the basement, he must have been some kind of chronic hoarder, an avid photographer apparently, and an enthusiastic journaler who peppered his voluminous diary entries with madcap, colorful — even psychedelic — illustrations. (...) But Kutti didn’t stop there. She was determined to make a thorough accounting of Mal’s forgotten archives. That Monday, she compiled a six-page inventory of the bankers boxes. As she began to organize the materials, they seemed even more tantalizing than before: there was an autographed color photo of Elvis Presley, a signed drawing of Mal by John Lennon, and yet another drawing of the roadie by McCartney, inscribed with the words “To Mal the Van from James Paul the Bass.” There were 10 Super 8 films in total, with titles like “Family Holiday,” “Beatles India,” “Africa,” “Greece” and “Plane Trip (Paul).”

[satoshi-mochida]

Knuckles live-action series premieres April 26, trailer

From Gematsu

The Knuckles live-action series will premiere on Paramount+ on April 26, Paramount Pictures announced. It will consist of six episodes all released simultaneously, and is set between the events of the movies Sonic the Hedgehog 2 and Sonic the Hedgehog 3.

Here is an overview of the series, via Paramount Pictures:

The new live-action series will follow Knuckles (Idris Elba) on a hilarious and action-packed journey of self-discovery as he agrees to train Wade (Adam Pally) as his protege and teach him the ways of the Echidna warrior. The series takes place between the films Sonic the Hedgehog 2 and Sonic the Hedgehog 3. In addition to Elba starring as the titular character, Adam Pally reprises his role from the film franchise as Wade Whipple. The ensemble cast includes guest stars Stockard Channing (The West Wing), Edi Patterson (The Righteous Gemstones), Scott Mescudi (Don’t Look Up), Ellie Taylor (Ted Lasso), Julian Barratt (Mindhorn), Rory McCann (Game of Thrones), Cary Elwes (Mission: Impossible – Dead Reckoning), Christopher Lloyd (Back to the Future), Paul Scheer (Black Monday), and Rob Huebel (Childrens Hospital). Special guest star Ben Schwartz will reprise his role as Sonic, as well as special guest star Tika Sumpter, reprising her role as Maddie. Colleen O’Shaughnessey will also return as a special guest star in her role as Tails. All of the key creative team from the previous films have returned for the series, including the films’ director/executive producer Jeff Fowler, who directed the pilot episode and helped transition the film’s signature cinematic animation style to television, as well as Neal H. Moritz, Toby Ascher, John Whittington and Toru Nakahara, who serve as executive producers along with Idris Elba. Additional directors for the series include Ged Wright, Brandon Trost, Jorma Taccone and Carol Banker. The series was created for television by John Whittington and Toby Ascher, who is showrunning during production. Whittington, who wrote Sonic the Hedgehog 2, serves as head writer and wrote the pilot for the series. Additional series writers include Brian Schacter and James Madejski.

Watch the official trailer below.

Official Trailer

[eddieredmayneargentinablog]

"Day of The Jackal FIRST LOOK: Eddie Redmayne is every inch the suave assassin while filming Sky's 'modern reimagining' of the thriller in Croatia", Daily Mail, November 6, 2023.

Eddie Redmayne was seen for the first time on the set of Sky's  new TV adaption of The Day of The Jackal in Croatia on Monday.

The British actor, 41, cut a suave figure as he shot scenes as assassin known as the Jackal, originally played by Edward Fox in the classic 1973 film. 

Eddie was dressed all in black and teamed a sweater with smart trousers for the shoot which took place in a busy market.

The Oscar winner could be seen chatting to the crew before jumping behind the wheel of a swanky sports car for a complex action scene. 

Originally a novel by Frederick Forsyth the story follows the story of the trained killer who is hired to is hired to assassinate French president Charles de Gaulle.

According to the Hollywood Reporter the producers, of which Eddie is one, have described the adaption as a 'bold, modern reimagining of the beloved and respected novel and film.' 

And while the series, written by Top Boy creator Ronan Bennett, will pay homage to the original it will be set in the world modern world of geo-politics.

Producer Gareth Neame said: “We are excited to bring to life Ronan Bennett’s re-imagining of Forsyth’s revered thriller in the complex world in which we live today and are incredibly fortunate to have an actor of Eddie’s calibre as our Jackal'.

It comes after Eddie  credited his parents for his successful career in a rare candid interview.

The actor said it was his father, Richard, a banker, and mother Patricia, who ran a relocation company, and their willingness to allow him to pursue  his interest in acting at an early age that allowed him to flourish in his career.

'I loved music and singing and acting at school,' the Fantastic Beast franchise star told Today's Willie Geist in an interview. 'To my parents' credit, which now as a parent myself I really do hold high, anything I had an interest in or my brothers had an interest in, they supported.' 

The future star attended the Jackie Palmer Studios Stage School in London where his classmates including James Corden, Jamie Dornan and Aaron Taylor-Johnson. 

The father of two shares Iris, seven and Luke, five, with his wife of nine years, Hannah Bagshawe.

Eddie, who won the Academy Award for his portrayal of the late physicist Stephen Hawking in The Theory of Everything.

In addition to the Oscar, Eddie won a Tony in 2010 for his work in Red and will soon return in a production of Cabaret after starring as Emcee in the musical in London's West End. 

Still most fans know him for his role as Newt Scamander in the Fantastic Beasts films. He's starred in three of the magical adventures, but said he isn't sure when or if a fourth is in the works.

Speaking to Indiewire the actor explained, 'It’s more a question for J. K. Rowling and David Yates and Warners, but I don’t know, I’m afraid. I can’t add to that, adding, 'I love playing Newt, he’s a sweet man".

....

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

LETTERS FROM AN AMERICAN

October 29, 2023

HEATHER COX RICHARDSON

OCT 30, 2023

On October 29, 1929, the U.S. stock market crashed. It had been rocked five days before, when heavy trading early in the day drove it down, but leading bankers had seen the mounting crisis and moved in to stabilize the markets before the end of the day. October 24 left small investors broken but the system intact. On Monday, October 28, the market slid again, with a key industrial average dropping 49 points.

And then, on October 29, the crisis hit. When the gong in the great hall of the New York Stock Exchange hit at ten o’clock, the market opened with heavy trading, all of it downward. When the ticker tape finally showed the day’s transactions, two and a half hours later, it documented that more than 16 million shares had changed hands and the industrial average had dropped another 43 points. 

Black Tuesday was the beginning of the end. The market continued to drop. By November the industrial average stood at half of what it had been two months before. By 1932, manufacturing output was less than it had been in 1913; foreign trade plummeted from $10 billion to $3 billion in the three years after 1929, and agricultural prices fell by more than half. By 1932 a million people in New York City were out of work; by 1933, thirteen million people—one person of every four in the labor force—were unemployed. Unable to pay rent or mortgages, people lived in shelters made of packing boxes.

While the administration of Republican president Herbert Hoover preached that Americans could combat the Depression with thrift, morality, and individualism, voters looked carefully at the businessmen who only years before had seemed to be pillars of society and saw they had plundered ordinary Americans. The business boom of the 1920s had increased worker productivity by about 43%, but wages did not rise. Those profits, along with tax cuts and stock market dividends, meant that wealth moved upward: in 1929, 5% of the population received one third of the nation’s income.

In 1932, nearly 58% of voters turned to Democratic president Franklin Delano Roosevelt, who promised them a “New Deal”: a government that would work for everyone, not just for the wealthy and well connected.

As soon as Roosevelt was in office, Democrats began to pass laws protecting workers’ rights, providing government jobs, regulating business and banking, and beginning to chip away at the racial segregation of the American South. New Deal policies employed more than 8.5 million people, built more than 650,000 miles of highways, built or repaired more than 120,000 bridges, and put up more than 125,000 buildings. They regulated banking and the stock market and gave workers the right to bargain collectively. They established minimum wages and maximum hours for work. They provided a basic social safety net and regulated food and drug safety. 

When he took office in 1953, Republican Dwight D. Eisenhower built on this system, adding to the nation’s infrastructure with the Federal-Aid Highway Act, which provided $25 billion to build 41,000 miles of highway across the country; adding the Department of Health, Education, and Welfare to the government and calling for a national healthcare system; and nominating former Republican governor of California Earl Warren as chief justice of the Supreme Court to protect civil rights. Eisenhower also insisted on the vital importance of the North Atlantic Treaty Organization (NATO) to stop the Soviet Union from spreading communism throughout Europe.

Eisenhower called his vision “a middle way between untrammeled freedom of the individual and the demands of the welfare of the whole Nation.” The system worked: between 1945 and 1960 the nation’s gross national product (GNP) jumped by 250%, from $200 billion to $500 billion. 

But while the vast majority of Americans of both parties liked the new system that had helped the nation to recover from the Depression and to equip the Allies to win World War II, a group of Republican businessmen and their libertarian allies at places like the National Association of Manufacturers insisted that the system proved both parties had been corrupted by communism. They inundated newspapers, radio, and magazines with the message that the government must stay out of the economy to return the nation to the policies of the 1920s. 

Their position got little traction until the Supreme Court’s 1954 Brown v. Board of Education decision declaring segregation in public schools unconstitutional. That decision enabled them to divide the American people by insisting that the popular new government simply redistributed tax dollars from hardworking white taxpayers to undeserving minorities. 

A promise to cut the taxes that funded social services and the business regulations they insisted hampered business growth fueled the election of Ronald Reagan for president in 1980. But by 1986 administration officials recognized that tax cuts that were driving the deficit up despite dramatic cuts to social services were so unpopular that they needed footsoldiers to back businessmen. So, Reagan backed the creation of an organization that brought together big businessmen, evangelical Christians, and social conservatives behind his agenda. “Traditional Republican business groups can provide the resources,” leader of Americans for Tax Reform Grover Norquist explained, “but these groups can provide the votes.” 

By 1989, Norquist’s friend Ralph Reed turned evangelical Christians into a permanent political pressure group. The Christian Coalition rallied evangelicals behind the Republican Party, calling for the dismantling of the post–World War II government services and protections for civil rights—including abortion—they disliked. 

As Republicans could reliably turn out religious voters over abortion, that evangelical base has become more and more important to the Republican Party. Now it has put one of its own in the House Speaker’s chair, just two places from the presidency. On October 25, after three weeks of being unable to unite behind a speaker after extremists tossed out Kevin McCarthy (R-CA), the Republican conference coalesced behind Representative Mike Johnson (R-LA) in part because he was obscure enough to have avoided scrutiny.

Since then, his past has been unearthed, showing interviews in which he asserted that we do not live in a democracy but in a “Biblical republic.” He told a Fox News Channel interviewer that to discover his worldview, one simply had to “go pick up a Bible off your shelf and read it. That’s my worldview.” 

Johnson is staunchly against abortion rights and gay rights, including same-sex marriage, and says that immigration is “the true existential threat to the country.” In a 2016 sermon he warned that the 1960s and 1970s undermined “the foundations of religion and morality in the U.S.” and that attempts to address climate change, for example, are an attempt to destroy capitalism. 

Like other adherents of Christian nationalism, Johnson appears to reject the central premise of democracy: that we have a right to be treated equally before the law. And while his wife, Kelly, noted last year on a podcast that only about 4% of Americans “still adhere to a Biblical worldview,” they appear to reject the idea we have the right to a say in our government. In 2021, Johnson was a key player in the congressional attempt to overturn the lawful results of the 2020 presidential election. 

In his rejection of democracy, Johnson echoes authoritarian leaders like Russia’s Vladimir Putin and Hungary’s Viktor Orbán, both of whom have the loyal support of America’s far right. Such leaders claim that the multiculturalism at the heart of democracy ruins nations. The welcoming of various races and ethnicities through immigration or affirmative action undermines national purity, they say, while the equality of LGBTQ+ individuals and women undermines morality. Johnson has direct ties to these regimes: his 2018 campaign accepted money from a group of Russian nationals, and he has said he does not support additional funding for Ukraine in its fight against Russian aggression. 

The rejection of democracy in favor of Christian authoritarianism at the highest levels of our government is an astonishing outcome of the attempt to prevent another Great Depression by creating a government that worked for ordinary Americans rather than a few wealthy men. 

But here we are. 

After Johnson’s election as speaker, extremist Republican Matt Gaetz of Florida spelled out what it meant for the party…and for the country: “MAGA is ascendant,” Gaetz told former Trump advisor Steve Bannon, “and if you don’t think that moving from Kevin McCarthy to MAGA Mike Johnson shows the ascendance of this movement, and where the power of the Republican Party truly lies, then you’re not paying attention.”

—

LETTERS FROM AN AMERICAN

HEATHER COX RICHARDSON

[redundant2]

Random British Royal tidbits

I'm reading "The Vanity Fair Diaries" by Tina Brown and came across this tidbit:

Monday May 26, 1986

"We had lunch with the preposterous Princess Michael of Kent, who looked about fifteen hands high in an orange silk wrap dress. She has developed a mad, false laugh and a new Lady Bracknell voice for dealing with inferiors. "Row-eena," she gushed at the cowed debutante she totes around as her "lady in waiting." "where is the Dom Perignon? It was sitting outside but those fooooools have taken it away! Find it!" (Mad false laugh.) "Isn't the service quite diabolical? Do shut the kitchen door, Rowena. I hate to stare into a kitchen!"

From The Vanity Fair Diaries by Tina Brown, p. 199

Princess Michael of Kent, nee' Baroness Marie-Christine Anna Agnes Hedwig Ida von Reibnitz, would have been 41 at the time of this lunch. She was born in the German-occupied Sudetenland in what is now the Czech Republic. Her father, Baron Günther Hubertus von Reibnitz, was a descendant of the ancient Reibnitz family, Silesian landowners, who trace their ancestry back to 1288. He was a Nazi party member and a SS calvary officer during WWII.

Princess Michael's mother was Countess Maria Anna Carolina Franziska Walburga Bernadette Szapary von Muraszombath, Szechysziget und Szapar.  The House of Szapáry is an old and important Hungarian noble family. Members of this family held the title of Imperial Count granted to them on 28 December 1722 by Charles VI, Holy Roman Emperor.

Princess Michael's parents divorced n 1948 and she with her mother and eldest brother moved to Rose Bay, Australia. In the early 1960s, she lived with her father on his farm in Mozambique.  She then went from Vienna to London to study History of Fine and Decorative Art at the Victoria and Albert Museum.  

She first married an English banker in 1971, but divorced in 1977. Once month after her marriage was annulled by the Pope, she married Prince Michael of Kent, Queen Elizabeth II's first cousin. She has said that Lord Mountbatten played matchmaker.

The lady-in-waiting mentioned in the excerpt is The Hon. Rowena Hawke Leatham Sanders, daughter of the 9th Baron Hawke of Towton.

The Baron of Towton peerage title was created on 20 May 1776 for the admiral Sir Edward Hawke (of Scarthingwell Hall in the parish of Towton), responsible for a blockade of all French merchant shipping and the grounding of six French ships, and scattering of the rest, at the Battle of Quiberon Bay.  

Rowena Hawke's sister, Annabel, pictured above.

Rowena's father, Bladen Wilmer Hawke, 9th Baron of Towton, above. He served as a Lord-in-waiting (government whip in the House of Lords from 1953 to 1957 in the Conservative administrations of Churchill, Eden and MacMillan.  

Another of Rowena's sisters, Lavinia, married Nicholas MacLean-Bristol. She became a Justice of the Peace and lives in 15th century Old Breachacha Castle on the Isle of Coll in Scotland. This tower fortress was the stronghold of the MacLean clan. The Isle of Coll was granted to the MacLeans in 1431. There is also a new "castle" on this island, built in 1750, which is available to rent for just £1500 for a party of two for one week.

Rowena lives at Hankerton Priory, Malmesbury, Wiltshire, and borrowed a page from her sister's notebook, as her home is also available as an Air BNB rental - hosted by Rowena! Perhaps she will tell you stories about her days with Princess Michael if you stay with her?

https://www.airbnb.com/rooms/2777181?source_impression_id=p3_1676477115_Gba9bnmOeznlt0af

[beardedmrbean]

Two brothers who kept a “human sacrifice” hit list of cops, judges, politicians, celebrities and “banker scum” were nabbed with an arsenal of homemade bombs and ghost guns in their family’s Queens apartment, prosecutors said Monday.

Wannabe anarchists Andrew Hatziagelis, 39, and his 51-year-old brother Angelo were hit with a 130-count indictment after cops and federal agents seized a cache of weapons that included “improvised” explosive devices, body armor and a collection of AR-15-style and 9 mm ghost guns.

The pair also allegedly scribbled “hit list” on a scrap of notebook paper that included a list of potential targets that also listed “corporate scum.”

“Wipe out the scum,” the disturbing note said. “Wipe out the earth,” with the lines marked as “chorus – hit list.

“Human sacrifices,” a written rant on a separate page said. “Permitable but only for the corrupt rapists, pedophiles, murderers, politicians, judges.”

The busts came after a joint operation with the Queens District Attorney’s Office, the NYPD and the US Department of Homeland Security.

“The city is safer today,” Queens DA Melinda Katz said in a statement on Monday. “We cannot measure the number of lives that were saved but we do know that these weapons will never hurt anyone.”

Investigators said they uncovered an ‘arsenal’ of bombs and weapons in an Astoria apartment, including homemade devices and instructions on building ghost guns and other weapons. Queens DA

Brothers Andrew and Angelo Hatziagelis allegedly kept bizarre notes that included a hit list naming everyone from cops and celebrities to “corporate scum” and “banker scum.” Queens DA

The Hatziagelis brothers ran a ghost gun manufacturing operation inside the apartment they shared with their mother and another brother on 36th Avenue in Astoria, according to the indictment.

Cops executed a search warrant at the home on Jan. 17 and discovered the alarming arsenal.

Among the weapons seized were eight homemade bombs, one partially constructed trip-wire bomb, two loaded AR-15-style rifles and two 9 mm semiautomatic handguns — all of them untraceable ghost guns — 600 rounds of ammunition and three sets of body armor, officials said.

Andrew Hatziagelis, 39, was charged with storing a cache of illegal weapons in the family’s Queens home. Queens DA

Angelo Hatziagelis, 51, was charged with keeping a stash of illegal weapons in his family’s Queens home. Queens DA

Authorities said the Hatziagelis brothers had eight homemade bombs in their Queens apartment, along with a collection of ghost guns. Queens DA

In addition, the brothers allegedly had a series of notebooks with bomb-making instructions along with “anarchist-related propaganda” and 3D printers used for manufacturing ghost gun parts.

“Today’s charges underscore the harsh reality that our communities contain a small number of people who conceivably harbor evil intent,” NYPD Commissioner Edward Caban said in a statement.

“This cache of weapons — including explosives and untraceable 3D-printed ghost guns — had the potential to wreak horrendous carnage,” Caban said.

The two brothers are due in court on Feb. 15, and each faces up to 25 years in prison if convicted.

[allthebrazilianpolitics]

Brazil’s Economic Activity Caps First Half of Year With Bigger-Than-Expected Gain

Brazil’s economy ended the first half of the year on better-than-expected footing according to the central bank’s main gauge of activity, as demand proved uneven weeks before the start of key rate cuts.

The bank’s economic activity index, a proxy for gross domestic product, rose 0.63% in June from the prior month, slightly more than the median estimate of 0.50% from analysts in a Bloomberg survey. From a year ago, the gauge increased 2.1%, according to data published on Monday.

Policymakers led by Roberto Campos Neto are trying to engineer a soft landing for Latin America’s largest economy as they start to lower the key rate from a six-year high while still keeping an eye on inflation. With consumer price prints proving “a little bit” better, central bankers signaled they intend to continue loosening monetary policy at a pace of 50 basis points during the next few months, assessing whether cost-of-living increases will slow toward target.

Continue reading.

[publicdomainbooks]

MARLEY'S GHOST. (2)

Meanwhile the fog and darkness thickened so, that people ran about with flaring links, proffering their services to go before horses in carriages, and conduct them on their way. The ancient tower of a church, whose gruff old bell was always peeping slily down at Scrooge out of a Gothic window in the wall, became invisible, and struck the hours and quarters in the clouds, with tremulous vibrations afterwards as if its teeth were chattering in its frozen head up there. The cold became intense. In the main street, at the corner of the court, some labourers were repairing the gas-pipes, and had lighted a great fire in a brazier, round which a party of ragged men and boys were gathered: warming their hands and winking their eyes before the blaze in rapture. The water-plug being left in solitude, its overflowings sullenly congealed, and turned to misanthropic ice. The brightness of the shops where holly sprigs and berries crackled in the lamp heat of the windows, made pale faces ruddy as they passed. Poulterers’ and grocers’ trades became a splendid joke: a glorious pageant, with which it was next to impossible to believe that such dull principles as bargain and sale had anything to do. The Lord Mayor, in the stronghold of the mighty Mansion House, gave orders to his fifty cooks and butlers to keep Christmas as a Lord Mayor’s household should; and even the little tailor, whom he had fined five shillings on the previous Monday for being drunk and bloodthirsty in the streets, stirred up to-morrow’s pudding in his garret, while his lean wife and the baby sallied out to buy the beef.

Foggier yet, and colder. Piercing, searching, biting cold. If the good Saint Dunstan had but nipped the Evil Spirit’s nose with a touch of such weather as that, instead of using his familiar weapons, then indeed he would have roared to lusty purpose. The owner of one scant young nose, gnawed and mumbled by the hungry cold as bones are gnawed by dogs, stooped down at Scrooge’s keyhole to regale him with a Christmas carol: but at the first sound of “God bless you, merry gentleman!   May nothing you dismay!”

Scrooge seized the ruler with such energy of action, that the singer fled in terror, leaving the keyhole to the fog and even more congenial frost.

At length the hour of shutting up the counting-house arrived. With an ill-will Scrooge dismounted from his stool, and tacitly admitted the fact to the expectant clerk in the Tank, who instantly snuffed his candle out, and put on his hat.

“You’ll want all day to-morrow, I suppose?” said Scrooge.

“If quite convenient, sir.”

“It’s not convenient,” said Scrooge, “and it’s not fair. If I was to stop half-a-crown for it, you’d think yourself ill-used, I’ll be bound?”

The clerk smiled faintly.

“And yet,” said Scrooge, “you don’t think me ill-used, when I pay a day’s wages for no work.”

The clerk observed that it was only once a year.

“A poor excuse for picking a man’s pocket every twenty-fifth of December!” said Scrooge, buttoning his great-coat to the chin. “But I suppose you must have the whole day. Be here all the earlier next morning.”

The clerk promised that he would; and Scrooge walked out with a growl. The office was closed in a twinkling, and the clerk, with the long ends of his white comforter dangling below his waist (for he boasted no great-coat), went down a slide on Cornhill, at the end of a lane of boys, twenty times, in honour of its being Christmas Eve, and then ran home to Camden Town as hard as he could pelt, to play at blindman’s-buff.

Scrooge took his melancholy dinner in his usual melancholy tavern; and having read all the newspapers, and beguiled the rest of the evening with his banker’s-book, went home to bed. He lived in chambers which had once belonged to his deceased partner. They were a gloomy suite of rooms, in a lowering pile of building up a yard, where it had so little business to be, that one could scarcely help fancying it must have run there when it was a young house, playing at hide-and-seek with other houses, and forgotten the way out again. It was old enough now, and dreary enough, for nobody lived in it but Scrooge, the other rooms being all let out as offices. The yard was so dark that even Scrooge, who knew its every stone, was fain to grope with his hands. The fog and frost so hung about the black old gateway of the house, that it seemed as if the Genius of the Weather sat in mournful meditation on the threshold.

Now, it is a fact, that there was nothing at all particular about the knocker on the door, except that it was very large. It is also a fact, that Scrooge had seen it, night and morning, during his whole residence in that place; also that Scrooge had as little of what is called fancy about him as any man in the city of London, even including—which is a bold word—the corporation, aldermen, and livery. Let it also be borne in mind that Scrooge had not bestowed one thought on Marley, since his last mention of his seven years’ dead partner that afternoon. And then let any man explain to me, if he can, how it happened that Scrooge, having his key in the lock of the door, saw in the knocker, without its undergoing any intermediate process of change—not a knocker, but Marley’s face.

Marley’s face. It was not in impenetrable shadow as the other objects in the yard were, but had a dismal light about it, like a bad lobster in a dark cellar. It was not angry or ferocious, but looked at Scrooge as Marley used to look: with ghostly spectacles turned up on its ghostly forehead. The hair was curiously stirred, as if by breath or hot air; and, though the eyes were wide open, they were perfectly motionless. That, and its livid colour, made it horrible; but its horror seemed to be in spite of the face and beyond its control, rather than a part of its own expression.

As Scrooge looked fixedly at this phenomenon, it was a knocker again.

To say that he was not startled, or that his blood was not conscious of a terrible sensation to which it had been a stranger from infancy, would be untrue. But he put his hand upon the key he had relinquished, turned it sturdily, walked in, and lighted his candle.

He did pause, with a moment’s irresolution, before he shut the door; and he did look cautiously behind it first, as if he half expected to be terrified with the sight of Marley’s pigtail sticking out into the hall. But there was nothing on the back of the door, except the screws and nuts that held the knocker on, so he said “Pooh, pooh!” and closed it with a bang.

The sound resounded through the house like thunder. Every room above, and every cask in the wine-merchant’s cellars below, appeared to have a separate peal of echoes of its own. Scrooge was not a man to be frightened by echoes. He fastened the door, and walked across the hall, and up the stairs; slowly too: trimming his candle as he went.

You may talk vaguely about driving a coach-and-six up a good old flight of stairs, or through a bad young Act of Parliament; but I mean to say you might have got a hearse up that staircase, and taken it broadwise, with the splinter-bar towards the wall and the door towards the balustrades: and done it easy. There was plenty of width for that, and room to spare; which is perhaps the reason why Scrooge thought he saw a locomotive hearse going on before him in the gloom. Half-a-dozen gas-lamps out of the street wouldn’t have lighted the entry too well, so you may suppose that it was pretty dark with Scrooge’s dip.

Up Scrooge went, not caring a button for that. Darkness is cheap, and Scrooge liked it. But before he shut his heavy door, he walked through his rooms to see that all was right. He had just enough recollection of the face to desire to do that.

Sitting-room, bedroom, lumber-room. All as they should be. Nobody under the table, nobody under the sofa; a small fire in the grate; spoon and basin ready; and the little saucepan of gruel (Scrooge had a cold in his head) upon the hob. Nobody under the bed; nobody in the closet; nobody in his dressing-gown, which was hanging up in a suspicious attitude against the wall. Lumber-room as usual. Old fire-guard, old shoes, two fish-baskets, washing-stand on three legs, and a poker.

Quite satisfied, he closed his door, and locked himself in; double-locked himself in, which was not his custom. Thus secured against surprise, he took off his cravat; put on his dressing-gown and slippers, and his nightcap; and sat down before the fire to take his gruel.

It was a very low fire indeed; nothing on such a bitter night. He was obliged to sit close to it, and brood over it, before he could extract the least sensation of warmth from such a handful of fuel. The fireplace was an old one, built by some Dutch merchant long ago, and paved all round with quaint Dutch tiles, designed to illustrate the Scriptures. There were Cains and Abels, Pharaoh’s daughters; Queens of Sheba, Angelic messengers descending through the air on clouds like feather-beds, Abrahams, Belshazzars, Apostles putting off to sea in butter-boats, hundreds of figures to attract his thoughts; and yet that face of Marley, seven years dead, came like the ancient Prophet’s rod, and swallowed up the whole. If each smooth tile had been a blank at first, with power to shape some picture on its surface from the disjointed fragments of his thoughts, there would have been a copy of old Marley’s head on every one.

“Humbug!” said Scrooge; and walked across the room.

After several turns, he sat down again. As he threw his head back in the chair, his glance happened to rest upon a bell, a disused bell, that hung in the room, and communicated for some purpose now forgotten with a chamber in the highest story of the building. It was with great astonishment, and with a strange, inexplicable dread, that as he looked, he saw this bell begin to swing. It swung so softly in the outset that it scarcely made a sound; but soon it rang out loudly, and so did every bell in the house.

This might have lasted half a minute, or a minute, but it seemed an hour. The bells ceased as they had begun, together. They were succeeded by a clanking noise, deep down below; as if some person were dragging a heavy chain over the casks in the wine-merchant’s cellar. Scrooge then remembered to have heard that ghosts in haunted houses were described as dragging chains.

The cellar-door flew open with a booming sound, and then he heard the noise much louder, on the floors below; then coming up the stairs; then coming straight towards his door.

“It’s humbug still!” said Scrooge. “I won’t believe it.”

[bigmouthlass]

Title:  Dangerous Librarians

Author:  BJ

Fandom:  Welcome to Night Vale, Buffy the Vampire Slayer

Rating:  Gen

Pairing:  Carlos/Cecil Palmer

Synopsis: Not all the dangerous librarians are eldrich abominations with tentacles and acid blood.

Tags:  Cecil Palmer, Carlos the Scientist, Tamika Flynn, WTNV Intern, Surprise Character, Episode Fic

AN:  All recognizable intellectual properties are owned by their respective creators and holders of any copyrights or trademarks. This is a not-for-profit work of fan art and protected by Fair Use.

---

Picture a radio station. Simple one-story cinderblock building, the letters NVCR on the sign out front. There's a reception area, a breakroom, some offices, a communal area where the rank-and-file have their cubicles. There're restrooms, a maintenance closet, discreet hiding places for Sheriff's Secret Police personnel, a nondenominational bloodstone circle, and a dark crypt where the management hold their unholy rites. There's a station pet, a station spider, a small colony of station ants, and an exceptionally lazy station poltergeist. There might also be a faceless old woman, but as a radio station is a workplace and not a home the conventions are a little vague on whether or not she really lives there or just visits.

And of course there's the broadcast center. Picture a small room, walls padded with sound-dampening foam. Underneath the window between the producer's booth and the broadcast booth sits a table which holds the sound board. The rest of the booth's dimensions and features suit whatever function they're needed for at the time -- flexibility is important in public broadcasting. And because this is a working area there's a bit of clutter. Torn off sheets from the teletype machine, neatly printed news memos, a blank legal pad with a pencil for automatic writing (the radio station has a special exemption from the ban on writing instruments).

And finally, picture a man. He's not really tall, not really short. He's not thin, but he's not fat either. Not ugly, but not especially pretty. The most remarkable thing about him is his fuzzy scarf; it purrs when you pet it. At the moment he's fussing with his cell phone and sipping coffee. When the time is right he locks his phone, slips a pair of headphones over his ears, pulls a microphone close. In the producer's booth an intern counts down on fingers, until--

"There are horrors and monsters that stalk us all, under the cover of night. Yet there are good things hiding in the dark as well, mysterious, beautiful and precious.

"Welcome to Night Vale.

"It seems we have a new person in town today, listeners! Old Woman Josie was seen this morning talking to a man driving a car with rental stickers in the windows, as the angels watered her flowers and tended the herb garden. Another angel stood with Josie, long-fingered hand moving gracefully through the morning air as she talked with the strange man.

"Just a reminder, listeners, that angels are not real and can neither garden nor give directions. They tend to forget that Bankers Road turns into a one-way street as it passes through Old Town Night Vale.

"We will keep you up to date on this visitor's movements, listeners, but for now, let's take a look at the Community Calendar:

"Sunday has been designated a day of total darkness by the City Council. Time to catch up on your sleep!

"Monday night the Night Vale Symphony Orchestra will be holding a charity concert in Radon Canyon. The program features guest conductor and soloist Lee Marvin and includes selections from the operas 'I Want To Be Your Canary,' and 'The Tragedy of Maria and Draco,' as well as a moan-along of patriotic open vowel sounds. The event is all-ages and family friendly. Tickets are available now at the still-smoking ruin of the Night Vale Opera House, with proceeds going to benefit the Night Vale Antique Society.

"Tuesday is Perfect Your Hangover Day at the Desert Flower Bowling Alley and Arcade Fun Complex. Over 21 only, please.

"On Wednesday the Night Vale Office of Assessment and Taxation will send auditors to all private homes within the Night Vale city limits, both to reassess the property's value and to check for code violations. The full Night Vale Building Code is available at City Hall in The Hidden Room Nobody Knows About near The Secret Room Nobody Likes To Talk About. The Office of Assessment and Taxation reminds all Night Vale homeowners that code violations are grounds for relocation to the abandoned mine shaft.

"Thursday has gotten greedy, and is hogging the rest of the week.

"This has been . . . the Community Calendar.

"I've just been informed, listeners, that the latest interloper has parked his car in front of the Night Vale Public Library. He's gotten out of the car, a tall middle-aged man wearing a long gray coat. Oh my-- he's walking up the steps, armed with nothing but a canvas messenger bag. Listeners, is this man in crisis? Is he perhaps attempting to commit suicide via librarian? No sir, please! Whatever horrible crimes you may have committed in your life, no one deserves such an unspeakable fate.

"Oh thank goodness. The Sheriff Secret Police, of course, have not engaged our visitor in any way -- per city ordinance they are not permitted to interfere in the daily lives of citizenry. However, local child hero and bibliophile Tamika Flynn has intercepted the stranger and appears to be talking him away from the library's front door. Tamika's grown since she was last seen in town; she must be at least two inches taller.

"Well, all children must grow up eventually.

"And now, a word from our sponsors:

"It has been so long, and you have been so far away. Your mind has perfectly preserved this, the place where you remember being happy -- although you doubt that you really were. Instead of the shining faces and etherial forms of your dear friends, everywhere you see functionally similar bands of muscle over skeletons, as though these people were the same as the nonentities that populate your current life. You hopes for the future were built on a delusion, and the only sound you hear is the smash as your last dream shatters at your feet.

"Playstation -- Greatness Awaits.

"This is incredible! Intern Jerry has contacted the station, and it seems Tamika was not successful in persuading the interloper to abandon his quest for dangerous books and their forbidden knowledge. Instead, he went to his rental car, opened the trunk, and pulled out a broadsword, an old but clearly well-cared for crossbow, and several wooden stakes. That's-- that's ridiculous! Librarians are not vampires! Vampires have avoided Night Vale since the Founders gave the sun permission to rise off-schedule. An unpredictable day-night cycle is not good news for creatures that can't tolerate sunlight, after all.

"He instructed Tamika to wait outside and gave her a list of numbers to call should he not make it out alive; our brave Miss Flynn refused. She was not willing to let anyone, even an untrustworthy and clearly insane stranger, face the librarians alone. Her courage continues to inspire us all.

"Well . . . most of us all. Intern Jerry flatly refused to move from his spot on the sidewalk. A nice young man, but I don't know if he has the nerve for field work.

"We will keep you abreast of the situation as it continues to develop. But now, it's time for another edition of my popular life advice corner, Hey There Cecil.

"'Hey there Cecil. My husband and I have twin girls in the first grade. Until this year, we dressed them alike because it made laundry so much easier and cut down on fights. We just got a letter from Night Vale Public Schools that we need to start dressing them differently because of the recent rash of clone-based pranks. We feel this is unreasonable -- our household has been certified Stable And Loving by the City Council's Parenting Review Board. Do you think we should talk to the administration?' Signed, Annoyed in Arbordale.

"Hey there, Annoyed. While I agree that it's a little unfair to expect families to change their routines based on others' misbehavior, I wonder if this might be the perfect opportunity to start guiding your twins into building their own identities. After all, they're not babies anymore! Embrace the chance to bond with your girls as individual people and not two halves of a single child unit. Take them shopping for their own clothes, and buy machine washable so they can help out by doing some of their own laundry. As for the administration, pick your battles wisely. Your girls might be a little young to handle an Official Ostracision.

"'Hey there Cecil. I love it when you mention the station cat Khoshekh. I have a cat of my own that I love very much,' aw, she enclosed a picture. 'I've been dating a guy I met at work, and we're getting serious enough that I want to start inviting him over. But he's allergic to cats. Since you mentioned having this issue when Khoshekh stayed over with you and your boyfriend, I was hoping you would have some advice.' Signed, A Girl And Her Asthmatic.

"Hey there, Girl. First of all, you picture is adorable! I love the way you let your cat dig his hook fangs into your fingers, it really lets him show them off. It's true, Khoshekh is a stress-shedder and it seemed all our things were covered in loose fur in no time. Regular over-the-counter antihistamines seemed to work all right, as long as Carlos was careful not to rub his eyes. It might also help to have your place professionally cleaned every few months; pet hair and dander build up over time in the homes of even the most meticulous housekeepers. As to how to best acclimate your new boyfriend and your cat to each other, allow them to find their own rapport. It can take pets a while to warm up to new people. I'm sure I don't need to remind you, but for other cat loving listeners, make sure your antivenoms are up-to-date before you entertain. It's both good sense, and good manners.

"'Hey there Cecil. I was just wondering, HOW WOULD YOU LIKE YOUR REMAINS DISPLAYED YOU PUNY STRIP OF LONG PIG JERKY?!?!?' Signed, H. McDaniles, (Green Head)

"Ugh. Really? Really, Green Head?

"Listeners, I apologize. This is a personal matter and has no place on the public airwaves.

"I just received a text from Carlos . . . dearest Carlos . . . and he asked me to remind everybody with home cloning units to please restrict your production to muscle tissue and individual organs. Whole human clones are not sentient, they're impossible to train, and they're a public nuisance. And pranks involving them are just . . . tacky. That does it for this edition of Hey There, Cecil. Have a question? Whisper it into the vase of fake flowers on the kitchen table, and a Community Radio transcriptionist will pass it on to me.

"What? Oh, um, listeners? The City Council and Sheriff's Secret Police are advising all residents to take cover in their librarian shelters immediately. The City Council could not be reached for direct comment, and their out-of-office voicemail confirms, in a very rushed and breathless tone, that from now on their offices will close for lunch and never open again.

"Oh. Listeners, the light from the sun has gone dim. Thick columns of black smoke have started pouring from the chimneys of the Public Library. Witnesses report a strange, subaudible tremble buzzing up through their legs and into their bodies. They can hear voices, chanting words in a language unfit for human tongues. People have started to fall to the ground, but it is not in Glow Cloud inspired awestruck genuflection; it is the trembling of children seeing their greatest and most horrifying fears. Can it be, listeners? Could the librarians finally have tired of keeping their vigil over the dangerous dangerous books? Are we to see the ghastly thing that spawned them mainfest as a living presence, among us, here to feed on us, our families, our beloved little town? I do not know. I know that I am safe, here, in my booth but I don't know if you all are safe, if you heeded the instructions of the wise and benevolent City Council and got out of sight. Even the Glow Cloud has sunk to the earth and lays out as a gleaming carpet of mist over Memorial Square, emitting a faint squealing moan.

"Dear listeners, I know how routine can be a comfort when life overwhelms. So, holding my love for all of you close to your hearts, I give you . . . the weather."

The man's shaking hand turns a switch. Faintly, the day's weather report -- Electronaut, by VNV Nation -- plays. Many things happen elsewhere, things the man knows about because that's who he is and what he does. So when the weather ends and he turns the switch back, his hands are shaking for a different reason.

"Sound the all-clear! Everybody is back up on their feet-- except for the Glow Cloud of course -- all hail! -- it's floating at its preferred altitude. While the black clouds over the library have yet to fully disperse, the chimneys have gone back to their normal inky plumes. Absent a few bruises and ruptured eardrums, no casulaties have been reported.

"Just a few minutes ago, as the shaking stopped, our new visitor emerged from the library, holding the door for Tamika as she exited as well. They were both smudged with soot and ichor, his sword and her machete oozing with strange librarian blood. The visitor offered Tamika his arm and together they strolled down the front steps. Apparently their sortie was a success; Tamika carried the visitor's bulging messenger back with the strap across her chest. The sheer weight of all those pages and pages, and-- oh blackest night, the visitor is unloading those books into the back of his rental car, and they're all stamped with the bloody sigils of the Reference section! I shudder to think of what unholy monster these two must have defeated in order to check them out.

"At the visitor's urging, Tamika got into the car. They shared a tired smile and bumped fists through the car's open window. Then the visitor looked up, noting the crowd surrounding him for the first time. In an elegant British accent, he asked, 'Would one of you please be so good as to direct me to the nearest pub?' I hope I got that right; sarcasm is a thing I struggle with sometimes.

"Intern Jerry, being the helpful sort, told him how to get to Big Rico's. And that's probably where he is now! Not an interloper, not one of us, but something in between . . . I wonder if Carlos would mind if we had our mandated slice tonight instead of our usual night. Something tells me this new person has a story.

"Stay tuned next for ten hours of the faint scream air makes when it collapses into a sudden void. And goodnight, Night Vale.

"Good night." --- Welcome to Night Vale is the property of Commonplace Books, and the visitor is the property of Mutant Enemy. Playstation -- console and brand -- is owned by Sony. Today's weather is "Electronaut" by VNV Nation, off of the album Futureperfect. Did you enjoy this fanfic? Did you hate it beyond all measure? Did you read it in Cecil's voice? Feedback is always welcome via the Comments section, or e-mail me at darali_starscream@yahoo.com

Today's proverb -- wisdom is purchased with innocence. Make sure you get good value for yours.

---

[rauthschild]

Tonight our usual Monday night webinar was interrupted by an area-wide network spike.  

But here's what's going down just the same: 

Declassified: IRS and Federal Reserve Caught Red-Handed in Massive Economic Enslavement Scam!

This article by the Gazetteller doesn't give you the details, but we have and we will. 

Just yesterday we told you how the Sephardic Jewish bullion bankers of Amsterdam colluded with and backed Oliver Cromwell and his Roundheads in the English Civil War to depose King Charles I and later, James II. 

Their object in doing this was three-fold: (1) end the prohibition against Jews living in England which had been imposed by King Edward; (2) put their man, a Dutch puppet, William of Orange, on the English throne; and (3) establish a bank known as the Bank of England, but owned and controlled by the same Dutch bullion bankers.  

As part of the charter of the Bank of England, William of Orange (their puppet) agreed to keep the identity of the actual backers and shareholders secret, allowed them to practice "fractional reserve banking" (a swindle), and also allowed them to consolidate the so-called national debt (that is, the King's sovereign debt) and extract payment on the principle and interest due on this "National Debt" via direct taxation of the people. 

The Federal Reserve is a replay of the Bank of England swindle, except that it's worse in one respect. 

Consider that the Bank of England deals in asset-backed currency, while the Federal Reserve functions as a dealer in non-negotiable I.O.U.s. 

This means that people in England got a small dollop of silver or gold in exchange for their goods and services, while the Americans got nothing of value at all in "equitable exchange".  

The Bank of England was given a franchise to levy a direct tax on the people of England, independent of the monarchy or the Parliament, either one. 

The Federal Reserve, and later, the trademarked Federal Reserve System operating out of Puerto Rico, was given the same kind of franchise to levy a direct tax on the people of America, independent of any Congress. 

This privately levied tax --- a tax levied by a foreign privately owned bank --- is deceptively called the Federal Income Tax, even though the victims typically receive no "federal income" at all.  

Technically, this infamous tax is defined as a "gift and estate tax" and it is collected by private debt collection agents working for the banks involved in this scam.  

The Federal Reserve and the International Monetary Fund both have their claws in this dirty business, and operate two (2) private debt collection agencies, one calling itself the Internal Revenue Service (Inc.) and one calling itself the IRS (INC.) respectively. 

The "Federal Income" being taxed by these banks is not any income received by the victims, but is instead credit "income" extended to the Federal Government Subcontractors based on the assets of the victims by the colluding banks. 

The Federal Reserve extends credit based on the victim's labor and physical assets, and the IMF extends credit based on the victim's intellectual property assets. 

The banks give credit to the Federal Government Subcontractors (both foreign corporations in the business of providing government services) based on your assets which are held and mortgaged to provide all this credit to the government subcontractors.

In other words, the banks establish liens and mortgages on your assets to raise credit (that also belongs to you) which they then fork over to the government subcontractors without your knowledge or consent.  

Thus, the banks indebt both you, and the government subcontractors, without investing a penny themselves. 

They indebt you to pay the government subcontractor's debts, and indebt the government subcontractors to pay you back.  

The government subcontractors are corporations so they dump their obligations to you by going bankrupt periodically. And leave you as the "public" responsible for paying their debts. 

They rob Peter to pay Paul and then rob Paul to pay Peter.  

And you play the role of both Paul and Peter. 

The banks unleash their private agents from the Internal Revenue Service and the IRS, respectively, to collect money from you to pay for all the government's borrowing of credit that also belongs to you -- not the banks. 

The government services corporations have unlimited credit based on your assets and credit, and they get the benefit of both, while you take it in the shorts both coming and going, having to pay and pay and pay, simply to keep what's yours.  

According to them, your Mother waived your ownership of your natural birthright estate when you were a baby only a couple weeks old.  

She was never told a word about this, and you were too young to know, but your name was registered as a British Territorial franchise, nonetheless. 

This gives the government services subcontractors the excuse they need to "seize upon" your "abandoned assets" and "salvage them" for the owner (you).  

If you don't pay their accumulated debt, the banks that extended them your credit, seize your assets. 

Everyone but you is happy.  

The banks invest nothing and confiscate all sorts of juicy private assets and impose all kinds of bogus liens and mortgages every year.  They hide behind the IRS and never even appear as Parties of Interest in this filthy little quid pro quo they drummed up in collusion with your friendly government services providers. 

The government service providers have unlimited credit -- even though it's based on your assets and credit raised off your assets without your knowledge or consent, via an unconscionable private "citizenship" contract you know nothing about. 

If you are sick and tired of being the goat in this situation and want the banks and the service providers hauled up on a half shell, get busy and contribute to your own government.  

The United States of North America, Unincorporated. 

[violettesiren]

Blue of the heaps of beads poured into her breasts and clacking together in her elbows; blue of the silk that covers lily-town at night; blue of her teeth that bite cold toast and shatter on the streets; blue of the dyed flower petals with gold stamens hanging like tongues over the fence of her dress at the opera/opals clasped under her lips and the moon breaking over her head a gush of blood-red lizards.

Blue Monday. Monday at 3:00 and Monday at 5. Monday at 7:30 and Monday at 10:00. Monday passed under the rippling California fountain. Monday alone a shark in the cold blue waters.

You are dead: wound round like a paisley shawl. I cannot shake you out of the sheets. Your name is still wedged in every corner of the sofa.

Monday is the first of the week, and I think of you all week. I beg Monday not to come so that I will not think of you all week.

You paint my body blue. On the balcony in the softy muddy night, you paint me with bat wings and the crystal the crystal the crystal the crystal in your arm cuts away the night, folds back ebony whale skin and my face, the blue of new rifles, and my neck, the blue of Egypt, and my breasts, the blue of sand, and my arms, bass-blue, and my stomach, arsenic;

there is electricity dripping from me like cream; there is love dripping from me I cannot use—like acacia or jacaranda—fallen blue and gold flowers, crushed into the street.

Love passed me in a blue business suit and fedora. His glass cane, hollow and filled with sharks and whales … He wore black patent leather shoes and had a mustache. His hair was so black it was almost blue.

“Love,” I said. “I beg your pardon,” he said. “Mr. Love,” I said. “I beg your pardon,” he said.

So I saw there was no use bothering him on the street

Love passed me on the street in a blue business suit. He was a banker I could tell.

So blue trains rush by in my sleep. Blue herons fly overhead. Blue paint cracks in my arteries and sends titanium floating into my bones. Blue liquid pours down my poisoned throat and blue veins rip open my breast. Blue daggers tip and are juggled on my palms. Blue death lives in my fingernails.

If I could sing one last song with water bubbling through my lips I would sing with my throat torn open, the blue jugular spouting that black shadow pulse, and on my lips I would balance volcanic rock emptied out of my veins. At last my children strained out of my body. At last my blood solidified and tumbling into the ocean. It is blue. It is blue. It is blue.

Blue Monday by Diane Wakoski

[whattheabcxyz]

2024-08-07

Singapore

Yet more seniors found dead in their homes - 2 separate cases on Monday, 1 in AMK & another in Bukit Batok

Over 30 bus services to skip stops on 9 & 10 Aug due to National Day celebrations

Desmond Lee insists majority of HDB resale flats remain affordable to 1st-timers - sure, if you wanna live in a slum or dumpster

Marine Parade shuttle bus service costs about $1m a year to run & is funded largely by donations

Taskforce set up to bolster tech resilience following CrowdStrike outage

13 migrant domestic workers & 14 errant employers arrested in MOM bust - involving illegal employment & falsification of work pass applications

EMA can impose power rationing during emergency under proposed law

No plans to replicate or scale up pilot giving cash with no strings attached to low-income families - there was no clear evidence the cash aid led to longer-term positive effects

New bill to purportedly allow government to tackle money laundering more effectively

Finance

Singapore: DBS chief Piyush Gupta to retire in March next year; veteran banker Tan Su Shan to take over

Science

Slime mould's pathfinding reveals connections in the universe’s vast “cosmic web”

Food

Singapore Food Agency says Pei Pa Koa-flavoured food products unlikely to have safety issues - if anyone falls sick, you know who to blame!

Art

^ 10 images AI got very wrong - those contorted faces look like aliens... & why is their raft so full of patched-up holes?!

Education

Singapore: All student devices affected by Mobile Guardian app issues to be fixed by 16 Aug

Travel

Scoot to launch flights to Kertajati in Indonesia & Melaka in Malaysia on new Embraer jets

[twentythreemillionstories]

Monday 3rd June 2024, Ashburn, 7.09pm.

#174,036 — An international, highly regarded banker is found dead in his Geneva residence. Strangely enough, they earn their living out of this prejudice, threatening to curse people unless they give them money.