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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 10 months ago

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Where Will All The Martyrs Go [Chapter 4: Read Between The Lines]

Series summary: In the midst of the zombie apocalypse, both you and Aemond (and your respective travel companions) find yourselves headed for the West Coast. It’s the 2024 version of the Oregon Trail, but with less dysentery and more undead antagonists. Watch out for snakes! 😉🐍

Series warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, med school Aemond, character deaths, nature, drinking, smoking, drugs, Adventures With Aegon, pregnancy and childbirth, the U.S. Navy, road trip vibes, Jace is here unfortunately.

Series title is a lyric from: “Letterbomb” by Green Day.

Chapter title is a lyric from: “Boulevard Of Broken Dreams” by Green Day.

Word count: 5.6k

💜 All my writing can be found HERE! 💜

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It is your first week of basic training at Great Lakes on the north side of Chicago, and as you lie in the top bunk of your assigned bed you wonder what the hell you’ve done. You enlisted right out of high school, eighteen, no driver’s license, no work history, never been more than fifty miles outside of Soft Shell, Kentucky. The drill sergeants are always yelling and you’re bad at push-ups; you can’t understand the recruits from big cities like Los Angeles, Miami, Las Vegas, Detroit, Houston, and they don’t seem to get you either, and aren’t interested enough to try. Sometimes you wish you hadn’t signed that five-year contract, but where would you be if you weren’t here? Home is not words but textures, colors, fumes that still burn in your sinuses: cigarette ash on rose pink carpets, red embers glowing in the wood stove, Hamburger Helper and Mountain Dew, coffee creamer in Hungry Jack potatoes, laughter and heavy footsteps and slamming doors, scratch-off games, dogs barking, collecting coins from couch cushions for gas money, scrubbing clothes in the bathtub when the washer quits, Mama taking gulps from her favorite cup—plastic, Virginia Beach, filled with equal parts Hawaiian Punch and vodka—when she thinks no one is looking, blue shows flickering on the television, Family Feud, Maury, Good Morning America, WWE SmackDown. For as long as you can remember you’ve known you couldn’t stay. Now you’re getting out, but nothing in life is free.

You are at Class A Technical School in Gulfport, Mississippi, and even though it’s hotter than some noxious, volcanic hellscape—Mercury, Venus, Io—you are beginning to like it. You taste the salt of sweat when you lick your lips, sugar in the sweet tea they serve in the chow hall. There’s a magic in building something where there was only empty space before, in patching roofs and painting walls. Here being quiet and watchful is exactly what they want from you: head down, hammer striking nails, measurements and angles and long hours under the sun with no complaints. You’re not just running away anymore. You are creating something new.

You are sitting beneath swaying palm trees and a full moon on Diego Garcia, draining cans of Guinness with Rio, and he’s telling you things he shouldn’t, too personal, too honest: Sophie wants to try for a baby next time he’s home on leave, and part of him wants that too but he’s terrified. As thunder rumbles in the distance and raindrops begin to patter on the waves of the Indian Ocean, you tell Rio you think he’d be a good father. He wonders how you figure that, and you say because he’s not like any of the men from home. He gives you one of his crooked smiles—a flash of teeth, knowing dark eyes—and doesn’t ask what you mean.

But of course, when you swim up from the inky currents of sleep you are in none of these places. You are curled up on the floor of a bowling alley in Shenandoah, Ohio, cheap worn black carpet peppered with stars and swirls in neon green, pink, blue. You stretch out with a yawn. Someone has left a Lemon Tea Snapple within reach; you twist it open and guzzle it, hoping to extinguish the pounding in your skull, a rhythmic thudding of warm maroon, half Captain Morgan and half misery. The music isn’t helping. From the green Toshiba CD player, a man is singing in Spanish. Aegon and Rio are sitting at the nearest table and playing Uno.

Aegon says as he ponders his cards: “You know Enrique Iglesias, right Rio?”

“You are so racist.” Rio puts down a wild. “And the new color is red. Racist.”

“So what’s he saying?”

“Aegon, buddy, I told you, I was born here. My grandparents came over in the 60s. I don’t speak Spanish.”

“You can’t understand any of it?” Aegon is skeptical. He plays a skip, a reverse, and a seven. “My dad never taught me a word of Greek but I can recognize plenty of phrases. Vlákas means idiot. Spatáli chórou is a waste of space.”

Rio sighs, relenting. He puts down a two. “The song is called Súbeme La Radio, Turn Up The Radio For Me. Bring me the alcohol that numbs the pain… I don’t care about anything anymore…You’ve left me in the shadows…”

“Damn, now I’m sad. Draw four, bitch.”

“When the night comes and you don’t answer, I swear to you I’ll stay waiting at your door…” Rio studies his cards. “What’s the new color?”

“Green.”

“Yes!” Rio slams down a skip. “Fleeing from the past in every dawn, I can’t find any way to erase our history…”

Everyone else is awake already. As muted late-morning daylight streams in through the small tinted windows, Aemond is weaving between tables, pointedly checking on each person. He glances at you, says nothing, turns around and walks the other way.

“That’s tough,” Rio says sympathetically, popping open the tab on a can of Chef Boyardee and shoveling ravioli into his mouth with a plastic fork.

Aegon gives you a smirk. “You want to fake date now?”

“I’ll think about it.” No you won’t.

Helaena appears, a prairie girl vision in a modest blue sundress and with her hair tied back with a matching scarf. She reaches into her burlap messenger bag and offers you a choice between a ranch-flavored tuna pouch or a silvery pack of Pop-Tarts. “Strawberry,” she tells you.

“I’ll take the Pop-Tarts.”

Helaena gives them to you and then shakes a bottle of Advil. You’re so groggy it takes you a few seconds to figure out what she wants, then you obediently hold out a hand. Helaena lays two tablets in the center of your palm and moves on, soundlessly like a rabbit or a spider.

You wash the pills down with Snapple. As you nibble half-heartedly on a Pop-Tart—trying not to look at Aemond, multicolored sprinkles falling down onto the carpet—your eyes drift to the tattoo on the underside of Aegon’s forearm. It’s not over ‘til you’re underground. You’ve spotted it before. Only now do you remember where you recognize the lyric from. “Is that Green Day?”

“Yeah,” Aegon says, enthused that you noticed. “Letterbomb.”

“I love that whole album.”

“Me too. I could sing it front to back if you asked me to.”

“I’m not asking.”

Aegon cackles and resumes his Uno game with Rio. Baela is wearing denim shorts and a crop top, slathering her belly with Palmer’s cocoa butter from Walmart as she chats with Rhaena and eats Teddy Grahams. Daeron is waxing the string of his compound bow. Jace is gnawing on a Twizzler as he scrutinizes Aegon’s map, annotated with Xs and circles and arrows in sparkling gel pen green.

“I’m going to be a thousand years old by the time we get there,” Jace mutters.

Aegon hits the table with his fist. The discard pile collapses and cascades, an avalanche of Uno cards. Rio, undisturbed, continues contemplating his next move. “You know what, Jace? The cities are full of zombies, the interstates are blocked by fifty-car pileups, if we bump into anyone else who’s still alive they’re just as likely to rob and murder us as want to be friends, and on top of all that I’m trying to do you the favor of preventing you from getting so irradiated you turn into Spider-Man. If you have a better route in mind, I’d love to hear it.”

“Spider-Man…? You’re such a dumbass, what are you talking about?!”

Luke says from where he stands by a window: “Aemond, someone’s outside.”

“What?” Aemond stares at him. “Zombies?”

“No. People.”

Aemond bolts to the doors, the rest of you close behind him. Rhaena turns off the CD player. You, Rio, and Aegon squeeze together to peer out of one of the windows. There are men—three of them, no, four, all appearing to be in their forties—passing by on the main road through town. They are armed with what are either AR-15s or M16s, you can’t tell which.

Rio whistles. “If you get shot by one of those, the exit wound will be the size of an orange.” Everyone looks at him. This was not an encouraging thing to say.

You elaborate: “Thirty-round magazines. Semiautomatic, assuming they’re AR-15s for civilian use. I guess they could have gotten ahold of M16s somehow. Those have a fully automatic setting.”

“So regardless, we’re out-gunned,” Jace says.

“If they know how to use them. Some men think guns are wall decorations, like deer heads or fish.”

Aegon recoils. “Fish?! What the fuck. I’m glad the colonies left.”

“Maybe they’ll keep walking,” Daeron says hopefully. One of the men stops and points at the bowling alley, saying something to his companions. They laugh and begin crossing the small parking lot. They are less than two minutes from the door. “Oh, great…”

“There’s an emergency exit in the back,” Baela says.

Aegon snorts. “Yeah, that we stacked about twenty boxes of bowling pins in front of to zombie-proof.”

“We won’t be able to get out before they hear us,” Aemond says. Then he abruptly orders: “Grab your guns, let’s go. Helaena, Baela, Rhaena, you’re staying here.” Aemond’s remaining eye—briefly, reluctantly—skates over you as Rio, Aegon, Jace, Luke, and Daeron scatter to obey him. “You too.”

“But I’m the best shot.”

“I don’t want them to know we have women with us.”

“I’m of more use to you outside.”

Aemond rips his Glock out of its holster, pointing it at the floor. His frustration is palpable, an electric shock, heat that refracts light rays until they become mirages on the horizon. “You’re going to stay here, and if a stranger comes through those doors you’re going to kill them. Okay?”

His urgency stuns you; his eye is blue-white summer storm lightning. “Okay.”

“Now get back.”

You soar to the nearest table, duck under it, reach for your Beretta M9 and double-check the clip, fully loaded. You click off the safety.

“Aemond, wait, let me go first,” Aegon is saying by the door. “I’m better at de-escalation, I’m less…uh…intimidating.”

“Less socially incompetent, you mean,” Jace quips.

“I’ll lead,” Aemond insists. “Aegon can talk. Rio, you’re up front with me.”

Rio pumps his Remington 12 gauge. “I’d be delighted.”

Jace is amused. “I’ve been demoted, huh?”

“He’s bigger,” Aemond replies simply, then opens the door and vanishes through a blinding curtain of daylight. The others follow closely; Daeron, the last one out—his compound bow in hand, the strap of his Marlin .22 slung over his shoulder—shuts the door behind him.

Very faintly, you can hear Aegon: “Hey, guys! What’s happening? How’s the apocalypse treating you…?”

Baela, Rhaena, and Helaena are under the table with you. They deserve to have options. You tell them: “If you want to go hide behind the lanes or try to get out the back door, now’s your chance.”

Helaena shakes her head, clutching your t-shirt: black, Star Wars, pawed off a shelf at the Walmart. “I want to stay with you.”

“Same,” Baela says determinedly, gripping her Ruger. She barely knows how to use it, but she’ll try. Rhaena is shaking, her eyes filling up her face, small fragile bones like a bird’s.

You can’t hear voices from outside anymore, but there are no gunshots either. You keep your M9 aimed at the doors, your breathing slow and deep, your heart rate low. Your hands are steady. Your eyes hunt for the slightest movement, for the momentary shadow of someone passing by a window. Against your will, your thoughts wander to Aemond. I hope Aegon is on his left side. Aemond can’t see there.

“Rhaena, get your gun out,” Baela says sharply. “Come on. Turn the safety off. What if you were alone right now? What if we weren’t here to protect you?”

Rhaena nods, fumbling to free her revolver from its holster. “I’m sorry…I’m trying…”

Now there is a stranger’s voice, gruff and deep. He must be just beyond the door, the farthest one to the right. There is a creak of hinges, a sliver of sunlight. “That’s just too damn bad, fellas. You got a nice little hideout here, and you’re gonna have to share it—”

The door opens. Two unfamiliar faces, too shellshocked to raise their rifles in time. You close an eye, line up your sights, fire twice, and that’s all it takes: one headshot, one in the throat, blood like a fountain, spurting scarlet ruin, thuds against the carpet strewn with neon stars, gurgling and spasms as their brains send out those final electrical impulses: danger, catastrophe, apocalypse. Rhaena is screaming. Helaena is covering her ears with both hands.

You run to the doorway; there are more booms of gunfire out in the parking lot. You cross into the late-morning light to see the other two men on the pavement: one with an arrow through the eye, the other with a gaping, hemorrhaging hole where his heart once was. Rio is admiring his work, holding his shotgun aloft. He scoops a handful of Cheddar Whales out of his shorts pocket and shovels them into his mouth.

“Goddamn, I love Remington Arms Company.”

“Oh, that was awesome,” Aegon says, wan and panting, hands on his waist. “Yeah, that was…that was…” He bends over and vomits Snapple and Cool Ranch Doritos onto the asphalt.

“Everyone okay in there?” Rio asks you.

“Yeah.” Behind you, Baela, Rhaena, and Helaena are stepping through the doorway. Your thoughts are whirling sickly: I killed someone. I killed someone. “They wouldn’t leave?”

“We told them the bowling alley was ours,” Aemond says, not looking at you. “We asked them very politely to keep moving. They chose to try to intimidate us into letting them stay. They weren’t good people, and these are the consequences.”

You click on the safety and re-holster your M9. You’re wearing Rio’s on your other hip. They seem to weigh so much more than they did ten minutes ago. I’m not supposed to be a killer. I’m a builder.

“Aegon, are you okay?” Daeron asks, a palm on his brother’s back.

Aegon retches again. “Shut up. You can’t even buy fireworks.”

“Zombies.” Luke is peering through his binoculars. “Not many, just two. Way up the road.”

“There will be more.” Baela’s cradling her belly; you don’t even think she’s aware of it. “They heard the gunshots, the sound carries for miles.”

“We’re leaving,” Aemond says. “Right now. Everyone get your things.”

As backpacks are hastily zipped and Daeron and Aegon stand guard in the parking lot, you kneel down beside the men you murdered and check their rifles. They are M16s, either stolen or illegally purchased: there’s a little switch by the trigger to choose between semi-automatic or the so-called machine gun mode.

“They barely had any bullets left,” you tell Rio. Just like us when we were trapped on that transmission tower.

“Yeah, same story for the other two guys. Four bullets in one magazine, a half dozen in the other. But it only takes once. We don’t have any ammo that will work with M16s, do we?”

“No, we definitely don’t.”

“Fantastic. Well, we’ll throw them in a Walmart cart and take them with us just in case.”

You’re staring down at the man you shot through the head. His eternal resting place is a puddle of blood and brains in a bowling alley in rural Ohio; surely no one deserves that. “He was a real person,” you say, dazed. “Not a zombie. Just a person.”

“Hey.” Rio grabs your shoulders and spins you towards him. From where he is helping Luke gather up the remaining food, Aemond’s head snaps up to watch. “You hurt him before he could hurt us. You did the right thing.”

“Sure.”

“I killed a dude too. I blew his heart right out of his chest. You think I’m going to hell for that?”

“No,” you admit, smiling. “And if you’d be there with me, I guess I wouldn’t mind so much.”

Rio grins, wide and toothy. “Well alright then. Let’s finish packing.”

The ten of you depart from Shenandoah, Ohio heading northwest on Route 603 just like Aegon marked on his map, Jace chauffeuring Baela in one shopping cart, Rio pushing another loaded high with food and M16s.

“It looks like rain,” Helaena says.

Everyone else peers up into a clear, cerulean sky, wondering what she means.

~~~~~~~~~~

You’re a few miles north of Shiloh when the storm rolls in, cold rain and furious wind, daylight that vanishes behind dark churning thunderheads, jagged scars of lightning in an opaque sky. The road is only two lanes, surrounded by fields of wildflowers and ravaged crops and untilled earth; it would look like the patchwork of a quilt if you were gazing down from an airplane, but of course the FAA grounded all flights over a month ago when the world went mad: Revelations, Ragnarök, the fabric of the universe unweaving as death burned through families, cities, nations like a fever, like plague.

“Maybe we should cut across one of these fields,” Jace says, pointing. He is soaked with rain; it drips from his curls, runs into his eyes. Baela is in her cart again; each time she tries to get out and walk, she’s gasping and can’t keep up within half an hour. You’ve all taken turns pushing her, much to Baela’s dismay. She’d be humiliated if she wasn’t too exhausted to keep her eyes open.

“Here, let me do it,” you offer, and Jace gratefully relinquishes the cart. Baela gives you a frail wave of appreciation.

“We stay on the road,” Aemond insists, flinching as rain pelts his scarred face. “Farmhouses have driveways and mailboxes, we’ll pass one eventually. If we lose the road, we might not be able to find it again. We’ll end up wandering around in circles in the woods.”

“Just like the Blair Witch Project,” Aegon says glumly, his Sperry Bahama sneakers audibly soggy.

“There!” Luke announces, spotting something with his binoculars. “Up ahead on the left. Past the bridge.”

You can’t see what Luke does until there is an especially brilliant flash of lightning: a farmhouse, old but seemingly not derelict, and with a number of accompanying buildings, guest houses and stables and barns and towering silos.

“Home sweet home!” Rio says. “And I don’t care if I have to kill a hundred of those undead bastards to get in, it’s mine.”

“Well, hopefully not a hundred,” you reply, in better spirits now that a sanctuary has been found. Aemond keeps glancing back at you as you push Baela’s cart. If he wants to say something, he’s doing a good job of resisting the temptation. “We don’t have that much ammo.”

There is a concrete bridge over a river, probably unremarkable and only five or ten feet deep normally but now torrential with rain. Water rushes by beneath, a muddy incline on each side as the earth rises back up to meet the road. A reflective green sign proclaims that you are only two miles from Plymouth, which Aegon plans to skirt along the edges of. It’s a decent-sized town; he thinks you might be able to find a car to steal there, something with gas in the tank and keys on a hook just inside the house.

“I call the master bedroom,” Jace says craftily, rubbing his palms together. You’re near the center of the bridge now, another ten yards to go. “Nice big bed, warm cozy blankets, and I was up for half of last night keeping watch so tonight I am off duty, I am a free man, it’s going to just be me and my girl and eight glorious uninterrupted hours of sleep—”

Rhaena shrieks, and then you hear it over the noise of the storm, pounding rain and rumbling thunder: moans, growls, hisses like snakes. Not one zombie. A lot more than one. They’re crawling up from under the bridge, from the filthy quagmire at both ends. There was a hoard of them waiting, aimless, dormant, almost hibernating. But now they are awake. They are grasping for you with bony, dirt-covered claws. They are snapping with jaws that leak blood and pus and bile as their organs curdle to a putrid soup.

“Get off the bridge!” Aemond is shouting. He has his Glock in his right hand, a baseball bat in his left. He’ll shoot until he’s out of bullets, and then, and then…

Rio helps you get Baela out of the cart, then opens fire. His Remington doesn’t just pierce skulls, it vaporizes them. When he’s out of shells—there are more in his backpack, but no time to reload—he yanks the M16s out of the other Walmart cart and empties each of them, mowing down zombies as the rest of you scramble across the bridge. All around you are explosions of gunshots, thunder, lightning, zombie skulls crushed by bullets and blunt force trauma. Baela is firing her Ruger as you half-drag her, one arm hooked beneath hers and around her back. When the last M16 is empty, Rio starts clubbing zombies with the butt of it. You’ve all reached the north side of the bridge, except…

“Fuck off, you freaks!” Jace is screaming. They’ve backed him up against the guardrail, a swarm of ten or more. His Remington shotgun is out of ammo; he’s swinging it wildly, but he doesn’t even have enough room to maneuver. There are still more zombies emerging from under the bridge. You can hear them snarling and groaning. You swipe an M9 off your belt and put a bullet in the brain of a zombie as its fingers close around your ankle, then you start picking off the ones mobbing Jace. You aren’t fast enough. As they lean in to bite him, teeth gnashing at the delicious throbbing heat of his jugular, Jace throws himself over the barrier and into the surging water below.

“No!” Baela cries. She careens off the road and into the field, running parallel to the river as swiftly as she can. You are helping her, steadying her, firing at any zombies you have a clear line of sight on. The others are here too: slipping in the muck of the flooding earth, shouting for Jace. He surfaces through the frothing current, flails pitifully, disappears beneath the water again. You glimpse a white hand, a shadow of his dark hair, a kicking shoe. There are more zombies on the opposite side of the river, trailing after Jace, lurching and slobbering viscous, gory saliva. They cannot swim, but they can follow him until he washes ashore.

Jace bursts up through the waves, gasping. “Help! Aemond…Aemond, for the love of God, help me…” He blubbers and then is dragged under. Aemond and Luke are continuing frantically after him. Baela is hysterical, sobbing, trembling with adrenaline. Aegon is yowling as he swings at zombies with his bloodied golf club. Helaena is darting around almost invisibly, always cowering behind Daeron or Aegon or Rio.

You glance north towards the farmhouse, growing not closer but farther away. We can’t leave shelter. We can’t leave the road. You lock eyes with Rio. He’s thinking the same thing.

“Aemond, we have to go,” Rio says, but in the midst of the rain and the turmoil it barely registers.

“Jace, we’re coming to get you!” Aemond swears. The ground is increasingly sodden, deep, difficult to trudge through. Jace resurfaces, coughing and sputtering.

“Jace!” Aegon wails. He caves in the skull of a zombie who was once a registered nurse as Helaena crouches behind him. “Jace, I’m sorry! I’m gonna miss you, man!”

Jace splashes in the rising river, his arms flailing helplessly. He is being swept away far faster than any of you can move on foot. “Aegon, you dumb bitch!” Jace manages, then slips beneath the water and doesn’t reappear.

“Where is he?!” Baela is saying. “Aemond, where…?”

You are trying to soothe her, to bring her back to reality. She was always so pragmatic before; you have to wake her up. “Baela, listen, we can’t stay here, he would want you and the baby to be safe—”

“Aemond! Aemond, we have to go!” Rio catches him, wrenches him around, roars into his face as driving rain pummels them both: “We have to go, or we’re going to die here too!”

It hits Aemond all at once; he understands, horror and agony in his sole blue eye. “We have to go,” he agrees. And then louder, to everyone: “Get to the farmhouse!”

Baela collapses into the mud, howling, tears flooding down her face. “No, he’s still alive, he’s still alive, we can’t leave him!”

You and Rhaena are trying to haul Baela to her feet. Now Aemond is here, pulling you away from her—his fingers tight and urgent around your wrist—as he and Luke take your place. “Go,” he commands. “You run. Don’t wait for us. Rio?”

“I got her,” Rio replies, grabbing your free hand with an iron grip. Gales of wind rip at you; every millimeter of your skin is soaked with rain. As you flee across the fields towards the farmhouse, dozens of zombies pursue you. More are still staggering along the banks of the river, swept up in the hoards chasing Jace and the promise of his waterlogged corpse when it reaches its final destination. Daeron has run out of arrows and is shooting with his .22, which is very much not his preference. Aegon trips, getting covered in mud as he rolls, and Rio stops to help him. While he is distracted, you look back at Aemond. He, Luke, and Baela are moving quickly, but not quickly enough. A drove of zombies is closing in on them. You have a spare few seconds at last. You yank your backpack off, grab a box of ammo inside, and reload your M9.

“Chips?!” Rio calls over his shoulder.

“I’m fine.”

He knows you well enough to listen. The world goes quiet as your finger settles on the trigger. There’s a rhythm one slips into, an impassionate lethal efficiency. It’s easier to keep going than to stop and have to find it again. You fire over and over, dropping eight zombies. You sheath your M9 and whip Rio’s out of your other holster, the sights finding grotesque decaying faces illuminated by lightning. You pull the trigger: blood, bones, brains, corpses jerking and convulsing as they fall harmlessly to the mud. Aemond is here; when did he get here?

“I told you to run!” he’s shouting through the storm, furious. He’s shoving you towards the farmhouse. You resist him.

“Let me kill as many as I can—”

“Go! Now!” Aemond orders over the clashing thunder, and then sprints with you all the way to the front porch to make sure you listen. Everyone else is already there. Helaena has fetched a spare key from under the doormat and is turning it in the lock.

Daeron observes her anxiously. “We don’t know if it’s safe in there, Helaena.”

“Not in,” she says, insistent. “Through.” Through this building, and maybe through the next one too. The average zombie is not terribly clever. If they lose sight of you, without the benefit of the momentum of a hoard they are lost. Helaena opens the door. The living rush inside, and she locks it behind you. As you are bursting out the back door, you can hear zombies pounding their rotting palms against the front one. You soar through a stable full of dead horses and donkeys, leaving the doors open; this should keep the zombies distracted if they make it this far. Then you race to the farthest guest house. Luke, swiveling with his binoculars, spies no zombies approaching as you steal inside. There is no spare key this time; Rio punches out a first-floor window for you to climb through. Once everyone is inside, he and Aegon move a bookshelf to cover the opening.

You all stand in the living room, gasping and shivering, dripping rain down onto the rug and the hardwood floor. The air is dusty but clean of any trace of vile, swampy decay. Outside, thunder booms and lightning flashes bright enough to illuminate the lightless house. The sky is so dark it might as well be nightfall. Baela sinks to her knees, clamping both hands over her mouth so she won’t sob loudly enough for a zombie to hear. Rhaena and Luke are beside her, both weeping quiet rivulets of tears, trying to comfort her in whispers. Helaena is rummaging around searching for candles; she has already taken a lighter out of her soaked burlap messenger bag.

“Daeron, bro, come over here,” Aegon chokes out. He embraces Daeron, clutches him tightly and desperately, doesn’t let go. Rio is reloading his Remington 12 gauge.

Jace is dead. Jace is dead.

Aemond says to you, his voice low but seething: “What the fuck was that?”

You blink the raindrops out of your eyes as you stare at him, bewildered. “You needed help.”

“I told you to run.”

“I’m an asset, I have skills that can keep you alive, why am I here if I’m not going to be useful—?”

“You’re not in the fucking Navy anymore!” he hisses. “When I tell you to run, you run, you don’t stop, you don’t look back, because I can’t worry about you and take care of everyone else.”

“Nobody asked you to worry about me.”

“But I do.”

“Aemond,” Aegon pleads, waving him over. Aegon’s plump sunburned cheeks are glistening with rain and tears. “Man, it doesn’t matter. Nothing else matters now. Please come here.”

“I’m going to clear the house,” Aemond says instead.

Rio raises an eyebrow at you—this is one fucked up guy, Chips—and then pumps his shotgun. “Me too.” He sweeps with Aemond through the main floor and then vanishes up the staircase.

Helaena is lightning candles she found in the kitchen and arranging them around the living room. Daeron starts gathering food from the pantry. Rhaena and Baela are murmuring to each other softly, mournfully. It doesn’t feel like something you should intrude on. Luke is peeking out of a window with his binoculars, vigilant for threats. Aegon sniffles, wanders over to you with large, sad, shimmering eyes, pats your shoulder awkwardly.

“Hey, Chocolate Chip. You doing okay?”

“No,” you answer honestly.

“Yeah. Me either.” Then he flops down on the hideous burnt orange couch and lies there motionless until Daeron brings him a can of Dr. Pepper. Aegon pops the tab, slurps up foam, and then begins singing to himself very quietly, a song so old you can remember your grandfather saying it was one of his favorites as a boy: A Tombstone Every Mile.

When Rio comes back downstairs—heavy footsteps, he can’t help that—you meet him at the bottom of the steps. “The house is good,” Rio says. “And Aemond’s in the big bedroom on the right if you’d like to go up there and talk to him.”

“I don’t think he wants to see me right now.”

“I could not disagree more,” Rio says with a miserable, exhausted smile. Then he goes to the couch to check on Aegon.

You pick up one of the flickering candles, white and scentless, and ascend the staircase. You find Aemond in the master bedroom, the same accommodations that Jace laid claim to when he was still alive. He is sitting at the edge of the bed and staring at the wall, at nothing. Tentatively, you sit down beside him, placing the candle on the nightstand.

“Aemond…what happened to Jace…it wasn’t your fault.”

“Criston said I was in charge, that’s the very last thing he told me. They might be the last words I ever hear from him, and I just…” His voice breaks; he wipes the rain and tears from his face with open palms. “I really wanted to get everyone home.”

“I’m so sorry about what I said at the bowling alley,” you confess, like it’s a dire secret. “I don’t want to fight with you, Aemond, I…I want to help you. I can see what you’ve done for everyone here, me and Rio included, and I believe in you. I want to be a part of this.”

He nods, an acceptance of peace, but he still doesn’t look at you.

“Can we start over? I’ll never bring it up again, okay? I wasn’t trying to guilt you or upset you or anything. I should have just dropped it. I overreacted. And I understand why being with someone like me maybe wouldn’t be…super appealing.”

“It’s not about that.”

“Then what’s it about?”

Aemond wrings his hands, shakes his head, at last turns to you, golden candlelight reflected in his eye, his scar cloaked in shadows. His words are hushed, clandestine, soft powerless surrender. “I’m already so afraid of losing you.”

He cares, he hopes, he wants me too? “I’m here right now, Aemond. I don’t know what else I can say. I’d promise you more if I could.”

He reaches out to touch you, to ghost his thumb across your cheekbone, wet with rain. Then he kisses you, so gently you cannot help but imagine the wispy borders of calm white summer clouds, the rustle of leaves as wind blows down the Appalachian Mountains. You don’t have to ask him what he’s thinking, what it feels like. You can read it in the startled, firelit wonder on his face.

You taste like the beginning of something, here at the end of the world.

#aemond targaryen x reader #aemond x you #aemond targaryen #aemond one eye #aemond x reader #aemond x y/n #aemond targaryen x you #aemond targaryen x y/n

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the-soliloquies-of-sadists · 1 year ago

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This is a direct follow up to Story #387, Story #389, and Story #394. It is strongly advised that you read those stories first.

#400

“There he is! Timothy Stone, get on up here!... Welcome aboard! Welcome to the Zelus. I see you are impressed with my tiny tugboat. Ha! Ha! I love looking at reactions of new passengers. You ever been on a yacht this big?

“It’s sixty-nine feet, and enough power to get us around the entire Bahamas and back here to West Palm Beach. It has four staterooms and two crew quarters. You get one of them. Sorry, with the entire executive team here each of us will get our own stateroom.

“Let me text Lloyd to take us out of the marina. All of us have been here for some time. No, don’t worry about it. I told you to be here at three, and it’s five ‘til three. No, we’ve been having fun with our new faggot we got tied up….

“You want a drink?... I have this cognac that I was given in Vegas the other day by a potential client. I haven’t tried it yet.

“Ahh we are moving. We should be out of the marina in a few minutes.

“Here you go…. Cheers! …Ahhh! Smooth. I’m not a fan of cognac, but this is pretty good. It should be. Courvoisier Mizunara is supposed to be one of the best out there. On the shelves it’s worth $2,500. But shit, I couldn’t tell that from a $100 bottle. Bourbon is more my thing.

“Growing up in Tennessee, my Uncle Jimmy used to make his own. Everyone in a five-mile radius of his home had a bottle of his bourbon. I used to help him out in his garage in the evening when his son went off to college. Uncle Jimmy showed me everything, but we always wound-up drinking. I was sixteen at the time. I’d plow his ass at the end of the night. After a few times, he didn’t even wait until we started drinking. He had one of the best pieces of ass I ever had.

“His bourbon lives on with my cousin once my uncle passed. I have a bottle of it here. I may break it out sometime during this trip. My cousin fucked it up when he went ran the company. It’s definitely not as good as it was before. Some boys just don’t have a mind for business.

“Speaking of boys in business, your son Michael is doing great. From what Lloyd was telling me, he’s really taking to his new role as intern. I know he finds it a challenge, but Lloyd, Ben, and Gary think he’s handling it better than anyone they have seen in a long time. Apparently, he has a gift for adapting, kinda rolling with the punches.

“What I like about him—I met him this morning—is his ability to take directions without complaints. That is such a difficult characteristic to find in boys these days. Lloyd and Gary were indicating they want to keep him around after his initial internship. I left him earlier working hard trying to impress me.

“…Oh you hear that cabin tone? That’s Lloyd telling everyone that we’ve cleared the marina and are out at sea. This is your first time on the Zelus. When we are in open water, we strip naked. All of us.

“I told you the other day when we were talking about promoting you to lead our European expansion, that we are a close group of men—of four gay men. We share our conquests, our lusts, our dark needs with each other. I trust these men like I would trust my brother, if not more. We have been in countless gang bangs tearing up some faggot’s cunt. I have seen their cocks and asses so much that it’s awkward to see them clothed. The other two on board are faggots. Naturally those two are going to be kept naked.

“So strip. This is not an option. You can jump overboard and swim back to shore if you would like.

“Good.

“You can leave them on the couch. Ben’s boy will put them in your cabin. If you go out on deck you can keep your sunglasses and baseball cap on.

“You have got to realize that the four of us have known each other for years. Lloyd and I go back to our time in the Corps. What connects us is our love for using and abusing faggots.

“Right now, as I was saying there are two faggots on board. One is Ben’s boy. While Ben has taken him on as a partner of sorts, he’s still a faggot at heart.

“…I guess I should ask, do you know the difference between a gay man and a faggot? A faggot is a gay man who has a need, an urge, a longing to submit to the whims of superior men. The more humiliating, degrading, cruel the better. Faggots live for the cum of its superiors. It loves to degrade itself in order for the man to be elevated. It needs the beatings, the piss, the bondage, the punishment to feel complete.

“I don’t know why you were hesitating about stripping. You have a great body, average sized dick, nice long foreskin, and holy shit… Those balls are huge! Let me hold on to them….

“Hey don’t hesitate. We are all physical with each other as well. Look, I’m standing here in front of you naked. I already saw you check out my dick. Yes, it’s very fat. If you want to touch it, go right ahead.

“You know, as a man who says he bisexual, you certainly seem apprehensive…. Or is it the fact that I’m your boss telling you to take a hold of my cock. I get it. If you are going to be a part of this team, you are going to have to drop those pretenses. When you walk around you should let those low hangers swing free and guide your every step.

“Let me check out your ass. Hey, what can I say? I’m an ass man. I’m going to see it anyways, might as well be now.

“Solid and meaty, just as I would have guessed. Nice and hairy. Faggots seem to love licking a hairy crack. You ever have your ass eaten out?... There may be some ass eating ahead.

“Speaking of which, right now that faggot is down below. It is tied down, blindfolded with a noise cancelling headset on, ass up. The four of us have already bred it. You will be up next.

“Your cock doesn’t seem like it wants to get hard…. Do you need something? We have Viagra, Cialis, Levitra, Muse, Tri-mix. Well, I need a shot of Tri-Mix. After this morning’s big load, I don’t think I could get hard again until tomorrow.

“You ever do Tri-Mix? I use it when I want to fuck for a long time. It keeps me boned up for a few hours. You want to try it? After a few minutes have passed you will be rock, and I mean rock hard.

“If you are nervous, this being your first time with me on the Zelus, just do it. Let me get it. It’s kept cold. Don’t worry, I have a doctor that gives me whatever I want.

“Just stand right there. Don’t worry. I’ve done this many times. Yes it’s an injectable. And it’s injected into the shaft. Aww, don’t turn into a pussy on me.

“I brought two syringes. Let me do it to myself. Here watch…. It goes in, I plunge, and it comes out. Like that. It’s over quick. Now a few tugs and I can already feel it working. I’m not going to get completely rigid for about 15-20 minutes.

“Look, you say you are bisexual, but I’m thinking that you are making up the gay side of it because you want to impress us. You want this promotion so fucking bad you are willing to fuck some faggot in front of us. You wouldn’t be the first straight man to shoot up his cock to fuck fags. There’s a whole term for it: gay-for-pay.

“You want to be part of this team, you are going to need to learn to love using faggots, that includes dumping a load into them. To do that you need to get hard. This injection will do that for you.

“Here feel my cock again. Grab a hold of it…. Feel that? It’s harder than a few minutes ago. Here let me inject you.

“Come here. Just look up. On the count of three. One! See, it went in…. And now you are done. Give it a few tugs and you will start to feel it.

“You’ll be hard for the rest of the night. Lots of fucking in your future tonight.

“When we had our conversation in Vegas, I told you that I was pissed off at your skimming the profits but was very intrigued at the process you used to do so. It took some serious creativity to pull that off. I was impressed. The guys too. We set this cruise out to a remote island in the Bahamas to get to know you—to get to know you as a fag fucker. Besides, the shit we do… man, we wouldn’t take on anyone who had a shred of decency.

“Do you feel your cock getting larger? I can see it growing. Yeah, once we go downstairs into the media room that doubles as a dungeon, you will see the faggot cunt secured to the sling or fuck bench. Your cock will slide into its cunt. And it should be silky smooth. Better than any woman’s pussy.

“We have been training this faggot for a couple of weeks. Lloyd secured him about the time when you and I went to Vegas. He was an easy target. What you probably don’t realize being essentially straight is that there are faggots out there that will do just about anything to serve men like us—brutal men like us. Lloyd has a good talent for reading a potential faggot. He says things that just seems to work on getting that faggot to be collared.

“Once that happens then it’s only a matter of time that they submit to whatever we want to do to them. And all it took was this. See this little fob? This is the tool we use. Here, press the number one button.

“Do it again. And again. What you did, is you sent a shock to the faggot down below. The collar we put on him is wired up, like a collar for a dog to get it to stop barking. Once they feel that, total submission is almost immediate. With this particular faggot, he turned into a whipping post for Ben and toilet paper for Gary in no time.

“Where we keep the faggot is wired up for numerous cameras. So we can see what the faggot is doing and send a shock from anywhere in the world. I even sent one from Vegas when you were looking up some number from some report.

“Look at your cock. It’s starting to get rigid. Damn! You are a grower!

“You know, let’s go see the faggot. The guys will be down there. We are certainly far from shore so Lloyd will have the autopilot on.

“This way…. Doesn’t it feel right to be walking around buck naked? Trust me you’ll get used to it, and soon enough you’ll be naked pretty much all the time. If you need to piss and you don’t have a faggot nearby, just aim off the side and go. The one thing you’ll learn is pissing with a hard-on will take some time, which is great for loading up a faggot’s toilet cunt.

“And here we are. Before we go in, I want to point out that you can see the men are enjoying themselves. In general, we casually use faggots’ holes. It’s about pleasure and not so much about busting a nut, although busting a nut happens a lot.

“Look at how the men are enjoying what’s going on. Ben is balls deep in his boy, while the boy is tongue fucking Gary’s shitter. Lloyd is pile driving the faggot over on the fuck bench, stirring up the cum stew.

“This is the life we created. This is what you are coming into. Let’s go in.

“Gentlemen! I got Timothy here. His cock has been shot up and he’s ready to fuck.

“Damn Tim! You really are a grower. I should have expected that when I saw your long foreskin. Now only the tip shows. Skin it back; I want to see how big your head is.

“Shit! Do you ever clean that thing? Look at that dick cheese…. Come here. Stick your dickhead in the faggot’s mouth. He’ll clean you off.

“The faggot is blindfolded and has noise canceling headset under his hood. He won’t know what to do until you use the handle on his hood to pull his head back. Then just shove your dick in his mouth. The faggot knows to clean off dick cheese; I’m sure Gary made sure of that.

“There you go…. I see that smile. Feels good, doesn’t it? Better than any woman. A well-trained faggot is better than anything a woman can do.

“Well you got Gary and Ben to stop and watch you.

“Oh you see his welts. Yeah, a well-trained faggot also takes a beating. We punish faggot slaves appropriately, but they also are made to understand that sometimes the beatings are for our enjoyment. Ben and Lloyd certainly like to have their fun.

“This faggot has been trained to do so much. He’s going to fetch us a good price. Yeah, we plan on selling him. There are men around the world that pay top dollar for a well-trained faggot slave.

“Pull out. I said pull out. I told you that you will enjoy this.

“Lloyd, move the faggot to the sling. I think Tim here is ready to fuck.

“While he’s doing that, care for another drink? Or would you like a cigar? No? Ok.

“Boy. Go upstairs and pour Tim here a glass of the Courvoisier Mizunara cognac. The bottle should be sitting out. Hell, bring the whole bottle down.

“That’ll help you adapt and sink into everything to come. So have you ever been to a gang bang, or fucked a woman who has several loads in her? The feeling on your cock is amazing. Yes it’s sloppy, but it also feels silky smooth.

“That’s a sight, isn’t it? That cunt has been trained to take cock after cock and still remain tight to give pleasure and loose enough to not cause your dick to struggle to fuck.

“Here’s your cognac. Might as well down it.

“Now go on. Step up. Slide it in. Trust me, this is going to be a fuck you will never forget.

“…Good. You ready?

“There you go! There’s the smile. Now FUCK!

“Give that faggot what he deserves. Slam into him. Faggots were made to be fucked not made love to.

“Hell yes! Look, we are all stroking our dicks for you. You have no idea how hot this is….

“Guys, gather around. You should see this up close.

“…Go for it! Don’t hold back. Breed the faggot.

“FUCK YEAH! FUCK!

“…You did it! In record time! Well done! Don’t pull out yet. Let the rest of your body calm down first. Savor the feeling. Savor the moment.

“You did good. Now, I need for you to pull out slowly. The faggot is trained to clamp down. Good. Good!

“Look at that slime on your cock. That’s all our juices. How do you feel? I know. Words elude you?... Ha!

“Get on your knees…. You heard me. I want you to look at this faggot’s cunt.

“Gary, pull apart the fag’s cheeks. Let’s really see that cunt hole.

“On your knees…. There you go.

“Ben. Lloyd. Now.

“…They move fast, don’t they? You have the same shock collar on you as the faggot does. Now pay attention. This is a level one zap.

“…Hurts like a motherfucker, right? There are ten settings, and you had the weakest. I don’t think another demonstration is needed. Do you understand your situation?

“…Shut up. I don’t want to hear your babble. That was a ‘Yes Sir’/’No Sir’ question….

“OK. You really thought you could skim money from us and be rewarded with a promotion? Please! You need some sort of punishment. That begins with your lips kissing the faggot’s cunt lips. Go on! Lean in.

“…That was level two…. There you go!

“Now keep your mouth open. The faggot may be wearing a noise cancelling headset, but we can speak to him. He’s going to be told to shit some of his cunt slop into your mouth. Do not swallow it. Nod if you understand. Good.

“Whew! That was a messy fart! Remember don’t swallow. Now pull back. Look up at us. Show us the load. Now gargle it. Like mouthwash!

“Two minutes ago, you were a man, but now you are a gargler of cum gobs. Now don’t swallow. Stop gargling.

“Get up and go share that in the faggot’s mouth. Get up…. You know I hate having to repeat myself. If I have to do it again, you will experience level three. Now go and have a deep passionate kiss with the faggot.

“Hold his head and swap spit. Pretend he’s a woman. Hell, pretend it’s your son Michael’s mother. I don’t care.

“Fuck yeah! I didn’t realize that you are an excellent kisser. Pull off. There will be more kissing. Get back to kneeling at the faggot’s cunt.

“You are going to repeat the process exactly the same, except for the gargling. You can skip that. Any hesitation will be met with level three for triple the length. You understand. Just nod.

“Good. Oh, I forgot to tell you one thing. You need to hear it before you go back to eating another splatter fart out of your son’s ass….

“…Oh yeah! The faggot here is your son Michael. This is the internship we set him up with. Oh yeah. Your son was a faggot before us. It was easy for us to pluck him.

“Now, remember level 3. You are to do the exact same thing with the same level of passion.... I'm fucking serious. Go!

“…Damn! That was close. A split second longer in hesitating and you would have been shocked. Keep licking. While you wait to receive your gift from your son’s cunt, Lloyd here is removing your son’s hood. He still has his blindfold and headset on. We will be removing those shortly. You probably won’t recognize him initially because Ben had removed all this body hair even on his head.

“Did you hear that? Gary just busted a nut watching you felch out our loads from your son’s cunt.

“Pull off when your mouth is full. Good. Now go French kiss your son.

“Just like before. Go on now…. Fuck yeah!

“This is so hot.

“Now go back to his cunt. But this time remain standing.

“Stick your slime covered cock back into your boy’s cunt. And fuck him. That Tri-mix I injected you with should keep you hard for a long time. You’ve already fucked a load into him. Now just fuck.

“You really should see yourself. Oh wait, you can. Look over at that TV. Yes, we have been filming you. See your face. There’s panic, fear, guilt, regret, and even a little disgust. All the good emotions. And over on the TV to your right, you can see how your son became a faggot with each of us. Oh yeah, he wasn’t coerced into being a faggot like you were. No, he was totally into sperm burping and pole riding. The fear you had that he might be gay turned out to be true in the most glorious way.

“DO NOT STOP FUCKING.

“And now, we get to see shame you have in him and in yourself, by taking the headset off first.

“Faggot, it is imperative that you do not say a word. If either you or the shithead fucking you say one word, you both will get shocked at level 3. This includes screaming. I want both of you to nod that you understand.

“Good. Now Tim, remove the blindfold.

“Look into your son’s eyes. Let him see just how much your fuck up has cost him. All this is because you had arrogance and ambition. You tried to fuck us over, you tried to steal from us, and you believed that we would be ok with it and promote you as well? Fuck that!

“Are you crying? You are!... Do not stop fucking your son.

“Faggots! That was level 3. Yes! The both of you got shocked. That’s how punishments will be going forward. One fucks up, then both gets shocked.

“Now get back to fucking your son.

“Here’s the situation. We still have about four hours to go. And you have a hard on that will last another three to six. You will be fucking him non-stop until we get to where we are going. Until then, you will not say one word to each other. Remember those shock collars we have padlocked on you were meant for barking dogs. If you say one thing, the sensors will register sounds and you two will be shocked. Also, that sling has a sensor that will monitor for movement. If that movement stops or even slows down—say due to stopping fucking—you two will be shocked. Tim, if your collar should go more than 6 feet away from your faggot son’s collar, you two will be shocked. If any one of us bring up one of our video feeds and see that your cock is not inside your faggot son’s cunt, you two will be shocked. I will free the faggot’s hands. I want the two of you to enjoy playing with each other’s chest. What can I say? I’m a nice guy.

“That’s a lot of fucking between the two of you between now and when we reach the island. But here’s one thing before we leave you both to go have dinner. That island is a small private island, about two to three acres. There’s a small dock and a metal shed to shield from the elements. The owner of the island always has a box stocked with water bottles and something to eat. Last time we sold a faggot there, they put in a hammock between two of the four trees on the island.

“Faggot, you will be left on the dock. The island owners will send carriers to pick you up either tomorrow or the next day. From there, they will arrange delivery to your new owners.

“Until then you are free to roam the small island. Swim. Whatever. If you want to swim to the next island, it’s about 7 miles in open ocean, and that island is about ten times larger, but still uninhabited.

“So that’s the life your dad has caused you to have. Look at him. He’s a failure, and he knows it.

“Well Tim. While you cry, keep fucking your son. This will be the last few hours with him. What do you have to say? Oh, let me turn off your noise sensor….

“…No we can’t simply forget all this. You stole a lot of money from us, it needs to be paid. We paid a lot in fuel to get us out here. We paid for a pick up on the island. They expect a faggot. Now, if you want to switch places with your son, that can be arranged.

“You want to do that? You want to be sold into sex slavery instead of your faggot son?...

“…Well fuck! I wasn’t expecting that! You didn’t waste any time in shaking your head no.

“Faggot, did you see how fast your dad just gave you up? Shit!

“These past weeks have been carefully planned. Every word, every detail. From the Vegas trip where we had our talk, to Lloyd convincing faggot here to sign up to be our intern, to the strip club dancer I paid to have sex with you so that a potential buyer could see you in action, to the tri-mix dose on hand, to the video feeds cued up, and to me handing the shock remote to dear old dad to get him to shock his son three times. The one thing I was expecting you to do was the fatherly thing and offer to go instead of your son.

“Nope. You chose to sacrifice your son. Didn’t even think twice. That’s fucking brutal. Just when I think you can’t be more of a piece of shit, you surprise me.

“No YOU are going to be sold, not your faggot son. Your new owner saw you fuck that stripper, and he wanted you. He’s into hairy middle-aged straight men as his sex slaves. He doesn’t want your hairless faggot son.

“So you are going to be sold. But I wonder. Hmm. I’m going to contact your new owner and see if he’s interested in the pair of you two as a set. Yeah, that is a great idea, to sell your son into slavery as well. If you had just offered yourself up instead of your son, he would have been spared. But no.

“If you have anything to say, save it. I just put your noise sensor back on. Get back to fucking your son.

“Gentlemen let’s go have some dinner. Ben, I see your boy is gone. To start cooking I presume. You are one step ahead, as always. Let’s leave these two have some private time. They have lots to talk about, too bad they can’t say anything. Lloyd, I know you have been eying that cognac. Go ahead and grab it. It’s yours for all the hard work you put in. Actually, you all did good. I’m proud of you all. That was fun.”

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roguekhajiit · 9 months ago

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Magats are so deep in the kool-aid bowl it's surprising they haven't drowned in it yet.

Trump has been recorded live, promising that Christians will never have to vote again so long as they get out and vote for him. Once they do that it will be the last time they ever need to vote.

"In four years, you don't have to vote again, we'll have it fixed so good you're not going to have to vote."

- Donald Trump at Turning Point Action's Believers Summit in West Palm Beach July 26, 2024

Everyone else sees his words for what they are; a threat to our very democracy. But his cultists simply grab themselves another cup of kool-aid and scoff. "Oh, you're just taking him out of context. That's not what he meant at all!"

So let's look at his other claim then, his promise to erase an important part of the 14th amendment.

Amendment 14, Section 1 :

All persons born or naturalized in the United States, and subject to the jurisdiction thereof, are citizens of the United States and of the State wherein they reside.

"As part of my plan to secure the border on Day 1 of my new term in office, I will sign an executive order making clear to federal agencies that under the correct interpretation of the law, going forward the future children of illegal aliens will not receive automatic U.S. citizenship."

- Donald Trump, May 2023

So he's gonna what, white out any part of the Constitution or its amendments that he doesn't agree with?

But of course, this plan to do away with birthright citizenship doesn't apply to him or his friends and family. No, because if he made it retroactive, that would mean his sons, his Dad, and even he himself would be stripped of all citizenship. Along with every other fucking white, non-native, racist fucktards who yell "Go back to where you came from" at any person of color they see at their local Wal-Mart. I guarantee they also have a "If this flag offends you, I'll help you pack" bumper sticker on their obnoxiously lifted, compensation prize, Ram 3500.

But his policy, of course, would never apply to himself and his precious white Christian cultists. No, it only applies to people of color. People who look like Kamala Harris and Barack Obama. People with naturally occurring melanin who, as a result, don't need to have a recurring appointment with a spray tan booth.

Of course, it only applies to people who look like his political opponents and their supporters. Why else would he and his cult continue to mail out political smear campaigns naming politicians WHO AREN'T EVEN RUNNING FOR PRESIDENT ANYMORE as the biggest threat to our country?!

Honestly, I think it's time to take a break from the Kool-Aid, folks. Barack Obama isn't living in the basement of the White House telling Joe Biden and Kamala Harris how to run the country. He doesn't have a back stock of Biden clones that he awakens anytime the current one expires. He's in his personal home office writing books.

The current threat to this country isn't Biden or Obama, or Harris. It flocks around a rotten peach and wears a red hat.

#maga is a cult #maga morons #maga cult #fuck maga #magats #never trump #trump is a criminal #fuck trump #deport trump #deport maga #save our democracy #birthright citizenship #vote democrat #vote blue #vote harris #get out the vote #they drank the kool-aid

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hoonzsn · 1 year ago

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LAST LOVE — “i’ve loved you for as long as i can remember.”

✦ SYNOPSIS — in which two close friends say their hidden feelings for each other at a supposed hangout.

PAIRING ୧˚ — best friends to lovers, mutual pining — jungwon x reader.

GENRE *ೃ — pure fluff, comedy (ish), oneshot

WARNINGS ｡˚ — slight cursing

WORD COUNT . ୭ — 1128

SONGS ⋆.࿔ — is it over now - taylor swift, get you - daniel ceaser, kali uchis, perfect night - lesserafim, cool with you - new jeans, hurt - new jeans, what you heard - sonder, a night to remember - laufey, beabadoobee, night train - milena, seasons - wave to earth, les - childish gambino, la leçon particulière — francis lai, christen gaubert, could’ve been - h.e.r, bryson tiller, blue - the neighbourhood, void - the neighbourhood , west coast - lana del rey

TAGLIST ₊⊹ — @ohsjy

The beach ripples crashed softly against the white sand, causing each time it did so to make a light “splish” sound. The comforting aura caused him to walk closer to the scenery, his mind racing to someone special as he did so.

The moon ever so slightly shone on the ocean, the darkest of the gloomy blue water suddenly turning into a majestic silver field. The specks of silver sparkles on the sea, catching his attention.

With every step closer he took toward the mesmerizing scenery, he wished more and more for her company. A low and deep breath left his lips. He contemplated whether he should call her and invite her, or just leave it be.

A few moments of complete silence went by before he slowly took out his phone from the pocket of his jacket. His cat-like eyes scrolled up and down in search of the contact he had saved her number with. Freezing as he found it.

It was never like this.

He never knew he’d feel overwhelmed by calling his closest friend over to the beach. Although he did feel nervous around her sometimes, but that was explainable, right? Of course, he had to try and ruin their friendship of five years due to his stupid crush.

But that is what jungwon does. He had to let it out, tell her how he felt whenever he saw her flirting with some other boy who wasn’t him. He wanted her to at least know, whether it be she had the same feelings for him or if it was merely to let her understand how he felt about her.

His finger lingered a slight moment on top of the call button, pressing it after a little while. As he heard the line ring for a few seconds, he could hear someone picking it up and answering it with a short and confused “hello?”

Clearing his throat, jungwon answered back, internally face palming as a stutter left his lips. “Hey”

A smile tugging on his delicate lips, yet knowing she couldn’t see him. “Are you free tonight?” he nervously inquired, thinking about the multiple replies she could give him.

His cat-like eyes widened in surprise as he immediately got the response he’d been wanting from the girl on the other line. “No, im free. Why?” Hearing those words come from her made his smile grow bigger.

“Oh, I just wanted to know if you wanted to hang out.” His lips parted in hesitation before continuing what he was about to say. “I need to tell you something.” A few moments went by before he could hear slight shuffling coming from the other line.

“Yeah, sure, where should I meet you?” She asked back, putting on her zip-up sweater as she did so.

He thought for a few moments before speaking. “I’m at the beach right now, but I can come to your place.”

Earning a light giggle from her side. He could feel a slight blush rise on his cheek due to the melodic sound. “Alright won, I’ll see you then.”

The walk to her home was quite short since she lived relatively near the beach. Causing Jungwon to be more excited than usual to see her.

As he saw the familiar house in front of him, he came to a stop. Seeing the girl already waiting for him in front of the gates. He walked in front of her, watching her as she looked intently at the device in her hands, mumbling some incoherent words every few seconds.

“What are you doing?” he asked once he stood in front of her, causing the girl to curse in surprise.

“What the fuck! You scared me” Her startled expression made his smile form again, the deep dimples on each side of his porcelain cheeks visible as day. Earning a smile from her too.

“Sorry, not sorry” He chuckled, causing her to roll her eyes and lightly hit his arm. A slight frown appeared on his lips as she did so, making her hang her arm around his neck.

“Let’s go, hm?” she started roaming the dark streets with the company of the boy beside her.

Once they were finally back, both of them had each of their ice creams as he’d bought them on the way back. They enjoyed their little treat quietly as they walked back.

Jungwon's eyes ever so slightly gazed at her as she was enjoying the ice cream he’d bought her. Her eyes looked straight ahead as they crinkled up due to the grin plastered on her lips while watching the ocean water crash against the white sand.

“So…” she started, looking at him now. “What did you want to tell me?” Her head tilted to the side, noticing that his breath had hitched.

“Um..” thinking for a short while, jungwon decided not to tell her, as he was too afraid of all the possibilities of her reaction.

A frown formed on the girl's lips after he said so, her eyes squinting at him in an intimidating manner. “Tell me won, come on.” She whined, trying to get a response out of him.

His brown, shiny eyes lowered to look down at his feet caressing the beach sand with his shoes, before mumbling out some incoherent words she could quite frankly not make out.

Confusedly, she had tilted her head to the side watching as his lips were continuously moving yet she could barely make out a word. “What did you say?”

Watching him as he slowly shifted his attention from the ground to her, she furrowed her brows together.

“jungwon, what did you say-“ Her words got cut off, by the loud tone of the guy in front of her.

“I love you.” His eyes lingered on hers, watching in anticipation of what she would do next, not daring to let out a breath due to the tension between them.

The air between them became suffocating as he watched her chest slowly heave up and down. Her eyes widened in surprise at the sudden confession.

“I have loved you for as long as I can remember, yn,” he added to it, slowly moving closer to her as he gently tried to hold her hand, still not getting a response. As he slowly starts getting more anxious by the second, he suddenly lets all his feelings out to her.

“It makes me go insane whenever I see you with some other guy that’s not me, and I know I don't have the right to, but,—” Without a moment to think, he could feel her soft lips collide with his, gently moving together in sync.

Slowly pulling away, she looked at him, a smile already evident on her lips.

“I love you too won.”

AUTHOR NOTE; im alive bbgs!!! wow what can i say… my first oneshot that i finished😭 are u guys proud😏 ANYWAYS IM KINDA PROUD OF THISS its cute 🥰 if u guys have any scenarios or any specific like oneshots u guys want me to make just message me or say them here and i’ll be sure to make them!!! <33 also tysm for 54 followers thats literally crazy ALSO I DIDNT FORGET ABOUT PICKY PICKY AND SHRIEK.. im working on themmm i’ll do my best to hurry!!! so for now you guys are getting shorter oneshots and scenarios😏

#enhypen #enhypen fluff #enhypen drabble #enhypen x reader #jungwon enhypen #enhypen fanfic #jungwon fluff #enhypen jungwon #reader x jungwon #beach #taylor swift

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beardedmrbean · 7 months ago

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The man charged in connection with an apparent assassination attempt against Donald Trump in Florida this month dropped off a box at a person’s home that included a letter that declared, "This was an assassination attempt," a court document revealed Monday.

The note came to light in a U.S. District Court filing asking that Ryan Wesley Routh, 58, be held in pre-trial detention.

Law enforcement was contacted by a civilian on Sept. 18 who said that Routh had dropped off a box at his residence several months earlier, the filing said. The witness opened the box after learning of the Sept. 15 incident at Trump International Golf Club in West Palm Beach, Florida.

In that box was ammunition, four phones and various letters.

One handwritten letter addressed to “The World” said: “This was an assassination attempt on Donald Trump but I failed you.”

The letter said in part: “He ended relations with Iran like a child and now the Middle East has unraveled.”

Routh was arrested on Sept. 15 after a Secret Service agent moving ahead of Trump as he was golfing at Trump International spotted “the partially obscured face of a man” in the brush along the fence line and the barrel of a rifle “aimed directly at him.” The agent fired at Routh, who fled. He was spotted by a witness and was soon after arrested on Interstate 95.

Routh has since been charged with possession of a firearm by a convicted felon and possession of a firearm with an obliterated serial number. He is due in court Monday.

The FBI searched Routh's Nissan Xterra and found six cellphones — one of which contained a Google search of how to travel from Palm Beach County to Mexico.

Cell site records from two of the phones revealed Routh had traveled from Greensboro, North Carolina, to West Palm Beach on Aug. 14, 2024.

Further, on “multiple days and times from Aug. 18, 2024, to Sept. 15, 2024, Routh’s cellphone accessed cell towers located near Trump International and the former president’s residence at Mar-a-Lago,” the filing said.

Also found in the vehicle were 12 pairs of gloves, a Hawaii driver’s license in Routh’s name, his passport and documents. One of the documents was a handwritten list of dates in August, September and October and venues where Trump had appeared or was expected to.

Agents also found a notebook with “dozens of pages” filled with names and phone numbers about Ukraine, discussions on how to join the fight on behalf of Ukraine and notes criticizing the Chinese and Russian governments.

The filing said law enforcement learned that the license plate on the Nissan Xterra was not registered to the vehicle, and two additional license plates were found in the car.

A search of the area where Routh had been hiding near the golf course led to the discovery of a rifle with a scope attached and obliterated serial number, an extended magazine and a backpack and reusable shopping bag that both contained plates “capable of stopping small arms fire.”

On the rifle, investigators found a latent fingerprint on a piece of tape attached to the firearm that preliminarily matched Routh.

NBC News observed heavy police presence and tape on Friday near a row of palm trees and bushes lining the golf course on Summit Boulevard. The area featured an opening in the bushes behind the palm trees, which is easily accessible from the public sidewalk. The gap had a view of the golf course and was large enough for someone to occupy.

#nunyas news

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reasoningdaily · 6 months ago

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Mike Jeffries, who led Abercrombie & Fitch Co. for more than 20 years, is under arrest as part of a federal investigation into a sex trafficking and interstate prostitution case. His arrest comes one year after bombshell allegations emerged in which eight men accused Jeffries and his inner circle of sexually exploiting them at lavish parties around the world.

The case is being handled by the U.S. Attorney for the Eastern District of New York, which will hold a news conference at noon ET along with the FBI and the New York Police Department's Special Victims Unit.

Jeffries, who abruptly resigned from Abercrombie 10 years ago, was placed under arrest in West Palm Beach, Fla., where he’ll make an initial court appearance on Tuesday. He will later be brought to New York for an arraignment.

Also under arrest in the case: Matthew Smith, Jeffries’ longtime partner, who allegedly attended the parties with Jeffries; and James Jacobson, who allegedly recruited victims and acted as a middleman in arranging sex events.

Several of the men who made allegations against Jeffries were male models, as NPR reported last October. They described a dynamic in which money and the potential to gain a legitimate job were used as leverage to get them to perform sex acts at events and at Jeffries' then-home in the Hamptons.

"This experience, I think it broke me," one man told the BBC, which first reported the allegations. "I think that this stole any ounce of innocence that I had left. It mentally messed me up. But with the language I now have today, I can sit here and tell you that I was taken advantage of."

During his long tenure at A&F, Jeffries took the clothing brand to new heights. But he was also at the center of several controversies. In 2003, Black, Latino and Asian American employees filed a class action lawsuit accusing the company of sidelining them (it was later settled). Accusations also arose that the A&F magazine catalog had become a corporatized example of soft-core porn. Jeffries' sudden departure in 2014 came after a prolong sales slump for Abercrombie, as well as a string of splashy moves that didn't pan out for the company.

#prostitution sting #mike jefferies #abercrombie and fitch #Former Abercrombie CEO Mike Jeffries is arrested in federal sex trafficking case

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kendrene · 2 years ago

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For your mini fic: Ava and Beatrice, things you said in the grass and under the stars

Beatrice leaves Europe all-together, after.

She tries not to. Lingers for a while. Drifts from city to city, country to country, but the sun shines too brightly over Venice's canals and Paris - which Ava had said they should visit together after the war - well, Paris is a haunting.

An ocean later, another landmass crossing, Beatrice hits the West Coast, slowly working her way north where pliant sand gives way to a jagged coastline. Basalt cliffs against which the waves rage. Incessant. Hungry. The sea a low roar in her ears, never too far. Persevering even when she wanders inland, past jasper-studded beaches, and into the woods beyond.

The forests themselves are old, teeming with life both new and rotting. Fog never quite lifts off of the trees, a layer of it, gossamer-thin, persevering even on hotter days.

Beatrice settles down, and grief settles alongside her, the one companion she can tolerate in newfound solitude. It's a worn blanket. A beloved jacket she cannot bear to leave the house without. She grows new habits, easy when all of her days look the same.

She spends a lot of time hiking, getting a feel for the land. Brings books down to the beach to read; in the sun when she can, under a piece of tarpaulin hastily erected in between two trees if it rains.

It nearly always does.

Sometimes Beatrice reads aloud. Imagines it is Ava she is reading to, all the stories and facts about the cosmos Ava didn't have the chance to discover for herself. She reads until her throat is dry and sore. Reads until her voice is drenched in loss, and her heart bleeds for all the things she's lost.

Reads until daylight gives way to the first smattering of stars and the words on the page are blurred by lack of light, perhaps by tears, into a smudge.

The air is wet and salty, whips like the edge of a sharp knife against the soft skin of her cheek. Beatrice packs her book, rolls up the tarpaulin. Picks the now familiar way back in total dark.

She stumbles. Trips over something yielding. Something that snags at her ankles and brings her down to her knees, a rock catching the heel of the hand she throws out to steady herself, cutting open her palm.

It's debris, Beatrice thinks. A large piece of wood. Maybe seaweed.

It is not.

It's a body.

It's Ava. And she's not breathing.

"No. No. No.' Beatrice has prayed, she has begged for Ava to come back but not like this. Not to lose her right away again. "You can't die, please." A sob rips from her, unchecked, even as she turns her over. "I can't lose you again." Beatrice will not think of her as a corpse.

Ava's skin, her lips tinged blue by the frigid waters of the ocean and not divinium. Beatrice's mouth seeking. Ava's tasting of saltwater and the abyssal things that cannot stand to be brought into the light. Ocean waves crashing around them and over. The tide coming in - a bitter, a cold a cruel baptism. Her hands red with the cold and hurting flat to Ava's chest, pushing, pushing while her mind falls into mechanical routines.

"Breathe, goddammit." Bea's own lungs burning, alight with the effort of wrangling life back into another being. "Please Ava don't go."

"Not...going." A cough. Water sputtering down Ava's chin. Her own hand rises weakly, slick around the curve of Beatrice's cheek. Light, molten gold, shearing through the night to wash over them both. "Not going anywhere." Ava's other hand grips Beatrice by a shoulder, tugs her down to sprawl rather inelegantly over her chest. She's not exactly warm, but she's not cold anymore. The Halo brightens to a shine that makes a mockery of dawn. "I'm home."

#warrior nun #avatrice #ava x beatrice #ava silva #sister beatrice #avatrice reunion #dren writes

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all-pacas · 6 months ago

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do you think he went back to a photoless apartment after cameron?

First of all, how dare you,

"What do you think of this?" Cameron asks thoughtfully, picking up a decorative pillow from a staged living room.

The pillow is beige and uninteresting. "It's nice," Chase lies. She glares and he raises his eyebrows. "What am I supposed to say? It looks like a pillow."

Cameron puts it back on the couch. Chase is no stranger to IKEA, but when he's come here before, he'd beelined for the warehouse section and gone home. It's kind of fun to look through the fake apartments in the show room, but Cameron keeps getting distracted by the most boring crap.

Cameron grabs some pillowcases from a bin and tosses them into their little cart. "Your apartment sucks."

"It does not," he protests, knocking the cart lightly into her side. It doesn't. It can't, because she's moving in — which is exciting, even thrilling, and also terrifying. Cameron's idea, of course. All else aside, his apartment was bigger. When she'd suggested they buy decor together, make it feel like ours, he knew it was mostly her excuse to get rid of his old posters and some of his rattier furniture, but… Ours.

Like she meant it. Like she was absolutely serious and wanted to be with him. For real. So obviously he'd agreed. All the decor she wants. Throw out all his furniture if she wants, he doesn't care —

But all these throw pillows really do just look exactly the same.

They — Cameron — pick out some more pillows. Some knick-knacks, a blanket, new curtains, tablecloths, some art prints so abstract they're essentially just streaks of color, and candles. In the live plant section Cameron finds some potted palms and ferns; Chase finds some sweets in the food shop and eats them as he watches. They load up his car and she drags him to the West Elm shop in the mall next, for more expensive art prints and bedding and still more pillows.

Cameron is working three days on, three days off right now, so for the next week he keeps coming home to a different apartment: pillows everywhere, curtains hung, new dishes and silverwear and bedding. Flowers appear in planterboxes for the first time. New books crowd the shelves. Ridiculous as it all is, it is pretty nice, and maybe she does have a point that it's cozier. "If you wait until this weekend, I could actually help you," he points out one evening.

"I don't mind," she says cagily, coming back to the sofa with wine (in new glasses. That look exactly like his old wine glasses, but she insists are better.)

"You don't mind, or you think I'd mess it up?" he asks, and Cameron grins mischievously, and he almost ruins all her fancy new pillows when he pulls her closer for a kiss, wine glass and all.

The photos appear last of all. Cameron's diplomas framed on the walls, a family picture on one of the nightstands, another in the living room. On her urging, Chase digs out the half dozen photos he'd brought to the States with him when he'd moved: she picks through them carefully and he watches anxiously, waiting for her approval. One is of him and his mum when he was eight and she was sober, her arms around his shoulders as they both beam: Cameron has it framed and puts it next to her family photo on the living room table.

Last are glossy photos pinned to the fridge. In one he's wearing sunglasses and she's laughing. In another they're posing a bit too formally, self conscious and childish. A photobooth strip that starts serious and dissolves into silliness. A candid of him he doesn't recognize at all that makes him worry he always looks that serious: a picture of Cameron looking self conscious and grinning at the beach. He stands in front of the fridge for quite a while, taking it in. He hadn't known they had so many pictures.

The door closes behind her. He can hear the sound of her suitcase as it recedes down the hall. He is waiting to feel -- something. Anything. Finally he thinks he should drink a glass of water, not because he is thirsty but because it is something to do.

There are photos on the fridge, and pillows on the couch, and a box of unsorted wedding photos on the coffee table. Chase drinks cheap scotch and stares into space and eventually crawls into a bed made up with still more useless pillows.

She eventually sends for her diplomas and family photos. It takes him weeks to throw out the rest.

#malpractice posting #helen's fanfic i need a tag for my fanfic that isn't weird

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warner-york · 7 days ago

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The somewhat strange & unexpected connection of Architects’s Joesph Urban’s “The New School” & Mar A Largo.

In 1919, several professors at Columbia University took a public stand against America’s entry into the First World War. Having been censured by Columbia’s President, they resigned in protest, fearing that academic freedom was in danger. They joined up with other progressive educators to found the New School for Social Research (later renamed The New School) which focused on adult education. The NSSR was housed in six leased brownstones on West 23rd Street, Chelsea.

As the lease was coming to a close, its Director Alvin Johnson decided to create a permanent home for the school, one that would give visible form to its identity and ideals. A fundraising plan was needed, along with a visionary design that would inspire potential backers (in a time of deepening financial crisis). Two architects were shortlisted, Frank Lloyd Wright and Joseph Urban. Johnson convinced the Board of Directors that the latter was the best choice.

Urban’s design was driven by Bauhaus principles. Completed in 1931 and believed to be the first International Style structure built in the United States, the New School at 66 West 12th Street in Greenwich Village was the designer’s last architectural work before his death in 1933.

Alarmed by the growing threat posed by Adolf Hitler, Alvin Johnson began offering positions to scholars who had fled the Third Reich. Their presence initiated the formation of a University in Exile which eventually consisted of more than 180 exiled faculty members. Some scholars who were offered a place at the institution never reached its premise.

The University in Exile program was originally funded by contributions from Hiram Halle and the Rockefeller Foundation. In 1934, it was chartered by the State of New York and changed its name to Graduate Faculty of Political and Social Science.

In 2018, the New School University in Exile Consortium was established to continue the mission of the original group by providing support and space to exiled or persecuted scholars.

Two buildings and a single architect – one is an extravagant 1920s Art Deco residence that mirrors the senseless opulence of private wealth; the other is a functional Bauhaus structure that represents both the sobering realities of the 1930s (in New York itself and in Urban’s native Vienna) and the urgent need for social sciences to intervene.

Mar-a-Lago

When New York turned icy, Urban removed himself to Florida. There, amongst other activities, he oversaw the building of the exclusive Bath & Tennis Club in Palm Beach. The rest of the year, he and his wife lived in style at the St. Regis Hotel at East 55th Street, Manhattan.

In 1924 Marjorie Merriweather Post, heiress of a vast family fortune made in the cereal business, commissioned Urban to design a “Spanish style” villa complex in Palm Beach. Named Mar-a-Lago, the estate was completed three years later.

Having called in the support of his former Hagenbund colleague, the Viennese sculptor Franz Barwig, Urban’s design exuded an air of exotica and grandeur. The mansion featured Spanish tiles, Florentine frescoes, and Venetian arches. With a panoramic view of the Ocean, it had a ballroom, a nine-hole golf course, and an underground tunnel linking the estate to the Bath & Tennis Club.

#warneryork #interiors #nyc #aesthetic #interiordesign #original art #classic #abstract #painting #mixed media #Joseph Urban

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justinspoliticalcorner · 7 months ago

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Mary L. Trump at The Good In Us:

Donald Trump loves violence, especially when it’s committed on his behalf. It makes him feel powerful in a way only humiliating other people can. He knows that violence begets violence; fear begets fear; rage, rage, and so forth. He revels in his ability to set fires that spread—except, of course, when they jump the line. On Saturday, there was another alleged assassin attempt on Donald (the second in two months, which itself practically beggars the imagination) at his golf club in West Palm Beach. It was only a couple days before this that Donald refused to condemn the bomb threats, school evacuations, and general sense of terror in Springfield, Ohio that he and his running mate have unleashed by their vicious targeting of Haitian immigrants who live and work there. He claimed without conviction that he didn’t know anything about it. And then he doubled-down on his baseless attacks, as he always does. Two more Springfield elementary schools had to be evacuated on Monday morning.

This kind of development is nothing new; it is, indeed what life in Donald Trump’s America has become over the last nine long years. Threats of violence and actual violence from the right are now a regular part of our political discourse and behavior—Donald makes sure of that on an almost daily basis. He is the primary proponent and promulgator of it—it was only a matter of time before he became its target, too. In the early days of his 2016 campaign, my uncle encouraged his rally-goers to assault protesters and claimed that “when the looting starts, the shooting starts,” as if that was either an accurate description of what was unfolding or a reasonable response to protests with which one disagreed.

Before and during the assault on the Capitol on Jan. 6, 2021, Donald encouraged and stoked violence and people listened. Others listened to his anti-immigrant hatred, his racism, and his anti-Semitism as well, like the gunman who killed 23 in El Paso simply because they had brown skin, or the one who killed 11 Jews at the Tree of Life Synagogue. The man who broke into Nancy Pelosi’s home looking to murder her, attacked and assaulted her husband, Paul, with a hammer almost killing him. Donald has since made Paul Pelosi the butt of his jokes, much to the delight of his rally attendees.

This is the America Donald Trump is rooting for. Whether from violence inspired by his rhetoric or doctors’ failures to give pregnant women health care when they’re bleeding out, people are dying. And if we don’t change course, people will continue to die. Every day Americans pay the price while Donald sets the world on fire with his provocations and then spends the day playing golf, completely insulated from the chaos he sows—until this summer. We know he won’t change—there is no new tone, no evolution in his future or ours. He has no self-awareness, no insight to himself and he believes that the only way to maintain his grip on power is to keep us divided, angry, and afraid.

Mary L Trump’s latest Substack piece on Donald Trump claiming to be a “victim” when he is the perpetrator for division in America is on point.

#The Good In Us #Mary L. Trump #Donald Trump #2024 Trump Assassination Attempt II #Paul Pelosi #Assault on Paul Pelosi

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mightyflamethrower · 10 months ago

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WEST PALM BEACH, FL — The Trump campaign announced Monday that the former president had begun preparing for his upcoming debate with Joe Biden by visiting nursing homes and arguing with dementia patients.

"George, you're wrong about lime JELL-O. Nobody likes it," Trump said as he argued with a 94-year-old dementia patient who claims to be constantly observed by Russian spies. "It doesn't taste good! Everyone's telling me all the time how much they hate it and you're telling me they should serve it every day? On DAY ONE I will ban lime JELL-O."

"And Mexico will pay for it!"

Elderly onlookers applauded as Trump slammed the dementia patient after suddenly picking a fight with him during dessert time.

"It's like he's saying what we're all thinking," said Constance Woodrow, a 78-year-old Alzheimer's patient.

In another instance, Trump screamed at a WWII veteran until he started crying.

"Greatest generation? More like lamest generation," Trump quipped, invoking laughs from orderlies. "You complain about loud music when people — good people — are trying to listen to jazz. You make me sick, to tell you the truth."

"But thank you for your service."

In this, and many such cases, a crowd of old folks erupted in cheers for Trump as he blasted one dementia patient after another.

Trump's debate prep is a distinct departure from previous campaign years when he spent time studying government policy and took part in mock debates against former New Jersey Governor Chris Christie.

"I spent all my time arguing against a fat man about bridges or something," Trump said, reflecting on past debate missteps. "It didn't prepare me at all. Biden is thin and he hates bridges!"

Sources close to the Biden campaign confirm the president is concerned about this new development leading up to Thursday's debate.

"Oh no, my ice cream," Biden reportedly whispered as his wife led him away.

At publishing time, sources confirm that if Trump fails to win the presidency he will be welcome at Shady Oaks Assisted Living.

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head-post · 7 months ago

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Man charged in apparent Trump plot wrote “This was an assassination attempt”

American Ryan Routh, who attempted to assassinate former US President and Republican presidential candidate Donald Trump, left a note with the phrase “I failed you” at his friend’s house, The New York Times reported, citing materials released by prosecutors.

Routh, 58, was arrested on September 15 when he fled in a car from the Trump International Golf Course in West Palm Beach, Florida.

A Secret Service agent opened fire on him after spotting a rifle peeking out from behind a tree line a few holes ahead of Trump, the government alleges in a preliminary court filing.

The newspaper cited a document submitted to the court by the prosecution for Routh’s sentencing hearing. The state prosecution intends to use the document among arguments that the defendant in the case should not be released. Prosecutor for the Southern District of Florida Markenzie Lapointe said in the motion:

On September 18, law enforcement was contacted by a witness who claimed that Routh had left a box at his home several months ago. After the witness learned of the incident on September 15, he opened the box. (…) It contained, among other things, a handwritten letter addressed to Peace.

Mr. Routh wrote in a note that was placed inside a box that he left at a friend’s house in North Carolina, according to prosecutors:

This was an assassination attempt on Donald Trump but I failed you. I tried my best and gave it all the gumption I could muster. It is up to you to finish the job; and I will offer $150,000 to whomever can complete the job.

In addition to the letter, the box contained other letters and ammunition, according to an unnamed witness.

The state prosecution documents also say that for about a month before the assassination attempt, Routh’s phone had been sending signals to communications towers in the vicinity of this golf club and Trump’s Mar-a-Lago residence. A search of the suspect’s car found a handwritten list of dates and locations of events involving Trump. Six mobile phones were also found in the defendant’s car.

This evidence is meant to bolster prosecutors’ claims that Routt intended to assassinate Trump before the attempt was thwarted by Secret Service agents.

Routh is expected to be formally charged in court on September 30. He faces up to 20 years in prison and a fine of about $500,000.