#other men's women 1931

[from1837to1945]

The Kiss Waltz

Sue Carol version (Dancing Sweeties)

Other Men's Women

Grant Withers version (Dancing Sweeties)

Ben Bernie's recording

Kiss me, sweetheart, kiss me / That's what the Kiss Waltz is saying

Bring your lips close to mine while we're swaying

Oh, my dear! Can't you hear what they're playing

This waltz is the Kiss Waltz / Telling us both what to do

So kiss me, sweetheart, kiss me

While I dance the Kiss Waltz with you

[mesetacadre]

The Soviet Revolution of October 1934

The Second Spanish Republic is a figure in history which tends to be overly glorified by the contemporary Spanish left, including some excessively folklorist communists, as a desire to look through history for any instance when opposition to the monarchy and reactionaries was the hegemonic position. After 40 years of a fascist dictatorship, and 46 years of a liberal democracy that has exposed social-democracy's bankruptcy, the Second Republic is a time when the PCE (Communist Party of Spain) was a force to be reckoned with, at least compared to today, with a few hundred thousands along its lines. Despite the Second Republic lasting from 1931 to 1936, the aspects that tend to be glorified are the times of the Popular Front, the electoral alliance from the PSOE to the PCE that won the February 1936 elections, and ruled until the coup d'etat of July 1936. Perhaps unconsciously, perhaps consciously, the years of 1932-1935 tend to be not forgotten, but minimized.

This is because the Second Republic was not a "popular" state, it wasn't even nominally progressive for half its history. And again, in an exercise of willful ignorance, when its repressive episodes are discussed, most tend to focus on the Black Biennium, as historiography knows it, the two years (1933-1935) when the right governed under the CEDA coalition, which included falangists, monarchists, even Carlists. But the history of repression in the Second Republic begins not even a month after its constitution was ratified. The Castiblanco incidents of December 1931 saw a few day workers killed by the police during a peaceful demonstration asking for work, afterwards it turned violent and 4 policemen were lynched by the workers. That same week, in the Arnedo incidents, the 5th of January 1932, the police shot into a crowd of striking workers in the town's square, renamed recently to Republic Square. 11 people were killed, two of them a mother and his 4 year old son, another a 70 year old woman. 5 others were permanently left unable to work. Just a year later, in January of 1933, 19 men, 2 women and a child were massacred in the Casas Viejas Incident, after an attempted uprising and occupation of the police quarters.

The Second Republic was always an anti-worker state, from its very beginnings. Regardless of what its constitution said, the social advances of the republic were lubricated with worker's blood.

Let's set some context for the subject of this post: The PCE, section of the Third International, found itself at risk of dissappearence at the end of the 1923-1930 dictatorship. It only really began to recover after José Diaz was elected General Secretary in 1932, it had about 1.000 members at this time, and by 1934 it had risen to 15.000 members, without counting the members of its youth wing. Internationally, the meteoric rise of fascism was unignorable. Nazi-fascism and fascism had seized power in Germany and Italy, and similar tendencies in Portugal and Austria were also in power, in the form of Salazar's Estado Novo in the former and Dollfuß' austrofascism in the latter, himself killed by outright nazi-fascists. Spain had its supposedly progressive Republic, of course, but it did not prevent the JONS to be founded in 1931 and the Falange in 1932, which during the civil war would merge into the infamous FE de las JONS, the Spanish Falange of the National-Syndicalist Offensive Juntas (The Falange is still a legal party now!). The leader of the CEDA, which would later govern during that Black Biennium I mentioned earlier, attended the Nürnberg Congess of 1932, where the pictures of those massive nazi-fascist rallies come from.

The 4th of October, 1934, 3 CEDA ministers had been chosen to enter the government, and in response, a strike, called the Revolutionary General Strike, was called for the following day, the 5th of October, 90 years ago today. The organization of this strike was done between the PCE, CNT (national confederation of workers, an anarcho-syndicalist union) and PSOE. The will to call the strike was not equal, however. The meeting minutes of the evening and night of the 4th show that the CNT was not very convinced of the strike and flip-flopped a lot, while the PSOE only decided to support the strike once it became impossible for them not to. The PCE, on the other hand, had already spent a few months warning of this, and preparing.

Barely a month before October, the police found a shipment of weapons going from the port of Gijón to Mieres, the future epicenter of the revolution. There were three armed shipments, and while the other two reached their destination, the third one being found almost lead to Indalecio Prieto, of the PSOE, being arrested. As a result, the weapon stashes in various places in Madrid (Casa del Pueblo, Ciudad Universitaria, Cuatro Caminos). These weapon stashes were supposed to supply the revolutionary strike in Madrid, and since they were found, the nascent revolutionary center was stillborn, since it was unable to arm itself. These same weapon stashes would later be replenished and used by the first militias of Madrid in the July 1936 coup d'etat

Nevertheless, the call for a strike was distributed at 6:00 of the 5th, but it was only heeded in Asturias, Madrid, Vizcaya, Cataluña, plus a few weak points (Cantabria, Aragón, Alicante, León, Palencia, Málaga). The reason the call was not heeded in broader parts of the country was because the agricultural day workers, predominant throughout the central meseta and south had already carried out their own strike that same year. They were recovering, they feared the repression that was still fresh in their minds, and it did not help that the predominant political organization among them, the CNT, took too long to support the strike, they simply were not prepared. It is impossible to understate how crucial this point is. The greatest worker strata in Spain were unable to be reached by the call to a revolutionary strike, for reasons related to the situation, but because of the inability of the PCE of this time to truly penetrate the social majority.

At any rate, the Revolutionary General Strike was not ignored everywhere, from these days comes this picture of Madrid's very center devoid of people, withholding their work, but impotent to do anything more:

The Second Republic did not hesitate to stifle this strike, using planes and naval and land artillery. Once again, Spanish capital required trails of this country's reddest blood to line the streets, not shying away from employing the help of fascists such as the up-and-coming General Franco, sent to repress the workers of Asturias, where the strike was incandescent with revolutionary impetus. Before talking about Asturias, I won't ignore the other places where the strike was also popular. In Guipúzcoa and Vizcaya, The Basque Country, repression was just as bloody, executed by the Guardias de Asalto (Assault Guards), killing 40 workers in Vizcaya. There, the "Revolutionary Committee of Vizcaya", led by the UGT, was quickly dissolved. In Cataluña, a Catalan state was quickly declared, lead by the bourgeois Esquerra Republicana de Catalunya (Catalonian Republican Left), but was just as quickly put down with another 40 dead.

Asturias is another story, one that lasted for two weeks. It isn't much, but in those two weeks, the Spanish proletariat came the closest to holding political power, closer than any other time in its history. There, the strike did have a pre-existing entity capable of organizing the strike: the Worker and Peasant Alliance formed the 1st of April of that year, an armed force influenced by UGT, CNT (only present in the Asturias alliance), the Asturian Socialist Federation, and the PCE, whose militants often represented the most advanced elements of these alliances, but simultaneously relatively few. These alliances were heavily inspired by the Soviets, and often talked about the Sovietization of industry and of opposing colonialism. While this is evidence that it really was an attempted revolution, and that they were inspired by the Bolshevik revolution, their attempt to imitate the USSR's Soviets instead of learning from them was one of the many factors that provoked its defeat. Despite the name, the Worker and Peasant alliances were never as strong among peasants, not a lot of effort was put into it.

Another organization that was relevant during the October Revolutionary Strike were the Workers and Peasant's Antifascist Militias (MAOC in Spanish), a paramilitary militia, founded by Antonio Modesto, a member of the PCE educated in the USSR, he'd later become famous within the republican side of the Civil war. These militias were few but competent, they counted 150 members in Madrid and Asturias each, and while the Asturias militias participated in the revolution, the ones in Madrid sabotaged the roads and railways leading north, to avoid reinforcements getting to Asturias. These militias would later be the base from which the Fifth Regiment was created, in July 1936, to commence the defense of Madrid from the coup d'etat and fascist assault.

In Asturias itself, the proletariat lunged forwards as fast as it could, growing from the town of Mieres and the Nalón basin, to every other mining basin, taking the cities of Oviedo and Gijón by force. The National Guard's many stations were occupied and raided for arms and ammunition, they already had access to explosives from mining equipment. At one point, they felt strong enough to consider a march on Madrid, and even proclaimed the Asturian Socialist Republic. In what sometimes was called the Asturian Commune, a reference to the Paris Commune of 1871, production was controlled by workers, protected by a combatant force of up to 30.000 strong. Production in the metallurgical and mining industry was organized through attempts at imitation of the Soviets, as I mentioned. The Asturias branch of the Central Bank of Spain was expropriated as well, substituting money for a system based on coupon-like vouchers. However, the Revolutionary Committee leading the revolution was dissolved and reformed 2 times in those weeks, without counting the third dissolution that came with capitulation, although that committee did begin to plan the region's economy, the short span of time not really being enough to judge its efficiency.

The revolutionaries' retreat only began once the Republican government, as anti-worker as ever, followed the advice of generals Franco and Godet to deploy the Tercios de Regulares and the African Legion, two battle-hardened groups of the military not afraid to be brutal against the workers. While they advanced, for instance, they executed every wounded solider or civilian found in captured hospitals. In Asturias, more than a thousand workers were killed in combat or executed, and in total throughout Spain, the strike concluded with 2.000 dead, 7.000 wounded, and 40.000 imprisoned, for the crime and sin of daring to govern oneself and to end the exploitation of man by man. One of these dead workers stands out among the rest in popular culture nowadays, a member of the PCE's youth wing: Aida de la Fuente. She was only 19 when she joined the revolution in motion, the daughter of the PCE's founder in Oviedo, and she was known to be an exceptionally brave and dedicated communist. The 13th of October, a few hours after being seen distributing leaflets to civilians urging them to join the revolution, she found herself almost alone in Oviedo, trying to hold off the Legion's advance by manning a machine gun, and she managed to do so for a few hours. She was reached nevertheless and when a Legion commander asked her to surrender, she only responded by shooting back. Seconds later she was killed, and later found in a common grave. The counter-revolutionary press attempted to paint her murder as one committed by her own comrades, even claiming rape, but this was disproved by a journalist who risked his own life, and the testimony of the very legionary who executed Asturias' reddest rose.

The Asturias revolution was, for all its merits and promise, a stillborn revolution. The Communist Party did not have effective direction over the mass of proletarians involved in the revolution, let alone the even greater mass who, for one reason or another, did not meet the conditions necessary for attempting to seize power. The strike's organization was insufficient and thwarted in part, and militarily, the objective Indalecio Prieto was tasked with of securing support among the military officials, along with the general inferiority of the Asturian revolutionaries compared with the elite bodies of the military, meant there was no realistic chance of success. The strike was not even fully effective within Asturias, for instance, the livestock peasants known as vaqueiros, of the southwest, did not ever really have their influence. The PSOE militants who did exist in the region got into trucks and left for Oviedo, while a column of revolutionaries from León, the other side of the mountain range, tried to take Cangas del Narcea, the main town of the region, but they were routed by the National Guard.

After the defeat, 121 revolutionaries exiled themselves to the USSR, mostly communists but also accompanied by a handful of anarchists. There, they received education as cadres, who later returned to Spain before and during the civil war, providing invaluable expertise. Others chose to exile in Portugal or France, but both those countries repatriated them to be imprisoned in Spain.

During the negotiations between the Popular Front and the PCE for the 1936 elections, the main requisite they demanded in order to join was the amnisty of these tens of thousands of imprisoned workers, from the October Revolution and from the myriad of episodes of repression during the Black Biennium. To achieve this amnisty, they were also helped by International Red Aid, a political Red Cross founded by the International in 1922. They, along with the PCE, also provided a pension for the families of the many imprisoned. During the civil war, the Red Aid played an important role in the republican side's medical centers.

This episode is often forgotten when talking about the civil war, but it was one of the many reasons fascists were allowed to take power. Spain's risk of sovietization was an internationally recognized risk, so when the opportunity came, Spanish, English, French, and US capital very gladly did everything they could to hamper the Republic

The lesson from the October Revolution of 1934 is clear. Without country-wide preparation, without a proper analysis of your own conditions, and without achieving social alliances, any revolutionary struggle is bound to fail. The lack of support in the much greater agricultural areas, the rushed planning and failed planning everywhere but Asturias, partially, the PCE's still weak influence in most organizations or regions, all of this meant that, whatever the Spanish proletariat learnt in that Revolutionary General Strike, was bound to be written in sweat and blood. The point of commemorating this bittersweet memory is not to dwell on what could have been, nor to recreate the MAOCs. It's to remember that a revolution is always a couple of bad decades away, and that not building consciousness and preparing structures for it will only mean more unnecessarily murdered workers. It's to ensure that, next time red October is around the corner, it will not be premature. The strength of the working class, our class, the social majority, lies not in the number of victories and defeats, but in the very fact of our fight, explicit and implicit. It lies in the fact that, for as long as classes based on exploitation exist, class conflict is unavoidable.

Many political forces nowadays, which one might call opportunist, will try to draw parallels between that autumn of 1934 and today, exhorting "unity of the left". The only unity that's truly revolutionary, the only unity that will not cause the subordination of our class interests to electoral or immediatist growth objectives, is the unity of the entire working class under a single Communist Party. The PSOE, even with its very involved marxist wing, characterized by the likes of Largo Caballero or Indalecio Prieto, only ever concieved of the Revolutionary General Strike as a means to the end of preventing those CEDA ministers from being appointed and in turn, gain more electoral and institutional strength. They also happened to be a relevant force because of their sheer number of members.

[southernmermaidsgrotto]

Hoodoo, Rootwork and Conjure sources by Black Authors

Because you should only ever be learning your ancestral ways from kinfolk. Here's a compilation of some books, videos and podcast episodes I recommend reading and listening to, on customs, traditions, folk tales, songs, spirits and history. As always, use your own critical thinking and spiritual discernment when approaching these sources as with any others.

Hoodoo in America by Zora Neale Hurston (1931)

Mules and Men by Zora Neale Hurston (1936)

Tell my horse by Zora Neale Hurston (1938)

Let Nobody Turn Us Around: An African American Anthology by Manning Marable and Leith Mullings, editors (2003)

Black Magic: Religion and the African American Conjuring Tradition by Yvonne P. Chireau (2006)

African American Folk Healing by Stephanie Mitchem (2007)

Hoodoo Medicine: Gullah Herbal Remedies by Faith Mitchell (2011)

Mojo Workin': The Old African American Hoodoo System by Katrina Hazzard-Donald (2012)

Rootwork: Using the Folk Magick of Black America for Love, Money and Success by Tayannah Lee McQuillar (2012)

Talking to the Dead: Religion, Music, and Lived Memory among Gullah/Geechee Women by LeRhonda S. Manigault-Bryant (2014)

Working the Roots: Over 400 Years Of Traditional African American Healing by Michele Elizabeth Lee (2017)

Barracoon: The Story of the Last "Black Cargo" by Zora Neale Hurston (2018)

Jambalaya: The Natural Woman's Book of Personal Charms and Practical Rituals by Luisa Teish (2021)

African American Herbalism: A Practical Guide to Healing Plants and Folk Traditions by Lucretia VanDyke (2022)

These are just some suggestions but there's many many more!! This is by no means a complete list.

I recommend to avoid authors who downplay the importance of black history or straight out deny how blackness is central to hoodoo. The magic, power and ashé is in the culture and bloodline. You can't separate it from the people. I also recommend avoiding or at the very least taking with a huge grain of salt authors with ties to known appropriators and marketeers, and anyone who propagates revisionist history or rather denies historical facts and spreads harmful conspiracy theories. Sadly, that includes some black authors, particularly those who learnt from, and even praise, white appropriators undermining hoodoo and other african and african diasporic traditions. Be careful who you get your information from. Keeping things traditional means honoring real history and truth.

Let me also give you a last but very important reminder: the best teachings you'll ever get are going to come from the mouths of your own blood. Not a book or anything on the internet. They may choose to put certain people and things in your path to help you or point you in the right direction, but each lineage is different and you have to honor your own. Talk to your family members, to the Elders in your community, learn your genealogy, divine before moving forwards, talk to your dead, acknowledge your people and they'll acknowledge you and guide you to where you need to be.

May this be of service and may your ancestors and spirits bless you and yours 🕯️💀

[uwmspeccoll]

Steamy Saturday

" . . . without the society of women, homosexual practices are likely to be evident. . . ."

"Now Van moved into the masculine world of politics . . . where he learned that the price of power was a surrender to lust in all forms."

"Van was almost a senator when Jeff seduced him. . . and then blackmailed his career . . . and his manhood."

Senator Swish by Aaron Thomas (misspelled Arron on the cover), published in 1968 by adult-book publisher William Hamling's Phenix Publishing/Greenleaf Classics in San Diego as part of its Companion Book series, has a plot line where the main character goes beyond binary choice and learns to accept his bisexuality.

The story line is a little complicated, but here's a synopsis: Van is a successful L.A. lawyer tapped to run for senator. His girlfriend Jennifer works in the fashion industry and is off on assignment for a couple of weeks. While she's gone, her college-student brother Jeff shows up, and Van soon learns that Jeff is gay, which upsets him greatly. Nevertheless, Jeff manages to seduce Van, and while he's conflicted about his sexuality, Van certainly enjoys his time with Jeff. Still, if this affair came out, it would jeopardize his run for senator, and then of course there's Jennifer. Van decides to get Jeff an apartment so he can be with Jennifer and have her brother on the side. Yeah, that'll work out great; problem solved.

Jennifer eventually returns and Van tells her that her brother has returned from college. Jennifer is confused and proves to him that her brother is still in Ohio at college. Plot twist! Jeff is not who he says he is! Turns out, this rather elaborate ruse by ersatz-Jeff was just a complicated (and not very believable) frame to blackmail Van! Oh no! But, Jennifer and Van turn the tables on counterfeit-Jeff (how? No spoiler here!), and Jennifer, while hurt by the affair that almost ruined their lives, forgives Van because, after all, she works in the fashion industry and understands the queer world where men can "go both ways." Oh, lucky Van! They agree to marry, and presumably live happily ever after. We never do learn whether Van becomes a senator, however.

We don't have any information on the author Aaron Thomas, although the name is used as author for quite a number of gay pulp novels, but we do know that the cover art (apparently trying to appeal to multiple sexual orientations?) is by noted artist and illustrator Darrel Millsap (1931-2012).

View other gay fiction posts.

View more LGBTQ+ posts.

View other pulp fiction posts.

[justrainandcoffee]

Breakfast (Dad!Alfie Solomons & oc!daughter)

Or how babies are made, by Alfie Solomons.

Masterlist

Summary: "Yeah. That's not how it works, sweetheart." His daughter had a play date that it was cancelled because her friend's sister got pregnant and the house was a chaos. Allie says that it's because a boy kissed the girl. "Then, how it works?", she asked. Alfie and an answer with no filters.

Warnings: Alfie.

Words: 700 || While I'm dealing with my other fic, I give you this blurb. I have two more fics already written but both are equally angst (lately I only wrote angst 🫣) I wanted to change it a bit.

1931

The house in Margate was silent. Rose was in the Parliament and he thought his daughter was in her friends' house but when he entered the living room he found the girl, seven years old, sat there reading a book.

"Allie? Don't ya have a play date at Daisy's house?"

"I did. But her mom called and told me that it wasn't a good time. Their eldest daughter, Claire, is pregnant."

"Oh fuck. How old is the girl?"

"Sixteen."

"A fucking kid! I know your friend's father, he's going to kill the boy who impregnated the daughter."

"Yeah," Allie confirmed "he's not happy."

"I couldn't be happy either."

"Don't worry, dad, I'm not going to let any boy to kiss me. I don't want a baby."

Alfie, already sitting in his armchair, looked at his daughter. "Ya think this girl, Claire, got pregnant because she kissed a boy?"

"Well, yes! Daisy told me that they were kissing all the time."

"That's not how it works, Allie."

Allie left the book aside and tilted her head. "What do you mean? Then how it works?"

"Well…" Alfie cleared his throat. It was good that his wife wasn't there at the time. He never believed in sugar-coating the answers. A direct question deserved a direct answer. "First you need a woman and a man."

"In love, I know the tale."

"Not necessarily in love, sweetheart. If they're, even better but it's not always the case. Hope you know this a world full of bastards… in both senses of the world."

She, the girl, was a bastard herself because the biological father abandoned her mother way before she was adopted by the Solomons. But the girl already knew that.

"Men and a women," continued Alfie "they're physically different. Men have something called penis… it's like a sausage."

"Like a sausage?" Allie raised an eyebrow.

"Yes. And you know your body, Allie. All women have the same body under their clothes. Well, when a man is really happy to see a woman his sausage is happy too. And it will let his owner know that. If the woman agrees, she will be happy to see his sausage if not, then I'm sorry but the man can't do something about it. Well, he can, but that's another story. This is important, Allie, a woman ALWAYS must consent to see it ok? Always, right?. Well, then the man and the woman go to the bed… or the sofa, or the wall or fuckin' wherever. And the man…"

What followed was a detailed explanation of what happened with the man and the woman while they were together. He even used his hands to help himself to explain it.

Allie wasn't impressed. In fact, she found it quite boring, repetitive and complicated. She thought that a baby product of just a kiss was way better that all of that. And more romantic. Why the hell it was so hard to make a baby?

"… It's called semen. It's like milk."

"I thought only women can produce milk." Allie studied her father, thinking he was joking to her.

"It's not that kind of milk, Allie. Its only use is to help babies to be created. And that's it. Nine months later you have a baby. Sometimes one or two months earlier but it's not the rule."

"It's not interesting. It's boring as fuck, dad. That much scandal for a breakfast." Allie furrowed her brow, just like Alfie "I'd be playing with Daisy if it wasn't for Claire and her stupid boyfriend."

"Breakfast?" Interrupted Alfie. "What breakfast?"

"You described everything as a breakfast. Milk, eggs, sausages… what it's that if not a breakfast?"

Alfie laughed out loud. He just finished to explain his daughter the biological process of making a baby and Allie just compared it with a breakfast… Undoubtedly she was a kid.

Two days later, Rose saw a letter on the table. It was from school explaining that Allie had received a notification because of her behaviour. Apparently her daughter had been talking openly about sex in the classroom. Specifically about babies. Rose left the letter on the table again and pinched her nose, sighing.

"ALFIEE!"

[haggishlyhagging]

In her book My Fight for Birth Control (1931) [Margaret Sanger] is quite clear about the fact that while birth control may have served economic ends, and while it was a practice consistent with her analysis of society, it was none the less a response to women's needs - and not to men's needs of a revolution - that induced her to take on the double task of finding out how pregnancies (and births) could be prevented, and then of distributing the knowledge to women. While today we may think that the greater problem is finding safe and satisfactory means of birth control, in Sanger's time the greater problem was providing women with the information of the means.

The law stated - in Sanger's own words - ‘that no one could give information to prevent conception to anyone for any reason’ (1931, p. 152). It was illegal to publish such information or to send such 'obscene' material through the post. Because of this 'conspiracy of silence', it is understandable that many women thought there was a ‘secret,’ known only to the privileged few. This was the case with Sadie Sacks, whose experience Margaret Sanger cites in her own account of her commitment to the struggle for birth control.

Mrs Sacks already had three young children when she became pregnant again, and because she could not afford another child, physically or financially, she procured an abortion and Margaret Sanger arrived as the nurse who afterwards battled for her life. The woman survived but was very despondent, informing Sanger that another baby would kill her (either through abortion or birth) and that she was desperate to find a way of preventing it. She asked the doctor what she should do and he treated the whole issue facetiously; he scoffed at the idea that she should want to have her cake and eat it too, and suggested that she ‘ban’ her husband to the rooftop. After the doctor's departure, Mrs Sacks implored Sanger to tell her the secret, and Sanger states with rage and frustration that she simply did not know how you prevented pregnancy.

Sanger too left Mrs Sacks's home and over the next few months felt uneasy - even guilty - about the fate of Mrs Sacks. Then she was called once more; this time Mrs Sacks died from the abortion. Sanger returned to her own home, stunned, but gradually convinced throughout the course of the night that ‘uncontrolled breeding’ was the central social problem and determined to do something about it. She writes that at that moment she renounced all palliative work for ever. ‘I would never go back again to nurse women's ailing bodies while their miseries were as vast as the stars. I was now finished with superficial cures, with doctors and nurses and social workers who were brought face to face with this overwhelming truth of women's needs and yet turned to pass on the other side. They must be made to see these facts. I resolved that women should have knowledge of contraception. They have every right to know about their own bodies … I would tell the world what was going on in the lives of these poor women. I would be heard. No matter what it should cost. I would be heard’ (ibid., p. 56).

In 1916, Sanger opened a birth control clinic in Brooklyn - the main emphasis being on contraception, not abortion - and while it was designed to provide women with information it was also a deliberate attempt to test the law. News of the clinic quickly spread, women flocked to its doors, and poured out their feelings of terror and pain on this issue which haunted their lives but which was a socially and legally taboo topic. The premises were raided, the women arrested and Sanger says, ‘We were not surprised at being arrested, but the shock and horror of it was that a woman, with a squad of five plain clothes men, conducted the raid and made the arrest. A woman - the irony of it!’ (ibid., p. 158). There can be no doubt that Sanger saw women as a group, with shared interests and a common cause. There was panic among the women in the waiting room - who were being bullied by the police in the attempt to obtain their names so that they could later be subpoenad to testify - and there was chaos outside (women, baby carriages, children - all waiting to get into the clinic). When Sanger and Tania Mindell were taken away, one woman ran after them, screaming wildly for them to come back and help her. The clinic was closed; the court declared it a ‘public nuisance’. Sanger was imprisoned but went on to fight again - and again.

-Dale Spender, Women of Ideas and What Men Have Done to Them

[ave09]

Can you do an Indy x female! reader where Indy meets a single mother who has a 4 month old baby girl? When Indy meets her daughter, the baby instantly likes him, and he over time bonds with the baby, plays with her, rocks her back and forth, sings her lullabies and the reader is slowly falling for him! They even bond and fall for each other.

ofc! i kinda went overboard and off the plot line, but i hope you like it! if not, i will 100% rewrite it for you 🫶🏻

promise

indiana jones x reader

note: i know wizard of oz came out in 1939, but for the sake of a sweet moment, it came out in 1931, okayyy?? also i apologize for anyone named beth 😭

“please, honey, please just rest.” 

beth seemed to only wail louder. you were now receiving glares from those around you trying to study in peace. you were going to end up being kicked out of the library for sure.

“beth, sweetie, please.” you begged softly, trying to place the pacifier in her mouth, but she only spat it out, causing it to tumble across the floor, now completely useless. 

“goddammit.” you muttered softly, reaching for it, only to find someone was already reaching down and had their hands upon it. 

you glanced up at the figure, smiling softly, “thank you.” you recognized him

immediately to be doctor indiana jones. he seemed to recognize you too. you had studied in his archeology class for half of a semester before you had to drop out in order to raise beth. you never were crazy over the professor as most of the women in your class were, but looking at him now, he had to be one of the most handsomest men you’d seen, far more handsome then beth’s father. 

“your welcome,” he spoke, his voice low and smooth as he handed the pacifier to you. his hazel eyes flickered to the baby in your arms, whose gaze was locked on the man before you, her arms outstretched toward him.

the man smiled, “and who is this?”

“uh, this is my daughter, beth.” you were shocked to find that her wails had turned into whines as she continued to reach for the man before you. indiana glanced at you, “may i?” he seemed to be who beth wanted, therefore, you carefully passed the baby to him, she nuzzled into his chest immediately and began to suck her thumb.

your eyes widened, “are you some sort of baby whisperer or something?” you asked. indiana laughed heartily, “definitely not.” he glanced down at her, examining her, “she can’t be more then five months right?”

“four months.” you corrected. he nodded slowly, the cogs turning in his head, “i’m guessing she is the reason you dropped out?” 

you closed the book in front of you, “yeah. her dad dipped about two months into the pregnancy, i wasn’t working at the time, i needed to create a stable foundation.” you gestured at the books before you, “i’ve been trying to slow ease back into it, but it’s kinda difficult with a four month old.” 

“you don’t have any family? anyone who could help? 

you exhaled deeply, running a hand through your hair, “they still believe her father is around.” 

you had refused to tell them he’d left. beth’s father, william, was a cruel man. he was one who was in disguise of an angel only to reveal his true intentions.  but her family believed him to be a nice man. they’d find a way to bring him back to you, but you refused to have that man in your life. 

awkwardness fell upon the two of you, and you immediately regretted diving into your history. 

“well,” you rose from your rickety wooden seat, “i should go-get her home for dinner, y’know?” indiana nodded, trying to pass the baby to her, only to hear her burst into tears again. 

“beth, honey, shh.” you whispered, indiana glanced down at you, “someone seems attached.” he said with a soft laugh. 

“yeah, well, it’s gonna be difficult to get her home now.” 

the man remained silent for a moment, before clearing his throat, “i don’t wanna sound too forward here… but…” 

you collected your books, glancing up at him, “but?” 

“if you ever needed any help, with beth, or your studies or anything, i could be of some assistance.” it sounded exactly what you needed. assistance. 

“oh no, i-i couldn’t ask that of you, dr. jones.”

“well first off, you’re not asking, i’m offering. and please, i’m not your professor anymore,  call me indiana.” 

“well indiana, i appreciate the offer, but i don’t want to burden you with my issues.” 

he tilted his head slightly, adjusting the child in his arms, “burden me? is that what you think this is? i’m pitying you?” 

you suddenly realized how it sounded. “no-no. that’s not-that’s not what i meant.” 

“i know you’re an independent woman, but even the most independent people need a little help sometimes.” he was absolutely right. the life of a single mother was difficult, and you believe that you were doing the best you could, but you couldn’t deny how truly tired you were. 

you sighed softly, “what can i do in return?” 

“oh no, please-“

“i’m offering indiana.” you said, using his words from earlier. the man thought for a moment, “i’d say, dinner.” 

you furrowed your brows, “dinner?” 

he nodded, “mhmm, i haven’t had a good home cooked meal in a while. i could help you get beth home, and after dinner, i could help with your studies.” 

you smiled softly, a feeling of warmth washing over you, “that sounds perfect.” 

that one dinner turned into weekly dinners, and soon you found that indiana jones was constantly frequenting your home. 

and it was wonderful.

after work, indiana would stop by the house, and beth would be overjoyed. her relationship with indiana was nothing less then paternal. he was the father figure she was missing, and beth was most definitely a daddy’s girl. 

not only was beth’s relationship growing with indiana, but so was yours. the two of you had spend late nights together, studying at first, but would slowly turn into talks of his adventures. you wanted to hear all about them, indiana lived such an interesting life, and sometimes you’d wished you could adventure like him, but then you saw your daughter’s face light up, and everything became worth it.

you remembered coming home from the store one day to find indiana seated on the floor criss-cross, playing with the young girl. they were building a tower out of blocks, well, mainly indiana was building the tower, beth was trying to eat the blocks. 

“oh no, honey, take that out of your mouth, those blocks don’t taste good.” he said, reaching for the block, only to have beth move her hand away. “ah, you’re quick kid, but i’m faster.” he then took her pacifier off of the coffee table, carefully taking the wooden block and switching it with the pacifier. your daughter didn’t seem phased. 

and something clicked that day. you and indiana’s relationship has purely been platonic, but now, oh lord, you were in trouble. 

it had been two months since indiana began helping you out when everything changed. it was a later night, you and indiana planned to study after putting beth to bed, but the girl would not sleep. you’d fed her, changed her diaper, nothing.

“geez baby, what’s going on?” you whispered, brushing some of her hair away from her face. there was a soft knock against the door, and you glanced up to see indiana in the doorway, “how’s it going up here?” he asked. 

“she keeps fighting me. if i don’t get her to sleep now, she’ll be up all night.” you muttered, stifling a yawn. she’d been struggling with sleeping for the past couple

of days, causing you to lose sleep too. silently, he approached you, gently taking beth off of your hands. 

“go get some rest, sweetheart, we can study tomorrow.” you were too tired to object. you stood on your tiptoes, placing a kiss to his cheek, “thank you, indy.” and you then slipped out of the room, closing the door slightly. 

but as you began to walk to your bedroom, you heard indiana’s hushed voice. “goodness beth, you’re givin’ your mama a hard time, huh? well can i tell you something? she’s working really hard to take care of you, honey. i don’t think i’ve met such a woman like her, and she loves you very much. so, if you could sleep now, that would be very nice of you.” 

the baby cooed in response. indiana remained silent for a moment, before sighing, “you’re really gonna make me do this? okay beth, you asked for it.” 

and then, you heard the most angelic thing: indiana jones was singing. 

“somewhere over the rainbow, way up high. there’s a land that i’ve heard of once in a lullaby.” 

this was a song that you’d sang to beth countless times. it was your absolute favorite, and hearing indiana sing it caused butterflies, fireworks, a whole plethora of metaphors could be used in order to convey how you were feeling.

you were most definitely falling for him. 

“someday i’ll wish upon a star and wake up where the clouds are far behind me… where trouble melts like lemon drops high above the chimney tops, that’s where you’ll find me..”

suddenly, a loud knock pulled you away from the beautiful singing. it was late, who could be here?

you moved past the door, heading toward the stairs. another knock, it sounded urgent.

what the hell?

you descended the staircase before rushing toward the front door. you unlocked it cautiously, before pulling it open. 

your heart dropped. 

“william?”

“hi babe.” no, this could not be happening. not now. 

“um, what are you doing here?” you questioned, immediately feeling uncomfortable. what was he doing here? 

“i want to see her.” 

you crossed your arms over your chest, “no.” 

“no?” 

“you can’t see her, william. she’s sleeping.” suddenly, he pushed past you, barging into your home. “goddamnit william.” he glanced around, nodding, “nice place you have here, personally i’m not the biggest fan of pastels-“

“why should your opinion matter? it’s not your house.” you snapped, your anger building. the man let out a sigh, approaching you, “listen babe, i want you back. i want to be part of becky’s life.” 

you took a step back, taking a shakey breath, “beth. her-her name is beth.” you said. “right, beth.” he corrected, brushing it off as though it was nothing. william then caught sight of a picture on the hallway table, shoving past you, taking it in hand. 

“who is this?” 

it was a picture of beth and indiana. you remembered that day. it was when he returned home from south america, and beth was so excited to see him again. you had immediately taken a photo to commemorate this moment. 

“william, i think you should leave.” 

“you replaced me? does she called her daddy? does she think he’s her dad?” 

you scoffed, absolutely appalled by his behavior, “replaced?? you left! you fucking left me william! i was pregnant with your child and you left! i don’t need you, i never needed you.”

“but you need him, huh? does he help you with every need? every desire?” 

“william, i swear, if you don’t-“

“is everything okay down here?” there he was, your knight in shining armor. indiana was descending the stairs, his gaze switching from you to william. 

“oh he’s in your house now?” 

“william-“

“this is william?” you’d told indiana all about him. it was safe to say that he hated the man with a fiery passion. you didn’t even try to stop him as he rushed down the stairs, standing in front of you. 

“i think it’s time for you to leave, william.” indiana stated. your ex scoffed, glancing at you, “really? this is the best you can do? he ain’t gonna stop me from seeing my daughter.” 

“wanna bet?” 

you let out a gasp as indiana socked william

in the jaw, causing the man to tumble to the ground. 

“indy-“

“what the hell dude!” 

“you listen to me, william, you are going to leave right now, and if you ever come back, i swear to God, you’re gonna regret it.” you’d never seen indiana so upset. 

“and let me tell you something, william, you ready? you’re a fucking idiot, leaving an amazing woman like this. i’ve known her for three months and dammit i love her and beth more then anything in this world-“

he loved you? 

“and i would’ve never in a million years left such a woman and my child like that. but she doesn’t need you anymore. so, get. lost.” 

he didn’t need to be told twice. william scrambled to his feet before rushing out the door. indiana sighed deeply, closing the door behind him, “son of a bitch..” he mumbled before glancing up at you. 

“are you okay?” 

“you love me?” 

he was silent, holding your gaze. 

you asked again.

“you love me?” 

this time he nodded, “yeah. yeah.. i think i do.” he said softly. you smiled, moving towards him, “funny. because i think i’m falling in love with you.” 

indiana’s large hands cupped your face as he pressed his lips against yours, kissing you deeply. it lasted a moment, before you pulled away, “wait-wait-“

“i’m sorry, was that-“

“promise me something?” your voice a hushed whisper.

“anything.”

“don’t leave me. don’t leave beth. go on your adventures, find your artifacts… but just don’t leave.” 

indiana brushed a stray hair away from your eyes, his thumb caressing your cheek as he leaned forward, pressing a kiss to your forehead, “i’m not going anywhere, sweetheart, i promise.” 

[bedlamsbard]

1100 words written today -- I feel like this scene is still a mess, but it's getting down on paper and once that's done I can work with it. I can tell that this scene, at least, is dealing with one of my usual problems, which involves putting Natasha back into the scene as something other than an observer. also this is a 13K chapter so even if it's been like pulling teeth, there are actual words in it.

Snippet from Of Home Near chapter 17.

“Wait,” Tony said, “if your dad is the Red Guardian, and he’s real, and you’re with Rogers, does that mean that thing about women liking men who remind them of their fathers is – ow!”  He shot a betrayed look at Pepper, who must have kicked him under the table. Steve’s eyebrows climbed. Yelena leaned over and whispered in Natasha’s ear in Russian, “I told you so,” which got another raised eyebrow from Steve.  Yelena shot him a speculative look, realizing that he had understood the remark; she clearly hadn’t expected him to know Russian. “All right,” she added in the same language, “maybe he’s at least as smart as Alexei.” “Spasibo,” Steve said dryly in his Lithuanian-accented Russian.  “Flattered to hear it.” “God, you never lost that accent?” Bucky demanded; his Russian, the Winter Soldier’s Russian, was flawless, with a slightly old-fashioned Moscow accent to the words, like some of the older ex-KGB officials Natasha had known. “Never had to use it enough to bother,” Steve said, still in Russian, blinking once; Natasha realized abruptly that he must not have ever heard Bucky speak Russian before. “And it drove Aleksey Lebedev crazy, so, you know, plus side.” “Where does Captain America even get that accent?” Yelena demanded. Steve shrugged. “Brooklyn.” Yelena gave Natasha a disbelieving look; she shrugged in response. “What the hell are you guys talking about?” Tony demanded. “Speaking in tongues and all that?” Steve’s gaze lifted and he said in English, “They’re making fun of my accent.” “Since when do you speak Russian?” “Since 1931,” Steve said.

[avengerscompound]

Shared Experience - Chapter 16

Shared Experience - A Captain America Fanfic

Masterlist PREVIOUS //

Rating:  E

Warnings:  nothing really

Pairing: Steve Rogers x OFC Rose Astor

Word Count: 1931

Summary:  Rose Astor met her end in 1920, joining the ranks of the living dead two years after the birth of Steve Rogers.  A century later the two meet in battle - a beacon of light clashing with a creature of the night.  Despite their differences, the two bond over their shared life experiences.  Can a vampire become an Avenger?  Can two such different beings create a life together?

Chapter 16

Steve and Rose followed Elsa down the stairs into the cellar of an old stone house at the edge of the town.  Steve and Elsa had pulled their coats tight around them and each breath they exhaled came out in a puff of condensation.  Rose felt bad for them.  It had to be difficult to be that cold, but if either of them were uncomfortable, they weren’t saying it.

The cellar was dimly lit and sparsely furnished.  A group of five vampires, two men, two women, and one that looked like she must have been turned when she was twelve, were sitting on four brown leather Chesterfields surrounding a large square hardwood coffee table.  A sixth lounged on a wingback chair, one leg swung over the arm.  He wore leather pants and his black silk shirt was unbuttoned low, like he got his style from Vegas shock magicians.

Each member of the group was wearing a matching amulet around their neck.  It looked like a flower made of red stones.  The Lightbender Amulet.

Rose was struck by how tired the group looked.  Not hungry.  Not worn out.  Tired - like they’d been woken up recently from actual sleep.

“What did you wake us up for, Bloodstone?” the Vegas vampire asked.

“Calm down, Raizo,” Elsa scolded. “No one is impressed.”

The child Vampire stood up suddenly and pointed at Steve. “Captain America,” she said, pointing at him.

The other vampires all shifted suddenly, some sitting up straight, one standing, Raizo stood and walked around the back of the couches toward Steve, Elsa, and Rose.

“This is why I woke you all up,” Elsa said.  “Children, this is Captain America.  Captain America, these guys.”

Raizo offered Steve his hand.  “I’m Raizo, this is Eliza, Sebastian, Narcissa, Laurant, and Cristina.  What brings you to Romania?”

Sebastian and Laurant rolled their eyes as they watched the interaction, and Rose resisted the urge to do the same.

“This is my friend, Rose,” Steve said, shaking his hand. “We were told by the Moon Knight that you had an amulet that would help her walk in the day and suppress her cravings.”

Razio looked back at the others and then approached Rose, he walked around her, his eyes gliding up and down her body, before looking at Elsa. “Are we sure he’s not compelled?”

“You can see for yourself,” Elsa said.  “But he’s fine.”

“I can’t compel him anyway.  You can try.  Something about the Super Serum makes him immune to it,” she said.

“And why did you want to compel him?” Razio asked suspiciously.

“So he’d forget I existed,” she said. “Like I’d been trained by my maker.  Not because I was trying to feed off him.”

He looked Steve up and down too then returned his gaze to Rose.  “You must be fighting those urges of yours very well if an Avenger is here to vouch for you.”

“She’s not just fighting them, she’s out doing good.  She’s part of the team.  She’s helped save the world,” he said.

Razio raised an eyebrow.  “Well, well, well...”

“Enough, Razio,” Laurant said with a thick French accent.  “She clearly meets the criteria.  Give her the amulet and let them be on their way.  I want to go back to bed.”

Razio huffed and went to the far end of the room, pressing on a brick.  The wall shifted in and slid to the side revealing a safe, and he began spinning the combination wheel.

“Who was your maker, Rose?” Narcissa asked.

“Marcellus Lakatos,” Rose said.  “When he was in New York at the turn of last century.”

Eliza, the child vampire stiffened and sat forward in her chair.  “Rose Astor?”

Rose startled.  “Yes.  Do you know me?”

“Oh, darling,” Narcissa said. “Eliza is your little sister.”

Rose was reeling.  It felt like she’d been slapped.  Guilt and anger came bubbling up like bile in her throat.  The monster that had turned her and tortured her had gone from her to someone even younger.  It was Rose’s fault that Eliza had been turned and god knows what else he’d done to her.

“What?” she asked.

“When you sent him away, he returned here but grabbed me on the way.  I think I was supposed to be a snack, but…” Eliza shrugged.  Rose didn’t need more than that.  She was here, he’d decided to keep her because he was a sadist who liked torturing girls.

“I’m so sorry,” Rose said.  “I should have…”

Eliza shook her head. “What?  Kept him there so he could keep torturing you?  He’d have gotten bored eventually.  We’re not the only ones he’s done this too.  When we got here, Dracula was pissed.  They’re not supposed to turn people as young as me and apparently, it’s been a theme of his.”

Razio approached her, holding out his hand and letting the amulet fall from his fingers, so it dangled from the chain two inches from his hand.  The amulet was beautiful.  A dark red garnet sat in the center with twelve rubies arranged around it so they looked like sunflower petals.  Rose reached for it, but as her fingers went to close around it, he pulled it from her reach.

“Something really needs to be done about him,” he said.  “He can’t keep getting away with this.”

“Give her the amulet, Razio,” Elsa scolded.  “It’s not her job to take out her maker.  She’s an Avenger.  She has nothing to prove.”

Razio turned and began to stroll around the room.  “True, true,” he said.  “She’s proven herself.  No one else here has gotten the approval of Moon Knight, notable monster hunter Elsa Bloodstone, and the Avengers.”  He flopped down into the winged back chair, flinging his leg over the arm again while he held the amulet out in front of him, watching it spin on the chain.  “But what if we could take care of this Marcellus?  You all said it.  It’s one thing if one of our kind is just drinking blood.  We can hardly help it that we need it to live.  I’m not about staking every vamp I see just trying to live their lives.”

“I am,” Elsa interrupted.

He waved her off.  “But Marcellus is a whole different kind of monster.  It’s a game for him.  He’s like a cat who enjoys toying with its food before it eats it.  And his prey are just getting younger and younger.  I know he’s one of Dracula’s progeny and they’re usually off-limits, but going off what happened with Eliza, he might even look the other way.  But even if he didn’t, with Elsa and our new Avenger friend, we could carry this out and he wouldn’t even know if we were involved.”

“Oh, so you’d just throw me under the bus?” Elsa asked.

He scoffed.  “He already wants to kill you.  That’s not going to change anything.”

“The Avengers would be willing to help,” Steve said.  “I’ve been hoping to take a shot at this monster for a while.  If you know how to get to him, we’ll take him out.”

Rose turned and looked at him with surprise.  Steve was so against killing people outside of battle, and even then he usually tried not to kill anyone.  She wasn’t sure what to make of this reaction.  Was it some kind of protective rage toward the man that had hurt her so badly?  A resignation that this was necessary to stop him from hurting other people?  Or did he just not consider killing a vampire as killing someone?

He smiled at her and squeezed her hand.  She might have to bring it up later, the problem was, she wanted Marcellus dead.  She’d wanted him dead since he turned her.  If she questioned Steve about his feelings about vampires before that happened, he might have a change of heart and decide to lock him up or something.

“There are other Avengers here?” Razio asked.

Steve nodded.  “A few.  Black Widow, Iron Man, and the Scarlet Witch.”

Razio flicked his wrist so the amulet began spinning on the chain.  “You know this could really work.”

“What are you thinking?” Steve asked.  “Shall we go in during the day?”

“No use, love,” Elsa said.  “If I could clear out that den during the day, I would have a long time ago.  That castle takes in tourists during the day.  It’s heavily secured, particularly the crypt they sleep in.  My family has considered just setting fire to the place during opening hours, but I’m sure that all that would happen would be a lot of innocent tourists would die and the crypt would remain unharmed.”

“Regardless, we can not enter,” Sebastian said.  “While public places are usually accessible to us during opening hours as the invitation is implicitly open to everyone to enter, in this case, the tickets to the castle explicitly restrict our ilk.  At night, the building is closed to everyone, so we cannot enter without being invited.”

“What Bas is saying is, we’ll have to draw him out,” Eliza said.

“How would we even do that?” Rose asked.  “That ruse of Elsa being a helpless potential victim isn’t exactly targeted.”

Razio flipped the amulet into his hand and leaned back in the chair.  “That will be the trick.  I’m sure we can think of something.  Use bait that’s more to his taste maybe.”

“Wanda might fit?” Steve suggested.  “She’s fairly young and has a kind of innocence to the way she holds herself.  Maybe we can use makeup to make her look younger?”

Rose shrugged.  “It still feels like that might just end up attracting any random vampire as much as it will attract him specifically.”

Razio drummed his fingers on the amulet and then sat up, tossing it to Rose.  “We’ll think about it.”

Rose snatched the amulet out of the air and clutched it against her chest.  She could feel the power of it pricking against her skin.  Holding it in her hand somehow made her more nervous.  What if it didn’t work?  What if this was a trick and it ended up hurting her?

Yet, she could see six vampires sitting around the room, all wearing one.  They could be in on the lie, but it was too elaborate.  If Blade, Moon Knight, or Elsa Bloodstone wanted her dead, they’d had their chance.  They didn’t need to create an elaborate prank to force her into the sun.

She slipped the chain around her neck letting the amulet sit on her chest.  “Thank you,” she said.

“They’re right.  We think you’ve proven you’re like us,” Razio said.  “Now I know you don’t feel ready for sleep yet.  But the rest of us were woken up for this.  We’ll sleep on the issue.  We can meet up here tomorrow morning.  How’s ten sound?”

It sounded crazy and implausible.  She could only imagine being awake at ten in the morning if she was up closer to the Arctic Circle during winter.  She nodded.  “Sounds good,” she agreed.

“Bring those other Avengers,” Razio said.

“We will,” Steve agreed.  He slipped his hand into hers and squeezed her hand reassuringly.  “Thank you again. And see you tomorrow.”

They were just moving to the stairs when Razio called out to them. “Oh and Rose,” he said. “Enjoy the sunrise.”

Rose smiled and nodded.  While she’d seen a few since starting to feed from Steve, they usually came with fear, pain, and that animalistic pull to get underground.  If this worked, she wouldn’t feel any of that.  If that was true, she would cherish every moment of it.

// NEXT

[consanguinitatum]

And Now For Something Completely Different: I look for an early 1993 Michael Sheen project!

As everyone who reads me regularly knows, I'm a David Tennant researcher/archivist (it's what I do!) and write A Tennantcy To Act, a Substack about his career. But last night at an ungodly hour, a question from a MS fan on Twitter got me amped to find a missing Michael Sheen project...so that's what I did. My body might be pissed I stayed up til 2 am (I'm an OLD!) but my soul and spirit are cleansed. I found it! So if you're a Sheen fan, buckle up. Let's take a ride on the Sheen side (and oh yeah, I just learned Michael's mum has retweeted all my research. So there's that!) The question was about a 1993 episode of a 1991-1996 ITV series, narrated by Edward Woodward, called In Suspicious Circumstances. Michael's Wiki had the series listed, but no further info on the title of the episode Michael appeared in, nor any date but 1993. Last night this fan asked Michael himself if he could remember the name of the episode (as apparently it's a bit of a mystery for his fans). Michael couldn't recall. So I went on the hunt. Luckily a tiny clip of the episode was featured on Twitter, so I could use it as a reference. And boy did it end up to be important!

The smart researcher analyzes what they've got. We see men in mustaches, bowl hats and sack coats using wagons instead of cars, so 1890s? Early 1900s? Michael plays "William Wright" and looks like he's fixing a wagon wheel. He reads his bible, and has an accent. Keep these details in mind. They'll be important. Okay - some background on the series: In Suspicious Circumstances was an anthology series which re-enacted historical crimes. Beginning on 16 March 1993, it broadcast three one-hour episodes, each of which contained two thirty-minute stories. Okay, so that means there are nine possible mini-episodes Michael could've been in. But which one? Let's narrow them down! The series' first episode aired 16 March 1993. It was called "Laugh Baby Laugh" and was about Elvira Barney, acquitted of murdering her lover in 1932. The second mini-episode was called "Shadows of Doubt" and was about Robert Hoolhouse, a laborer hanged for murdering a farmer's wife in 1938. Here are some newspaper articles about this broadcast:

I felt pretty comfortable ruling these two out immediately - mostly because both crimes were set in the 1930s, and our clip tells us Michael's episode was way before then. Moving on! Now let's talk about the third episode, which aired 30 March 1993. (I'm deliberately skipping over the second episode because I think that's the one Michael's in. Back to that in a second.) Anyway...the two mini-episodes from the third episode were called "Falling Starr" and "Good as Gold", and were about two very different women found dead on beaches...one in 1931, the other in 1900. Here are a few newspaper articles about these episodes:

The 1931 one we could rule out. But the 1900? Hmmm, it's a possibility, sure, though the clip we have sure doesn't look like it's anywhere near a beach town with sand dunes like Great Yarmouth, right? So that also seems improbable. Now let's examine that second episode, which was broadcast 23 March 1993. The first of the two mini- episodes was entitled "Dancing With Death" and was about the 1960s Glaswegian serial killer known only as Bible John.

Um, the 1960s certainly doesn't sound like it fits the clip Michael's in, right? So what's the second mini-episode, then?

Well, it's set in Suffolk in 1902 and is about a murder of a servant girl in "a scandalous affair in a Suffolk village which may have led to murder." Sounds promising! The time period certainly seems like it would fit. But what is it called? After all, no one was sure what the episode was entitled, because if they had, they would've known which episode Michael was in.

It's called "Candle In The Window!" So now we have to switch gears here to find the final proof. There are two possibilities, time period-wise, so we have to go to the source to find out if we can determine which one is the right episode. And by that, I mean newspapers of the period. After all, In Suspicious Circumstances was a historical series about real-life crimes. So I started with the Suffolk one, which I thought the most likely.

Remember we talked about Michael's character's name, and how he was working on a wagon wheel? Well, here are a few articles printed at the time about the scandal, the murder, and the resulting trial. From the Hull Morning Telegraph and the Nottingham Evening Post, both 6 November 1902:

This is a LOT of text - and newspapers at the time loved to print drama and florid language and up the scandal (they didn't have television to satisfy that urge, I guess?) But here are the relevant parts.

Notice the name of one of the witnesses: William George Wright. And gee.....he's a wheelwright! Ya know, a maker and repairer of wagon wheels!

Bingo! The circumstances of this case, Michael's character's name and occupation, and the descriptions in newspaper blurbs about the 23 March 1993 broadcast of In Suspicious Circumstances all line up.

"Candle In The Window" is the episode Michael was in. I published this earlier today on Twitter and within an hour, industrious Sheenies collated all my work (with my blessing and permission!) and updated Michael's Wikipedia entry to include this new information. I'm just out here doing what I do - for the fandoms. I wish David-bloody-Time-Lord Tennant was this easy to find *harumph*! Anywaaaaaay...... Peace out!

[transman-badass]

A Meeting at the Sow's Ear - a Cthulhu Mythos Short Story

"Evening to you, too, Mr. O'Tipp," I said and I felt the tightness of my words on my tongue.  Nathan O'Tipp smiled wider. He looks like a fine man until he smiles. Looks like he should be wandering a Hollywood studio, him with his perfect fair skin and his nice suits. But when he smiles, it stretches too wide, and his eyes have got a shine to them that I've never seen anyone else have. Even when the darkness hides everything else, I see his eyes, almost the same shade as my own. No, there's not a drop of human or humanity in him. I hope he doesn't know I know. "Come out of the dark, Harbinger," he said. "Let me get a better look at you. You are such a treasure to me, I can't let anyone else break you."

Part of the Pharaoh Syndicate Investigations series - a reupload with some edits

CW: blood, discussions of homicide, Prohibition and all that implies, body horror, mild trans/homophobia early on,

Arkham, 1931

Overhead the stars walked the sky like restless strangers, and the fat moon lounged back and watched us all. But it’d missed the fun. Before sunset, I shot two people for the contents of a dirty old bag. Now I walked with that bag down the street to Dad's house. No idea who's Dad he is. He may give me an allowance, but he sure ain't no family of mine.

From five houses down I heard it, one of the favored songbirds singing like it was still 1926. Closer I got, the reason why I heard her became obvious - they’d opened half the windows on the Sow’s Ear. No point hiding it from the coppers anymore. The boss owned them too.

Part of the ‘contract’ with my old boss and the new one took my name. Like the new boss said, I didn't need it anymore. I liked that name. I chose that name. I still use it with one single person. But for everyone else, I'm the Harbinger. And that means I’m whoever the boss wants me to be.

He don't know about this, so don't let me catch you calling me shit like Gumshoe or Dick Dickless. I get enough of that bull from my coworkers. If you wanna call me anything, call me by my real name.

My name was Lazarus, once. I'm 23 years old, pretty sure. I was born a woman. Not long ago, I was an investigator at Keller and Queens Detective Agency. Now I serve a monster pretending to be human. I don't think he knows I know that. I hope he doesn’t know I know that.

There are two speakeasies in town, and until I got my new job, I'd never been to either of them. I was a good citizen once upon a time. One of the speakeasies is run by a cult. The other is a cult. I'll let you guess which one I go to. Only real difference is who's at the center of it anyway.

The Sow's Ear is the center of the boss's operations in a part of Arkham nice people like to forget about. Pretty sure he lives above it. So what? Times are hard. Not a bad place to live anyway. Cute little spot, two stories, looks like all the others in town. Customers come in through the back, employees in the front. Somebody put a sign up for the Women's Christian Temperance Movement by the front door years ago. Boss must've thought it was funny. Now it's as worn and dirty as everything else in the city.

Adds to the charm, I guess.

I got one solid knock in on the door before it cracked open, and two glaring eyes met my own.

"What's the password?" The man spat out.

This was the dumbest part of the whole thing. He knew who I was, and I knew who he was. But old Lyman didn't like me much, and he took every opportunity to try and screw me over.

With a huff, I let the words out.

"Kynyarle keh-urak ghottu."

No, I don't know what that means either.

Lyman stared at me. He pulled away from the door.

"Tell Mr. O'Tipp his dyke is back," he said to someone on the other side.

The door swung open. I caught a glimpse of Lyman's back vanishing into the bar. I ground my teeth. Some men take it real personal, when you don't stick between the lines. I told myself again, I'll get him back for all the shit he'd put me through.

But the bag.

I closed the door behind me, adjusted my sweaty grip on my cargo. The stairs sat right in front of the door. Up I went into the maw.

Always felt like the steps were gonna collapse under me, with how they creaked and groaned underfoot. I go up and down them least once a week, mostly more, but the old wood hated me like everybody else. Not a single fucking picture hung on the wall to distract me, either.

What I really hate? The fact it's on purpose. The fact the bastard didn't need any message sent saying I was here. The fact he had my footsteps memorized the very first day we met.

I won't let him get to me, I said to myself, I lied to myself.

At the top of the stairs he has a velvet curtain hiding his little home away from home. Expensive, purple, golden gild and soft under my tired hand. I lifted it aside and walked into the shadows waiting for me. Heard the music nice and loud now, a voice deep and sweet blessing my ears. Not from the hallway in front of me, that led to his office. It came from the right. From the balcony that overlooked the speakeasy below. 

Two golden cats in the antique Egyptian style stood by on either side of the entry. Framing the view, more purple curtains, held back by golden chains. Between them, looking out over the dancing, thriving crowd… him.

As I watched him, me in the shadows and him in the light, he looked over his shoulder at me, and smiled.

"My personal investigator returns," he said. He folded his arms behind his back, took a step forward as he turned all the way to face me. "Once again you've cheated death, haven't you?"

I set my jaw, didn't look down where his eyes settled on my body. Didn't have time to wash out the blood before I headed here. Didn't want to tell him how much of that blood was mine.

"Evening to you, too, Mr. O'Tipp," I said and I felt the tightness of my words on my tongue. 

Nathan O'Tipp smiled wider. He looks like a fine man until he smiles. Looks like he should be wandering a Hollywood studio, him with his perfect fair skin and his nice suits. But when he smiles, it stretches too wide, and his eyes have got a shine to them that I've never seen anyone else have. Even when the darkness hides everything else, I see his eyes, almost the same shade as my own. No, there's not a drop of human or humanity in him. I hope he doesn't know I know.

"Come out of the dark, Harbinger," he said. "Let me get a better look at you. You are such a treasure to me, I can't let anyone else break you."

I ground my teeth, but didn't hesitate. Oh, I knew from experience what happened if you hesitated. Over the music I heard my shoes click on the tile. I walked to him and watched his smile grow even wider.

"That's my boy," he said. His hand gestured to the view beyond his balcony. "What a lovely night, isn't it? Beautiful summer, with all her life and bounty, rejoicing in her brilliance as she has for centuries."

Over the railing, there lay a different world. A little softer, a little dimmer, the glitz and gems a touch tarnished, but still beautiful like the dresses on the ladies. People dancing and gambling and kissing and drinking, like the world wasn't dying slow beyond these walls. 

God, the people, it caught me dead even in that moment. More shades of skin filled the room than I had ever seen before coming to this city. I thought I was more sophisticated than people wanted to believe, when I left that miserable place. Thought I'd impress people with how much I knew even if I was from Alabama. But nothing like this existed back there. The police would rather burn the whole place down with everyone inside than let white and black blend together. I guess I thought the whole country was like that, whether I liked it or not.

But Arkham was different. Arkham was… better. It sure taught me a lot of lessons. Biggest one is, I don't know as much as I think.

"It is lovely, sir," I said. At the sound of the last word, my grip tightened on the bag.

In the light his eyes did not quite shine but something dark and cruel glowed through his expression.

"I do love how you call me that," he said. He said, like I had any choice but to do so. "It's so much better than your previous defiance."

He must have seen how I fought the rage down, how my fists shook and trembled the bag. He must have, I saw it in the dark twist of his smile.

I wasn't just a detective back at the old agency. I was in charge of the entire investigation into O'Tipp and his tricks. I hunted him, and he hunted me. So many nights I spent on him, staking out his territory, talking to witnesses, finding the clues that could unlock whatever terrible dirty secrets he held.

And I lost. I didn't even know it was a game, that I was never a threat to him, that he was enjoying the hunt. I lost and he won, he won me and my sister, too. Now I'm gonna be working for this bastard for the rest of my life.

And I know, he's going to enjoy every second of it.

Mr. O'Tipp gestured with a finger, guiding me away from the view below. I watched the muscles of his face tighten with hunger or anticipation as he looked at the bag in my hand.

"How much did it cost?" He stepped into the shadows, his long fingers tracing the dangling chains on the wall.

I looked away from him. O'Tipp didn't mean cash.

"Two." I mumbled the word. 

"Oh?" He glanced back at me. 

Details. He wanted details. I forced myself to inhale. 

"The first bled out, I think." I couldn't have saved the poor bastard even if I knew how. "Took a bullet to the chest." Took my bullet to the chest. "The other was guarding… It." Nausea curled inside my stomach. It. The thing in the bag. "I shot him in the back of the head. Like you told me to."

"Good boy," O'Tipp said, and the light cast a shadow on his face, like the skin were paper and the flesh were a mask. "Did you look into the bag?"

I closed my eyes. I couldn't force the memory down. How my fingers curled around the box-like shape within the burlap, only for my flesh to sink into something cold and beating like a pulse beneath them.

"No, sir," I said

"But you're sure it's the right thing?" 

I did not open my eyes. I could not handle the thought of seeing the smile I heard. I could not help but think that if I opened my eyes, the face looking at me would not be human anymore.

 "Very much so, sir."

"My dear Harbinger," O'Tipp said, "Where is your curiosity? Wouldn't you like to see what you've brought me?"

Now I opened my eyes, and they opened wider than I wanted them to.

"Definitely not, sir."

He stood in front of the door to his office, smiling at me. I looked at his eyes to fight the thought of too many teeth.

"A pity," O'Tipp said. "It would have been better for you if you'd been willing to… expand your knowledge of the world."

My stomach sank with understanding.

"But!" He beamed at me, like a father gazing proud at his offspring. "That makes it more fun for me. Come on then."

He opened the door. Numb, I followed.

A strange little otherworld, Nathan O'Tipp's office is. A little antique and ancient, a lot of books and papers. Globes on the shelves of bookcases stacked to the ceiling. Star charts papering the exposed walls. Nonsense maps full of nonsense places. The world beyond the window, hidden by the same curtains he used everywhere else, golden tacks pinning down the fabric so not a drop of sunlight could fall inside. Furniture in all types of wood, light, dark, painted, lacquered, raw. 

His empty desk waited for us.

I don't even remember when he took the bag from me. He rested it on the desk, and the fabric sunk way, way down. The same boxy shape, thick as my wrist, and yet the fabric darkened around the edges of it, wet.

O'Tipp breathed in, and exhaled a light chuckle.

He raised a hand, looked at me. With care, he removed the glove from each finger, one at a time, and let it drop to the floor. 

"Don't look away," he whispered, and I knew that was an order.

His hand rested on the flat surface of the bag, and sank down. The fabric and the thing beneath it shivered like disturbed water. 

My throat locked up. I did not look away.

"Yes," O'Tipp said, eyes locked on the bag. "You’re the real thing, aren't you?" He nodded his head, looked up at me, and I saw it exposed bare to me, the disconnect between what I knew of reality, and what he knew of it.

"Don't," I mumbled.

"I've been waiting years to find this," he said. "And it came into my grasp so easily. I did not even need to negotiate with their god to do it." O'Tipp leaned over the desk towards me. "Dagon will be furious to know I have this. This sick creation, somewhere between science and witchcraft - the creation of a mind as brilliant as our own beloved Keziah Mason!"

"Please let me leave," I thought, I mumbled.

"You are a miracle worker, you know that, boy? You are, undoubtedly, my favorite curse upon this tiny planet. And this book?"

His wet fingers gripped the cord on the bag. With one pull, the bag opened, releasing a smell I've never forgotten. 

"It’s mine now. Mine just as much as you and she are."

Without ceremony or care, O'Tipp snatched the bottom of the bag and upended it. Something green, or something black, something both and neither and iridescent tumbled down. It hit the wood with a crack like a breaking bone, the sick smack of flesh falling from a height it could not survive.

It gurgled like a drowning animal. Water, dark and grimy, bubbled from the open hole of the spine.

And the smell. That goddamn smell. Like the sea became as stagnant as still water. The copper rot of an untreated open wound. Seaweed and fish left dead in the sun and storm.

And my voice shook as I spoke, as I recognized the thing by its shape.

"A book?" I said. "That's it? It's a book?"

O'Tipp pulled his other glove off with his teeth and I could have imagined it but before he tossed it aside, I saw holes in the fabric. Barehanded, he ran his fingers over the cover, and it rippled under his touch.

"A grimoire," he said, stroking the dark, slick surface. "Written by a stranger in a land far more obscure than any on the surface." His smile, his smile, there was nothing I knew of sanity in that smile. He looked to me and his mouth stretched wider.

"Have you ever been to Innsmouth?" He said, and did not wait, because he already knew the answer. "Quaint town with too many secrets. It's up north from here. The whole place was claimed by a cult worshiping a god that lives in the sea, so they say, until the federal agents burned it all down. So they all say. So all you need to know right now.” He tilted his head, the smile staying still. “Look at you, you're so pale. Have you never seen a book before?"

I said nothing. He seemed to like that.

"If you care to believe me," he said, "this-" his fingers tapped the surface of the book, sending waves through the flesh. "Was made from the body of one of those cultists.” He chuckled at me. “Oh, please don't faint, you still have to walk home. Don't be upset." His voice lowered. "This isn't made from a human."

I shouldn't have said it, but I couldn't look away from it. From him.

"Then what is it made of?"

"A Deep One. Skin, cartilage, preserved flesh - no scales, did you notice?"

I shook my head. His expression dripped with sarcastic, amused pity.

"Don't worry, I'll spare you the bookbinding lesson. It's a gruesome thing, so I've heard. But I'll show you one more thing."

Please don't, I thought.

"It still drips with sea water, did you notice?" His hand traced over the lock. A flick of the fingers and without a key, it opened. "But look inside…"

I didn't want to. I did.

The pages, bone white, dark letters of a language I'd never seen before. Bone white pages. Bone dry pages.

"Fascinating, isn't it? What horrors lie in this book, do you think, in that language I have yet to teach you?”

O'Tipp slammed the book shut. I stumbled back, and he laughed.

"Go home, my precious detective," he said. "You've done a wonderful job today. No need to come in for a while. Keziah and I are going to be very busy with my new prize. Enjoy a break - I’ll find you when I need you.”

Despite the way my veins pounded, so loud in my ears I barely heard anything else, I answered him.

"I know, sir."

His gaze hungered. 

"Good boy."

I did not head home quickly. In fact, I did not leave the building quickly. No, I'll tell you the truth: I did not even go down the stairs for a good long while. I stepped from the office, the air chilling on my colorless face, and swayed. My body hit the wall. Somehow I did not fall despite the tremble in my legs, the sickness in my gut.

My eyes closed. I welcomed the dark, my mind not again showing me the hideous thing, the hideous, handsome man I served. The black swallowed me and I breathed in the air, ghosts of tobacco and perfume and alcohol wafting up from the floor below.

Again I thought of myself less than four months before, my bright eyes in the mirror, my determination throbbing within my soul. Again I thought of myself back then, and I thought, what nightmare was I hunting?

The office door opened.

“Oh! You’re still here!” O’Tipp said. “I was afraid I’d have to track you down.”

I did not want to do it. I opened my eyes and shifted towards him. His beaming smile, so paternal, churned my stomach anew.

“I almost forgot,” he said, stepping towards me. “Your allowance.”

His gloveless hand gripped my wrist, his other shoved something into my palm. Damp hands, hands far too warm for this night, far too warm for what he’d been handling.

“You’ve done excellent work today, my boy.” O’Tipp patted my cheek. “I’m proud of you.”

I shouldn’t have said anything. I didn’t have a choice but to speak.

“Thank you sir,” I whispered.

As his eyes narrowed and his smile darkened, I almost thought - I don’t know what I thought. But he said nothing more. He stepped away, his hand lingering on my skin, and that was the last thing I truly knew before his office door slammed shut.

I could have left then, when my legs recovered their strength. I could have fled, and run down the street, and never looked back. And yet within my disjointed soul, I understood something almost instinctive - I should not be alone right now, not after that.

My feet carried me to the balcony. I sat on the floor, and watched the people below.

To be part of society and yet apart from it. Yes, I knew that very well, as my cruel grandparents taught me, as I knew now as a different kind of man. A separation from humanity, a barrier put between me and anyone that could have, in another life, loved me. Yes, I understood that. Perhaps it helped me understand them.

How happy they all were, down there. How sweet the woman, a different one now, sang her songs of love and loss. How the people moved between tables, greeting friends. How they clinked their fancy drinks in fancier glasses together. 

A sample of humanity, together. All those colors of clothes and hair and skin, together. Like the world beyond did not exist, like there was not an even bigger nightmare lurking at the edges of the horrors we all pretended not to think about.

A Deep One. A living thing that was not human. Something below the surface of the ocean waves. A god. A cult - another damned cult, of course there would be. Could I not escape them? A small amount of distance allowed me to think of it more. So long as I did not picture the book, I could wonder about it. What was a Deep One? What kind of a life did a thing like that have? Did it have a family? Did it have friends? Did it feel love, as humans did?

Was it still alive, even as a book?

In my soul, I ached. Not for the dead, but for me, taken from my home just as the book was.

My gaze drifted, my thoughts eased to a crawl. Down there, down on the floor, I saw him. I did not truly understand what I saw, but I did, I saw him, and he saw me. I let myself blink, focus, in time to see his lips curl into a smile. Dark skin, red clothes, sharp eyes.

He knew me. I knew him. No one else might understand. No one else could understand, I think, that little jolt of electricity that surged within me. That little taste of… hope, perhaps. He knew me, he knew of me, I knew him, knew of him. That brilliant man with his glittering grin. We were both born women. We were both skilled in our fields despite our ages. We were both connected to this nightmare in ways others could not understand. 

I tilted my hat to him. He raised his glass to me.

As he disappeared into the crowd, I left.

The city struggled through the night, and the old blood had wrecked my vest. I buttoned up my jacket over it. I’d survived another mission, somehow, by that monster I am bound to serve. There’s a lot of ways to die in this town, and not all of them involve a bullet.

I was so tired of thinking about that. That money he gave me rested heavy in my pocket.

Little detour and then, to home I went. To the Witch House, where I’d lived since arriving in Arkham. O’Tipp bought it too, along with me. Sure enough, on that battered old porch, they waited for me. The old gate creaked as I shoved it open. A set of bright eyes behind round glasses looked up from the book she’d been reading aloud. Sadie, my partner in crime, my sister in soul, Sadie, jumped from her chair.

“Lazarus!” Her arms wrapped around me and I hugged her tight right back, and the grin that formed threatened to split my face in two. “You’re alright!”

Couldn’t help but laugh a little at that. 

“Well, mostly,” I said. 

On the porch, the other woman hadn’t moved, rocking back and forth in her chair. Her hands in her lap, her hair fallen past the bandages over her eyes, her focus all on me. She smiled, and I could taste the hope that radiated from her.

“I got a surprise for you guys,” I said, and reached into my pocket.

I can imagine what O’Tipp would say, spending so much of my allowance on candy like a child. But what did I care about his thoughts? It was more than a snack for my two favorite girls, it was an offering for their happiness. For my happiness. What was the point of going through this nightmare, if you couldn’t be happy every now and then?

Overhead the fat moon sat and watched it all. I settled into one of the chairs, let myself relax for the first time since the sun rose that morning. Soon, the others who lived in this ancient building would return, and we all could rest for the first time in hours. But underneath the sound of the summer night and my sister’s voice, I heard the pages turning.

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[myhauntedsalem]

The Last Words of 30 Famous Serial Killers

Some killers have offered sincere apologies for the heinous offenses they committed. Others’ final words were filled with anger and resentment, while some seemed indifferent. A few of the most interesting final words are quizzically strange rantings.

What are the last words of some of the most famous serial slayers? The last words on this list come from the mouths of some of the most heinous, dangerous people in human history.

James French

“Hey, fellas! How about this for a headline for tomorrow’s paper? ‘French Fries.'” (August 10, 1966)

James French has the distinction of being the last person to be executed in Oklahoma, via electric chair

Carl Panzram

“Hurry up, you Hoosier bastard. I could kill 10 men while you’re fooling around.” (September 5, 1930)

Peter Kurten

“Tell me. After my head has been chopped off, will I still be able to hear, at least for a moment, the sound of my own blood gushing from the stump of my neck? That would be a pleasure to end all pleasures.” (July 2, 1931)

Peter Kurten, AKA “The Vampire of Dusseldorf,” drank the blood of at least one person.

John Wayne Gacy

Kiss My Ass (May 10, 1994)

Thomas J. Grasso

“I did not get my Spaghetti O’s. I got spaghetti. I want the press to know this.” (March 20, 1995)

Tom Ketchum

“I’ll be in Hell before you start breakfast, boys. Let her rip.” (April 26, 1901)

Jeffery Dahmer 

“I don’t care if I live or die. Go ahead and kill me.” (Novemer 28, 1994)

H.H. Holmes 

“Take your time. Don’t bungle it.” (May 7, 1896)

Dr. H.H. Holmes was one of the first American serial killers.

Albert Fish 

“I don’t even know why I’m here.” (January 16, 1936)

In the 1920s, Albert Fish claimed that he had slain at least 100 children.

Ted Bundy

“I’d like you to give my love to my family and friends.” (January 24, 1989)

The exact number of women Ted Bundy offed or hurt in the 1970s is unknown, but some say the number is somewhere in the 100s.

Marcel Petiot 

“Gentleman, I have one last piece of advice: Look away. This will not be pretty to see.” (May 25, 1946)

Petiot was a French doctor who was only found out when the remains of 23 people were found in his Parisian home during WW2.

Steven Timothy Judy 

“I don’t hold any grudges. This is my doing. Sorry it happened.” (March 9, 1981)

Steven Judy slayed a woman and her three children in 1979.

William Bonin 

“I would suggest that when a person has a thought of doing anything serious against the law, that before they did that they should go to a quiet place and think about it seriously.” (February 23, 1996)

William Bonin’s habit of dumping cadavers near freeways earned him the nickname Freeway Killer.

Amelia Dyer

“I have nothing to say.” (June 10, 1896)

Dyer is believed to have slain 400 children during a 20-year period in Victorian England.

Peter Manuel

“Turn up the radio and I’ll go quietly.” (July 11, 1958)

Manuel was an American-born Scottish man who is believed to have slain from nine to��18 people during the 1950s.

Francis Crowley

“You sons of bitches. Give love to Mother.” (January 21, 1932)

Francis Crowley went on a three-month spree that ended when he was sent to the electric chair.

Angel Maturino Resendiz

“I want to ask if it is in your heart to forgive me. You don’t have to. I know I allowed the Devil to rule my life. I just ask you to forgive me and ask the Lord to forgive me for allowing the devil to deceive me. I thank God for having patience in me. I don’t deserve to cause you pain. You do not deserve this. I deserve what I am getting.” (June 27, 2006)

Reséndiz left people’s cadavers near railroad tracks.

Fritz Haarmann

“I repent, but I do not fear death.” (April 15, 1925)

Fritz Haarmann of Germany, active in the years following WWI, became known as the Vampire of Hanover because he would bite through people’s throats.

Ned Kelly

“Such is life.” (November 11, 1880)

Ned Kelly was often considered a folk hero in Australia.

Donald Henry Gaskins

“I’ll let my lawyers talk for me. I’m ready to go.” (September 6, 1991)

Donald Henry Gaskins was known as the Meanest Man in America for slaying at least 100 people, most of them hitchhikers, from the 1950s to the 1980s.

Israel Keyes

“Okay, talk is over, words are placid and weak. Back it with action or it all comes off cheap. Watch close while I work now, feel the electric shock of my touch, open your trembling flower, or your petals I’ll crush.” (December 2, 2012) 

Israel Keyes took his own life; the words are from his final note.

John George Haigh

In a letter to his girlfriend, Barbara: “It is difficult to say farewell under these circumstances, but you will understand that you will always be in my thoughts. You know I have been proud of our association: it has always been an honourable one. I shall remember your great kindness and devotion. Now I must leave you.” (August 10, 1949)

In the 1940s, John George Haigh dissolved six women’s cadavers in acid.

Kenneth McDuff

 “I am ready to be released. Release me.” (November 17, 1998)

After his sentence was commuted in 1989, Kenneth McDuff killed again before being detained in 1992.

Carroll Cole

“It’s all right.” (December 6, 1985)

Carroll Cole possibly committed acts of cannibalism

Raymond Fernandez and Martha Beck

“I wanna shout it out; I love Martha! What do the public know about love?” – Raymond Fernandez (March 8, 1951)

“My story is a love story. But only those tortured by love can know what I mean […] Imprisonment in the Death House has only strengthened my feeling for Raymond….” – Martha Beck (March 8, 1951)

In the 1940s, Fernandez and Beck would place personal ads in newspapers with the intent of taking money from the women who replied.

Aileen Wuornos

“I’d just like to say I’m sailing with the rock, and I’ll be back like Independence Day, with Jesus, June 6th. Like the movie, big mother ship and all. I’ll be back.” (October 9, 2002)

From 1989 to 1990, Aileen Wuornos terminated seven men, with the excuse that each of them tried to rape her.

James Allen Red Dog

“I’m going home, babe.” (October 9, 2002)

James Allen Red Dog had been connected to at least five murders

Myra Hindley

According to the Catholic priest who gave Hindley last rites, “The last conversation she had before she died concerned her mother. She just expressed concern for her mother – but I will not say exactly what she said.” (November 15, 2002)

Hindley, with her lover Ian Brady, shocked 1960s England when they killed five children.

Earle Nelson

“I am innocent. I stand innocent before God and man. I forgive those who have wronged me and ask forgiveness of those I have injured. God have mercy!” (January 13, 1928)

During a two-year period in the mid-1920s, Earle Nelson felled 22 women, most of whom were landladies he approached about rooms they wanted to rent.

Sean Flanagan

“I love you.”

Sean Flanagan terminated two gay men in Nevada, claiming he was doing “good for… society.” (June 23, 1989)

[darklinaforever]

Let's be clear. The 1992 Mina is different from the original Mina in the book, but she still follows the line of strong female character, albeit in a different way.

On the other hand, I'm going to immediately stop people's excuses about "She loves Dracula who raped and killed Lucy ?! How could she be a strong woman ?! She is definitely not !" So... it's just called being morally ambiguous. Mina herself recognizes in the story how awful it is !

Dracula is a monster in this film and that is never denied. We simply also give the monster more human aspects, with also a rather ambiguous statement on religion. But that's not the point, let's get back to Mina.

Honnestly, I think what also bothers many people in this adaptation is that Mina is not an irreproachable virtuous woman. Well yes, we cannot say that Mina accepting her love for a merciless killer and rapist of her best friend is very moral. It's the point. However, she is still aware that it is bad. She recognizes it.

On the other hand, I find it crazy that people, just because of this aspect, and because she is very different from the Mina of the book, this version of Mina is not a woman with strong aspects in her own way. It is, just in another, more discreet way.

Particularly through sexual liberation / taking charge of one's own sexuality. Seriously. I never see anyone talking about the fact that Mina clearly represents active and liberating sexuality in this adaptation. All that with a morally ambiguous ending since in the final ending of the film, Mina does not join anyone and remains alone, whereas the first alternative version had her return to her role as Harker's wife. But instead I just simply see that she is reduced to an uninteresting romantic interest. Isn't it rather you who reduces his character to that in fact ?

Mina in the NBC series version is also decreed as incapable of being a strong woman simply because she is also Dracula's lost love. Except... it's a bit sexist to say that in a rewriting of the Dracula myth, Mina loses any possibility of being a feminist female character if she becomes Dracula's lover ? This is completely stupid. Simply because it's another version ?!

Also, I hope that if you like Mina, you will also tolerate the versions where she is not married to Jonathan ?

And if you find the 1992 version of Mina revolting, well I don't dare imagine what you must think of the one in the 1931 adaptation where she appears ? Or there she is simply characterized as a weak and unconscious victim...

[tachiguin]

Is it realistically possible for ships like TachiZaki to exist? Since Tanizaki’s obsession with Naomi is such a fundamental part of his being. The only scenario in which I can imagine Tanizaki forming a relationship with someone else is if Naomi somehow passes and he doesn’t coincidentially go on an absolute rampage. I’m not saying the ship is bad, I’m actually an enjoyer of it, I’m just seeking answers as to how would it work… :(

I mean… if you use his canon characterization and dynamic with Naomi, I’m inclined to say “no”. Tanizaki and Naomi’s dynamic in BSD is very much based on the relationships portrayed in the real Tanizaki Jun’ichirou’s works: blind and gratuitous devotion, oftentimes in a very dark, “dead dove: do not eat” kind of way. So if you’re asking, “would Tanizaki cheat on Naomi with Tachihara?”, given the base assumption that Tanizaki and Naomi are in an intimate relationship, my frank answer is definitely not.

Still, this isn’t to say that there’s no other scenarios where TachiZaki would be possible (that don’t involve simply killing off Naomi). The easiest way that this happens is that Tachihara enters into a polyamorous relationship with Tanizaki and Naomi. In fact, Tanizaki-sensei (the author) has actually written a story “Quicksand” (1931) featuring a four-way relationship between two men and two women. In such a situation I would imagine that Tanizaki could become equally as enamored with Tachihara as he is with Naomi; he’s just the kind of guy who falls way too far into love, in my opinion.

However… I want to close this ask out by saying that I will always be a strong supporter of treating canon characterizations and pairings as more of a gentle suggestion than gospel. So if people (me) want to slightly tweak Tanizaki in fanfiction so that he’s not actually in love with Naomi, and therefore available to fall head over heels for someone else, then there is literally nothing wrong with that.

Also I’m well aware that most of the fandom spent a very long time under the impression that Tanizaki and Naomi were siblings, and are justifiably squicked out by the idea that they’re involved in a romantic sense, even after it was revealed that they aren’t related, so I absolutely understand that some people just are not, and will never be comfortable with the idea of Tanizaki and Naomi as romantic partners. So like, not to say that there ever needs to be a reason/justification for shipping something other than the canon ship, but I think there’s definitely more than enough of a justification if people want to ship Tanizaki with someone else.

[dwellordream]

“The Great Depression reached into every corner of the country, but it did not affect all people equally. For many middle-class women of all races, the depression required certain changes in spending patterns: buying cheaper cuts of meat, feeding the homeless men who stopped at the back door, and doing without new clothes. Some of these women continued to do community volunteer work, raising money for the unemployed. They saw the food lines, but they did not have to join them.

Among women workers, race played an important role. The fierce competition for jobs fueled racial resentments. Mexican-American and African-American women were the first to lose their jobs and the last to get relief from welfare agencies. Often, they were already living on the margin of survival. Before 1933, when the Prohibition amendment making the manufacture or sale of alcoholic beverages illegal was repealed, many of these women turned to bootlegging, making their own beer or liquor and selling it.

…Even relatively prosperous farm women--owners, not tenants--in general produced as much as 70 percent of what their families consumed in clothing, toys, and food. They not only gardened but raised poultry. During the depression, women increased the size of their gardens and the number of their hens. They made more butter from their dairy cows and sold it. They cut up the sacks that held large amounts of flour and sewed them into underwear. In the previous decade, they had proudly begun to participate in a culture of store-bought goods. Now they began to can food again. Government agents dragged huge canning kettles across the mountains of northern New Mexico and eastern Tennessee so that women in remote farming villages could preserve their food.

Even with all this work, rural children suffered from malnutrition, and rural women faced childbirth without a doctor or midwife because they could afford neither the medical fees nor the gasoline for transportation. The women resented their declining standards of living, particularly those from better-off farm families who owned their own farms and had, during the 1920s, aspired to participate in the new domestic technology of indoor bath-rooms, modern stoves and heating, and super cleanliness.

…In 1936, a federal appeals court overruled an earlier law that had classified birth control information as obscene and thus illegal to dispense. That decision still left state laws intact, however. The number of birth control clinics nationwide rose from 55 in 1930 to 300 by 1938, but in some states and in many rural areas women still had no access to birth control. In 1937, North Carolina became the first state to provide contraceptives with tax dollar, and six others soon followed. Ironically, North Carolina’s reasoning was not that birth control was a human right but that birth control would reduce the black population.

Despite statistics showing that black women had fewer babies than white women with similar incomes and living situations, many white southern officials in states with large black populations feared a black population explosion. In 1939, the Birth Control Federation of American responded to eager southern state governments by developing “The Negro Project,” a program to disseminate birth control information, which they carefully staffed with local black community leaders. Whatever the logic, one quarter of all women in the United States in their 20s during the depression never bore children. This was the highest rate of childlessness for any decade. Many people simply decided not to get married, and marriage rates fell.

…In the mass media women seemed to be receiving mixed messages. On the one hand, in 1930, the Ladies’ Home Journal featured a former career woman confessing, “I know now without any hesitation… that [my husband’s job] must come first.” In 1931, the popular magazine Outlook and Independent quoted the dean of Barnard College, a women’s college in New York City, telling her students that “perhaps the greatest service that you can render to the community… is to have the courage to refuse to work for gain.” And on its front page in 1935, the New York Times reported that women “suffering from masculine psychological states” and an “aversion to marriage” were being “cured” by the removal of their adrenal gland. In this atmosphere, not only were women workers under fire, but women who centered their lives on women rather than on men came under attack. Lesbianism was no longer chic. Lesbian bars almost disappeared. Homosexuality was now seen by many people as just one more threat to the family.

On the other hand, movie houses showed zany screwball comedies with more complicated lessons. Often deliciously ditsy, incompetent women were rescued by sensible, capable men. Yet, the men in these movies were frequently portrayed as bumbling or slower-witted than the women. Sometimes the men were people who needed joy and whimsy restored to their lives, not an unexpected theme for a nation in the throes of an economic depression. In other movies, however, women were by no means incompetent. The women portrayed by Katharine Hepburn, Bette Davis, and Joan Crawford in the 1930s were often intelligent but needed men alternately to tame and to soften them.”

- Sarah Jane Deutsch, “Making Do with Disaster.” in From Ballots to Breadlines: American Women, 1920-1940

[drifting-pieces-blog-blog]

Are you gonna talk about how Marlene is named after Margo Lane and Steven is bascially Lamont Cranstron Margo's boyfriend from the Shadow and Moench said as much

Because the shadow was on when Marc was a kid in volume #1 going by him being in his 30s and Elias leaving Europe in 1939 so like is Steven a Lamont Cranstron introject in the comics?

My friend, you just hit on a long time love of mine. 

Marlene Alraune. I've long had mixed feelings about the original flame of the Moon Knight system. 

She's absolutely a badass who could always take care of herself in a time when the women in comics were often just there to be eye-candy and rescued. 

Heck, half the time Marlene did the rescuing. The number of times she saved Moon Knight is quite high. 

But she also fell in love with an idea of who she wanted 'Marc' to be. When he didn't fit that idea, she could often be quite cruel and abelistic. 

Sometimes she was good for them, trying to get them to face their problems and let go of the past.... But usually she was the one pushing them to 'snap out of' their mental health issues and be Steven while forgetting the other two. 

Now, I don't know if she's based on Margot Lane. But it is easy to see that she is meant to be Moon Knight's version of Margo Lane. 

(I would love to see your source of Moench saying such! I'm always curious to see what the OG has to say about his MK starts). 

For those out of the loop: 

Margo Lane is from "The Shadow" (one of my favorites!!!). A comic created in 1931 and turned into a very popular radio play in 1937 (officially it was tested in the waters as early as 1930 before he was hashed out into a literary sense in 31 and then revived again in 37 as his own familiar self). 

It was later made into least one (Okay) movie with Alec Baldwin in 1994. 

Margo was created originally for the radio drama as a companion when they realized they had far too many men in the line up and it would become difficult to distinguish the voices. But MAN was she a heavy hitter! 

She was incredibly intelligent, fearless, and didn't put up with his shit. 

Orson Welles was the voice of the Shadow and his alter ego Lamont Cranston. Let me tell you... Once you've heard Orson deliver the line: "Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men? The Shadow knows!" You ain’t ever going back. 

You can still find the radio plays on most podcast services. 

Margot Lane fresh out of the 1930s! 

Now, I can 100% see the comparison between Marlene and Margot. At the start.

Complicated love interest of a character with alter egos and a complex social standing and questionable mental health at times. (I could go on and on about Lamont but I won't). 

Marlene was originally a damsel in distress that evolved into a badass independent woman. Margot was originally a fast talking quick witted woman who on occasion needed rescuing. 

As for their personalities? I’d say they are quite different. Perhaps Marlene started out as an idea to give Moon Knight an interesting companion. In fairness, imagining early MK without Marlene is actually a bit dull. You NEED to have that inner circle that knows his past and has an interest in helping him. As for Margot, she isn’t fleshed out well in the early radio show and she wasn’t in the original comic/story until after the radioshow. She was just a voice with witty remarks and smart observation that paired very well with Orson Wells. 

Now, you mentioned Steven as basically a fictive of Lamont Cranston. 

The timeline can line up for the original run. We already know little Marc liked to play with super hero toys and enjoyed an escape in fictional stories (Mostly from Lemire's run as we never see little Marc in the OG run outside of Zelenetz' 2 part exploration of the past in like, one page). It is possible he listened to The Shadow on the radio.

In the MCU, Steven is canonically a fictive. In the comics, we don't know the story of how and when Jake and Steven first came about. 

Let's look at Lamont Cranston's character. 

Lamont is a wealthy man-about-town. A carefree playboy that travels the world to 'learn the old mysteries that modern science has not yet rediscovered'. Once he is finished traveling and learning his special abilities, he returns to New York. (The radio show and the print stories are vastly different at this point). 

Now, Lamont is not really given a lot of 'radio time' in the old broadcasts. He's just a rich fellow with a nice girl on his arm. He's given more of a personality much much later in different installments of the Shadow. 

And while Steven Grant is originally SUPPOSED to be the main alter from issue #1, he quickly falls out of favor and the comic shifts to Jake Lockley as being the main face with Steven being the one to hold down the home life and the cash flow. 

As for Moench saying it was an inspiration? I don't know. I'd have to see the interview. But back in the late 70s and early 80s, the usual alter ego of superheroes tended to be rich, casual, playboys. 

Which brings me to the big kicker. Bob Kane and Bill Finger, creators of Batman, have explicitly said they based Batman off of pulp mystery characters like The Shadow. In fact, his first comic was a direct takeoff of a Shadow story! 

You can see the homage to this in The Batman Animated Adventures with "The Gray Ghost" that was voiced by Adam West (two homages in one people! I love it). 

And we all know that Moon Knight is constantly being compared to Batman (it's the cape. It has to be the cape). 

Batman was started in 1939. 

SO. One might just as easily argue that little Marc Spector loved to read comics and maybe picked up a Batman comic or two. So as much as Lamont could be where Steven got started, so too could Bruce Wayne. 

Let that one sit with you for a minute. 

I mean, if we're going down the rabbit hole of modern comics ripping on old radio broadcasts... Who's to say Kato from the Green Hornet isn't the inspiration for Robin? Or that he isn't the inspiration for Frenchie? A side kick that knows how to fight and works on cars and drives them around? Sounds like Frenchie to me. Heck, the Green Hornet and Kato even have a cameo in the Adam West Batman show with the building climbing bit they used to do.

All comics come from somewhere and over time, all comics will eventually resemble another as inspiration is sort of the name of the game.

I don't think that Steven Grant in the comics was a fictive. Especially if you go off Lemire's run as the real cannon event and we see a young Steven Grant making friends with a young Marc. I think at that point, Steven presented as the perfect Jewish Son that a Rabbi was supposed to have that Marc couldn't be. It is possible he had traits as an introject (adoption of traits and personalities of others), but it is truly hard to say from where he got the information.

But it is interesting to think of them listening to the old radio shows and drawing ideas from them on becoming the hero that is Moon Knight. After all, the Shadow wasn't exactly known for being merciful and his villains did tend to.... not survive.