#punch every nazi you see drive them into silence

[andragoras-in-vanity]

i hope everyone knows not to be scared. i mean obviously we're all scared, even those of us who arent even americans, but this is even more of a time when bashing fascist is necessary. dont let them walk away, shout them down, punch them, go all the way if you know what i mean. if you have strength use it. they might win on paper but that doesnt need to be every day life. you CAN make your communities safer by making them afraid.

[bethanysnow]

Red Empress.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4nKqslNcYAE&t=1762s

(Inspired by above playlist)

“-And who are you?” 

    “OH HI YOU ARE REAL!?” The ‘hero’ yelled in shock. 

“Yes, I’m real. And what do you want? You interrupted me watching British Bake off…” 

    “..wait, you’re not gonna...shoot me? With like, a freeze ray, or cut my head off. Send dogs after me, none of that?” 

“...Do you want me to hero?” 

    “NO! I uh I mean no. Ma’am-” 

“Then what the fuck do you want…I am busy.” 

The hero looked up to a woman similar to what he had expected. She had black hair, wore gold jewelry, and glasses sat on her nose. But the person in front of him? The Terror of the 9 Hells, Dante’s Apprentice, The Red Empress? Wasn’t there. She had a grey cardigan on, yoga pants. She looked down at the little hero with disdain and an air of condescension. Like he was trying to sell her girl scout cookies and doing a bad job at it. The hero looked at his research. Scribbled into a composition notebook was the address of what he thought was the evil lair to the greatest supervillain of their era.

    “I am a future hero, or I want to be-” She raised a hand, cutting him off. 

“-So you came down to my apartment, which by the way is super creepy. How you got my address I do not know. Then decide to knock on my door. Knowing who I am, you still did so. Did you think this was a good idea?” Slightly amused look fixed onto her face. 

    “No, I don’t think it was a good idea. But I need to know.” He said with all the sincerity in his heart. “My grandma, she loves you. Has some of your newspaper clippings on her wall. She won’t shut up about you. Saying ‘there weren’t any more good heroes today’. Google just showed me all your recent stuff about how bad you are. You disappeared for like...10 years. Then came back a villain.”   

She looked him over. Grabbed his notes out of his hand despite his protests. Flipping through pages she takes a red pen from behind her ear and starts writing in his book. Once she hands it back, it's annotated. Edited. Like how a teacher reviews a paper from a student. Leaning on the doorway she looks into the hall. 

“Kay-” Standing back up on her feet she opens the door all the way pushing him in. “-You get until my episode of Bake off is done. C’mon kid.” Grabbing a fistful of his hoodie she leads him to her living room. 

The apartment looked over all of Manhattan. Marble floors, red plush furniture. Bookshelves dotted with ‘souvenirs’. Some he recognized as heroes' weapons and memorabilia. A stone head looked in fear out into the room. The head was of the previous ‘supervillain’ from the 50s. A silver glove with runes carved into the surface glowed as the hero passed. A gun from the ‘Manhattan Mad Hatter’. A drugged out ultra-rich chemist who made it his mission to destroy and flatten everything from here to Tokyo in the 00’s. 

“You want to talk, kid, or do you wanna look at the knick knacks?” 

    “Right!” He blurted, going to the couch next to her. A small brown dachshund curled into a ball on her lap. “Where did you go for ten years?” 

“Rehab, Therapy for a bit. Um, Austria. Russia for a while. Went to Tasmania. Seattle. Mainly Rehab though-” 

    “-For ten years?” 

She smirked. “You try being a hero for 30 some odd years and not have a drug problem. The 60s and 70s everyone was...disposed. In something. Or someone. There was always a cult to join, doctrine to follow, party to go to. Lots of those Heroes from the glory days died from cocaine, or other drugs. The cops shot the bodies so they could report that they died in the line of fire.” A dark and far away quality clouded her eyes. “-10 years for rehab after seeing your friends, coworkers, freaks of nature you got to call family die? Sounds reasonable to me. I spent the 80s in a fog. God knows what I really did.” 

    “Oh....” 

She scoffed. “Yea- oh! They don’t tell ya that in history class do they?” 

    “No, Ma’am…” 

“Thought as much.” 

    “You were a hero though! Post WWII there were comics, radio stations, songs, all praising you. Some I saw where you punched a Nazi and went for ice cream after. Don’t take this the wrong way please. I would like to get home today, but you look like you’re in your 30s. You should be 90 somethin” 

“That I did do- but ya. And who said I wasn’t 90 somethin? You ever hear that fuckin super solider bullshit? They made Rogers and Bucky do? Where did you think the research was tested? They had to go from somewhere and I dunno...I had the day off.” She shrugged. Her face flickered with rage when mentioning the previous heroes. “And look where it got them, Steve is dead, and Bucky is off with some fuckin retirement bullshit. At least I didn’t retire! I got a job to do, I got taxes to pay.” 

    “...you pay taxes????” The boy looked at her very confused. 

“I am a villain, not an asshole.” 

She started to pet her dog, them nuzzling into her hand. 

    “So you became a villain- came back in 2000. Crashed the Met Gala. Stole the artifacts on display. Crashed a car. Set fire to buildings- why?” 

“Ah- the age old question.-” She looked at him. Took a minute of silence with her. The air slowly left the room he felt. Under the steely gaze of the most deadly woman in the world. 

“I got tired. Of being owned, propped up, posed, told what to say. The Hero's Union, a committee of people ‘sworn to protect the sanctity of Heroes’ and what they represent and fight for’ never was actually there for us. Type casted us into America's sweetheart, Funny side character. Big strong hero to save the day. Every interview I ever did as a ‘hero’ was never my actual words. I would have been a fuckin amazing actress I’ll give ya that. Smile and tell the people watching not to panic. Not to worry. Us ‘Hero’s got it handled. We were let to suffer unbeknownst to the general public. ‘Lady Justice’? She was 5 months pregnant and the Union wouldn’t let her stop the missions. She ended up having a miscarriage due to stress and what they were putting her body through. It's not just her, it's everyone.” 

    “So why not just quit? If it was that bad, go on strike or something.” 

“That's easy for you civilians to say. You can strike when you work a normal 9 to 5. You can quit your job. You can move on. But as I said, little hero. I was out there for 30 somethin years. Punching Nazis, saving people. Being a Hero. When you are made basically immortal and are a freak of nature- there are things you learn you cannot do anymore. I can’t drive a car. I can’t work out without all the machines sparking out on me and breaking. No one wants to hire a freak now do they? There is no ‘pensioners plan’ for elderly heroes.” 

    “I guess not…You don’t seem all that Villainous to me though.” He says with a giant smile on his face. Ever the optimist. 

She rolled her eyes, focusing on her show. 

He looked closer at her face. Grey eyes with blue flecks. Slightly salt and peppering at the sides. She looked strong, obvious defined biceps and calves. Her neck and arms were covered in scars. A long scar ran from her forehead down her face leading in a curve to her jaw on one side. The red pen stuck behind her ear. Big 70s aviator glasses. Before he knew what was happening his hands were bound behind his back and his face was being pressed into the cold floor. She had not changed her position. 

“You keep staring at me kid things will go badly for you.” She spoke not looking away from the TV in front of her. “-I don’t look evil, sure. But I will ask you.” 

“What does ‘Evil’ look like? I was once a hero too.”

[the-great-imagines-of-1812]

Through The Years pt. 4 (Bucky Barnes x fem! Stark! reader)

A/N: enjoy! as always, any feedback is appreciated as always! also, props to you if you know the flower symbolism. This chapter is fluffy and angsty.

tw: gunshots, mentions of violence, kidnapping half of a regiment, sexism.

tags: @the-romanian-is-bae @a-girl-who-loves-disney

~~~~~~~~~~~~

NOVEMBER 1ST, 1943 

LONDON, ENGLAND

You finished securing the rolls of supplies on your bag right as Howard came up behind you. 

“Hey um- sis”

You turned back to him with a smile. “Yes Howard? What is it?”

“You keep safe for me, okay? WE may not be celebrating your birthday together this year, but that doesn’t mean I want it to be the last one we ever celebrate, alright?”

Bringing him into a tight hug, you said “You’re not going to lose me. This mission will be a success and I’ll come back in one piece.”

“Promise?”

“Cross my heart, Howwie.”

You pulled away from the hug “You got everything? The armor, swords?”

“Yup!” you nodded, knocking on your clothed shoulder, to show you had it on underneath. “Sure do. I’m ready to punch a Nazi.”

Howard helped you pull your stuff on the military bus which contained the 107th, with you leading them. 

“I’ll be back soon. Don’t miss me to much, brother.”

He saluted, causing you to laugh. He walks away and you make your way to the drivers side of the bus. You turn the keys and the bus turns on, causing the men to already laugh and make noise.

You tuned around, and lifted the flap that separated you from them. “Gentlemen! This is a simple in and out mission! We’re crossing France into Italy to invade one of the main HYDRA bases. If we succeed, it may secure a victory for the Allies. We’ll set up camp along the way! understood?”

“YES LIEUTENANT GENERAL MA’AM!” 

Some sort of pride swelled in your chest. “Alright! I don’t want to hear ruckus back hear. Save your energy, boys.”

“Maybe you should save your energy for the kitchen!”

Several laughs filled the bus. “Leave her alone, why don’t you? She’s probably doing a better job than you ever will.”

Bucky. 

“Barnes if you love her so much, why don’t you just marry her!” a soldier yelled. “You know what, maybe I will!” he winked at you, making his way up front to sit in the passenger seat. 

“Let’s just go, regiment!”

You collapse back down to your seat, pressing the gas and driving out. You felt Bucky sit next to you, in passenger. “I don’t need your help, you know that, right Bucky?”

He settles himself before saying “I know you don’t. You’re one of the strongest women I’ve ever met. And besides; every Queen needs a King, right?”

“You make me blush too much, Buck.”

“All in a day’s work, sweetheart.”

You sighed. You all drove in silence for a while, with the exception of soldiers i the back who kept making noise.

Going up a dirt road on a hill, you say to Bucky “I don’t think I’m cut out for this. What was Phillips thinking?”

He then proceeds to lay his hand over yours, intertwining your fingers and bringing it up to his lips. “Darlin’ please stop spewing nonsense. You know you can do it. You can’t let these men get to ya.”

You blush about as red as a tomato. “L-let’s just- just let me keep driving.”

“You’re the boss, doll.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

THE NEXT DAY - NOVEMBER 2ND, 1943

BORDEAUX, FRANCE.

It had been an entire day since you had left the camp in London. It was also your birthday. You has set up camp in the early morning in Bordeaux, giving the men a few hours to rest before going down to Monaco and crossing the border to Italy. 

Now it was mid day, and you were stuck in your tent, planning out battle strategy. Not exactly your ideal birthday, but it wasn’t the worst. Outside, there were men having heir lunch, drinking and smoking or playing cards; awaiting their next orders from you. 

You shifted a bit uncomfortably under all your armor, swords and the clothes on top of it. You thanked Howard for making it as comfortable as it was. 

You heard a knock on on one of the poles of your tent. “Come in.”

“Happy Birthday, sweetheart.” It was Bucky, with his hands behind his back.

This brought a smile to your face. “How’d you know buck?” you finished, standing up while crossing your arms. “I may or may not have eavesdropped one of your conversations with Howard. Sorry, doll.”

“You scoundrel!” you gasped,feigning shock. 

“Call me all the names you’d like sweetheart, but i got something for ya. I asked my ma back in New York for this one. I told her about you, you see. She loves you already. She’d love to meet ya one day.”

“What you got for me, Barnes?” 

“Turn around. And lift your hair for me, doll.”

You did as told and felt a chain be wrapped around your neck. “Okay, sweetheart. Open your eyes.”

You looked down at the chain “What flower you got me, Barnes?”

“This-” he said, pointing to the charm on the necklace. “Is an amaranth flower. My grandma used to grow them, before she passed. One thing I can remember, though, it that- they never lasted long. So i got you this, so this one would last forever.” 

“You are all too charming, Barnes. But you didn’t need to get me anything!”

He laughs, shaking head. “But I did! You’re my best girl after all.”

“Your girl, Buck?” approaching him. You two were so close, you could feel his breath on your face.

Before you could comprehend anything, his lips were in yours and his arms tight around you. Your heart was beating unimaginably fast. Relaxing, you wrapped your arms around his shoulders, just as he pulled away, looking to the ground. 

“Yea, I’m your girl, Buck”

He looks back up to you with the widest smile you’ve ever seen on just about anyone. “I’m glad, baby-doll. I’ll make you so happy.” 

“Will you, Barnes?”

“You bet, doll. You’ll see.”

He kissed your forehead.

“LIEUTENANT GENERAL! LIEUTENANT GENERAL!” that was the voice of your right hand solider, Tommy Andrews.

You made your way outside, with Bucky trailing behind you. “What is it, Captain?” he hunched over to catch his breath. “LIEUTENANT GENERAL, THEY’RE-”

Gunshots ran throughout the camp. HYDRA. “Andrews, I need you to take a deep breath.” You took the keys out of your breast pocket, tossing them to Tommy. “Tommy. Fill the bus with about as many supplies and men as you can. I need you to make it safely to Italy.Go behind the forest, don’t stop for anything. As fast as you can. Get in touch with the General. AS SOON AS YOU CAN. UNDERSTOOD?”

Tommy salutes. “YES MA’AM.” he then proceeds to round up as many men as he could, grabbing as many suppl

You turned to Bucky. “Sergeant,get your men and their companies. We need to fight back as much as we can.”

“Yes Ma’am.” He runs off, but after giving you a kiss on the forehead. 

~~~~~~~~

ABOUT AN HOUR LATER

You and your men had been fighting easily for at least forty-five minutes of more. To be fair, you couldn’t see HYDRA. But somehow, HYDRA could see you. 

“MEN! RETREAT! I REPEAT! RETREAT!”

The men shoot a couple of more shots, and some make it back to the camp. Your main squadron and a few more, including Bucky’s and about 3 more. 

You kept shooting until every single bullet was gone. 

All the companies grouped together into one, throwing what you could at HYDRA. Sticks, rocks, guns, spare metal, you name it. 

You fought about as hard as one could. That was before several more gunshots rang out form Hydra’s side. 

All the men on your side collapse, about as far as you can see. The last thing you see is Bucky. “Y/N! Y/N! Darlin’ we’ll be ok! He collapses as a sack is thrown over his head, and he collapses. 

“NO! BUCKY!” you can’t see anything. They’ve got you too.

Happy Birthday to you. 

~~~~~~~~~

A/N: WOW. ok. this was something to write really. feeback is appreciated!

[maladaptive-ninja-returns]

The Bad Guy (3)

Bucky x fem!Reader

Smitten Kitten

Theme: It’s a good day in New York City for Bucky Barnes, who seems to feel right at home till his morning is disrupted by a bad guy. Maybe New York isn’t the same place after all. Now he has teamed up with the Bad Guy to fight the good fight. But this Bad Guy is bringing things on his surface he never knew he had

Chapter warnings: horny dumb asses and one thicc ass cock blocker

A/N: @writing-prompt-s​ once gave a prompt last year that stuck with me…I don’t remember the exact wordings but it had something to do with the reader/writer being the villain having a crush on the hero, always finding excuses (or crimes) to meet them. One day they are getting their ass beat and you decide to jump in and save the day. This one is same but with a liiiiiiiitle twist

Word Count: I hate periods!! Unless someone is paying me for this blood and mucus please just make it staaahp! I don’t know how many of you will get the reference of those dog and cat names. But oh my God if I could hug each and every one of you who reads, reblogs and comments on my fic I would hug the living souls outta you...five...people!!!!! Hnnnnghhhhh!!!!!

MASTERLIST in bio, love. Tags are open

“Are you sure this is the location?”

“That’s what she texted Bucky.”

“...I don’t have a good feeling about this.”

“...you…don't have a good feeling about...this mission or Y/N texting Bucky?”

Steve retreated his gaze from the binoculars to give Natasha a knowing look. The latter just shrugged her shoulders with the display of her innocent face. “He didn’t show you the text. He just told you the loc-esh. It’s normal to worry about it.”

Steve sighed and went back to the binoculars, looking at Bucky playing with a rock at the entrance of the warehouse before kicking it away. Steve hated the idea of Bucky wearing his favourite grey Henley shirt for a meeting with a bad guy.

“If I didn’t know him any better-” Tony’s voice crackled on the comms- “I’d say he was going on a date when he asked me if he could borrow my cologne. And if we go by our history, I really don’t know him any better.”

“Come on, guys. Cut Cap some slack,” Barton- who was screening the whole area from the top of the local water tank a couple of miles above the hill- added, “it’s not every day you see your best friends fall for the bad guys. Twice.”

A giggle and snicker eroded through the comms and Steve rolled his eyes while pushing himself into the seat. “Thanks for the input, Barton.”

“Alright, everybody shush,” Natasha interrupted the tease session, “she’s here.”

A Land Rover smoothly turned into the rundown estate to come and stop by Bucky’s Mustang. Those stooping shoulders suddenly found their rigidity and turned towards the car to welcome whoever was about to step out.

For a hot summer morning with plans to make plans to take down an entire cartel, you were dressed in a floral sundress. Brown shades covered your eyes and most of your face from that merciless sun. What they did not cover was the smile on those naked lips that had been painted the most enticing red Bucky had seen, apart from the gun you held in your dominant hand.

“Hello Sergeant,” you sang while taking patient steps in those white wedges that were in no way shoes made for a fight, “did you get my texts?”

Bucky, the soldier had already evaluated all the entries and exits, the type of gun, it’s range, the best stances if it came to playing offence or defence. Bucky the himbo from the past, though, was having a hard time concentrating on anything else but that suggestive smile and tilt of your head; the light hitting your hair perfectly while the languid breeze annoyed your strands now and then.

“Of course, that’s why I’m here, aren’t I?”

You tsked. “You know what I mean Sarge.”

Of course, he knew what you meant. He could feel his chest flutter by just the thought of those texts last night.

 You: meet me @ the warehouse on boulevard street tomorrow. We’ll come up with a plan to bust those bitches. Gimme a suitable time.

Bucky: Ok. How does 12 sound?

You: In this weather? Sarge, we’ll be sweating like a bunch of pigs under the sun!

Bucky: *typing* How about 7? am?

You: Do you feel like going skinny dipping tomorrow with me?

Bucky:

You: I know a really good spot a little away from here. Might end up on a road trip.

Bucky: *typing* I think we should concentrate on the miss-

You: Where do you live, btw?

You: *sends location* This is my place

Bucky: *erases everything* shouldn’t you keep your home location to yourself?

You: Hmm...But if I do that, how will you come over?

Bucky: *silence* *types* why would I want to-

You: It’s not every day I feel like sharing a bottle of some good stuff with someone.

You: It is soooo hot. I’m taking my pants off.

Bucky:

You: The top’s gone too. Phew! Just my lingerie now.

*one minute later*

You: Yeah, it’s not working. Bra is never comfy. Ever.

You: It’s better now! The night breeze is hitting every sweat bead on the spot.

You: Every window is open now.

You: Hmmm...Sarge. Are you thinking what I think you’re thinking?

You: Well, thinking isn't gonna do you any good, Bucky.

You: Thinking about my clothes on the floor.

You: Thinking about my skin.

You: Thinking about how much more this wind is getting action than someone you know.

You: Thinking about my hands roaming on my chest.

You: And then my stomach.

You: And then down further…

 By this time the phone was a crushed pile of junk in his hand and his cock a frustrated bulge in his boxers. Oh, the dissatisfaction of not being able to push you against a wall and grind his needy bulge against you was frustrating at best. The want to see you naked in the sheets under him while you called out his name increased with every second. Why did you have to be such a fucking tease?! A great one at that. Now he did want to dash out of the facility, steal one of Tony’s cars and drive to your home to take your by your hair and shut that pretty mouth of yours. He did think about it. But imagining you seeing him at your doorstep stopped him for some reason. Instead, he got out of his boxers, jumped on his bed and took care of that urge himself, fantasizing you, your touch, your moans, your highs with his hitting the rocks, till his legs were shivering and he had to stop himself from groaning out loud.

“I...fell asleep.”

Your tongue played with your upper lip and a tiny shudder in his pants was enough to tell him, you knew it was a lie. A lie through and through. There was a point when he started to fear that you might even know what he did after reading those messages.

"Sure, ya did," you chuckled the words through your teeth. "Anyways-" lifting your gun up casually to stroke it- "I was wondering about you last night. A lot. And there were things I did not like."

The safety clicked off and your arm turned straight to point it right at Bucky's forehead.

On the other side of the binoculars, Steve was already shouting his team to move in. Natasha was already driving forward, skidding to a stop right next to Bucky's wheels.

You could hear the commotion all around you but you were more interested in the disappointment building up on Bucky's beautiful face, looking at his pal with a hint of resentment.

"That-" you tilted your head a little in Steve's direction- "is what I don't like. You thought I wouldn't find out?"

"I told you to stay away, Steve!" Bucky yelled at him.

"Alright, this is over," Steve fumed from where he stood, "I knew we should not have trusted you."

With the right force, the gun crunched in your palms as turned towards Steve. You said nothing to the blonde. Removing your shades, you nodded at Natasha. "Hey, Nat."

"Y/N. How's Mr Fuzzy Boy."

"It's Fluffy Boy. And he still hates you. Talking about boys-" you looked around with your arms across your chest- "I thought you would have knocked some sense into them by now."

Natasha shrugged. “Not really. No.”

“She tried but we are too stubborn and our egos are bigger than our-”

“Hey, Stark,” you announced at the voice breaking out through Natasha's car. Turning to Bucky you sucked at your teeth. “I honestly thought you were doing this little team up because you wanted to work with me. Clearly that is not what this was about. You wanted to find out if I was working with the cartel, didn’t you, James Barnes?”

“Oooh, full name,” Clint cringed from his nest.

“You’re not really known for your goodness, Y/N,” Steve broke it down for you. “No offence.”

“Save it, Captain,” you spewed in his direction, “and to think I wanted to crush that face between my thighs.” Digging into your sundress’ pocket, you took out a burner cellphone and threw in his direction. “Happy hunting, you fucked up psychopaths.” You turned towards Bucky with no sign of any empathy in those y/e/c eyes. “Don’t expect anything more from me.”

The Land Rover moved out and away and with a part of Bucky’s broken heart that wanted to stop it so bad but had to do with turning to Steve and yelling out his anger at him. “You had to put your leg in the door, didn’t you. I had it handled!”

“Handled? Handled?!! Buck, she’s been playing you like a fiddle!”

“And you think I can be played?”

“I saw her texts for God’s sake!! Don’t tell me you’re going to defend her.”

Natasha cursed under her breath and stepped away from Steve. “Wow,” Bucky breathed in disbelief. “So just because she is horny on the phone means I am her little puppet? Is that how little you think of me, Stevie?”

“I don’t want you getting hurt, Buc-”

“I am not fourteen anymore! Neither are you! You know what, I’m out. I’m done. She’s given you something. Go use it and go punch some Nazi heads. I don’t want anything to do with this.”

And so he went away too, leaving everyone but Steve standing there to uncomfortably watch the captain look at the car.

“So…” Tony’s voice muttered over the comms, “which ice-creams should I keep ready in big dessert bowls when you guys get back home?”

.

It's good. Whatever happened was good. I mean, Steve and Tony got what they wanted. Y/N is no longer in the picture and...and…I don't have to interact with her...anymore.

The ball bounced from the ceiling into Bucky's hands, going back and forth without a pause. The other hand rested under his head- the very head that was blankly staring at the ceiling, thoughts running in there like a freight train. Wait, no, scratch that. No trains. They were running more like a leopard- just running around, presenting a brooding picture on the outside while on the inside- just like that very leopard, this poor muscular soul was dying of overthinking and anxiety. The agitation was on the level of a nine-year-old sulking in his bed because his mom was not letting him play with his friend. It was reasonable that the friend was bad, could be a bad influence, had been directly or indirectly leading him on some things he hadn't thought of in a while. But he had just made a frieeeennddd!! Hngh!

Crack!

The sound brought him out of the huffing trance to watch the paint and plaster crack in the ceiling. Fuck! Stark's gonna be pissed.

Bucky closed his eyes and let the hand engulfing the ball rest of his forehead.

Well, to be fair to his 'mom', Bucky was sure he was worried about what would happen if his new friend took him to the dark side again. After all the efforts and blood so many people had gone through, for one woman to undo it all. That was a genuine concern. But then again, she has been more interested in Sergeant Barnes than the Winter Soldier. Except for the part where she said she wants to see him…under the…sheets?

Right! What is with this woman! She speaks without a filter!! Does not care who's listening and what they'll think. I like that. I really like that. But all she wants to do is fuck me? And then what? Go back to ogling America's ass? 

A part of him nudged at those angry corners, pressing at the fact that you had been too engrossed to be angry at him to even think about Steve today. So, maybe it was not all about the ass.

Bucky turned to his side, rolling that thought along with him. The ball was moved around by his flesh index while his mind jogged with the possibility of doing something next.

Well, there was one thing he could do. It would drive Steven Grant Rogers crazy but it would be worth all the trouble he would be going through. Well, if he were to get caught he would have been caught last night when he sneaked out of the facility to go check to your place.

The distance had not been much on the bike but the New York heat hitting his face the moment he entered the city was more unwelcoming than the people living in the city. Parking the bike in an alley, he had pretty much parkoured his way over the houses to reach the building next to yours. Silent as a cat in the night looking for its prey, Bucky had planted himself on your apartment’s balcony and watched in impressive horror the modesty you lived in. Paintings made by kids were pinned all over the living room walls while a volcano sat on the coffee table- half done. An empty bottle of orange juice lay on the kitchen table while cushions were sprawled over the floor. Taking a step to his right, he was looking through the french windows into your bedroom where you slept in your queen-sized bed like a baby. All around you were oil paintings in blue and green of what looked like ocean waves in different art styles. On the bed lay your worn down laptop still running. Bending at an angle, his throat let out a muted gasp at collage with his photos on the screen, suggesting you had fallen asleep looking at his photographs. What was weird for Bucky was that his accelerated heartbeat had not found a single photo of his winter soldier avatar in there. What cooled down his burning chest was the serenity on your face. Sleeping under those thin grey sheets with a plushie of a right next to your head, Bucky almost had the urge to grin so wide. He could not believe you were the same woman who had threatened his best friend in full public view. And he knew exactly what he was going to do. Take a picture and blackmail you with it.

Looking down at his jeans to take his phone, his heart felt like he had fallen down the stairs when a pair of glowing eyes caught his. Gaining his mental footing, he breathed in the fact that it was actually a cat staring back at him from the other side of the window. White fur stood out in the dark of the night as it hissed Bucky and tried to claw at him, clearly seeing him as a threat. Sensing the feline’s uneasiness with his presence, he thought it better to leave before that little white monster woke you up. But not before he left a bunch of biscuit crumbs on the balcony tiles as a sign of peace for the little fanged beast.

Now, he wanted to go back through the front door and get face to face with that rage today- not something he had expected after last night’s scenic view of that perfect face.

Pausing movement of the ball, he picked it up in his metal hand, got himself up from the bed and slid towards the edge to put on his socks and boots only to pause and form an attack stance with his metal arm towards that svelte figure leaning by the door.

“Gonna hit me with the ball?” Natasha cocked a brow at Bucky.

Loosening his muscles at Natasha and went on to put his boots on. “Going somewhere, Grumperella?”

“Outside. Away. Somewhere I can grump in peace,” Bucky stated, getting up.

“Take this pretty lady too,” Tony announced as he walked by his room and tossed a pair of car keys at Bucky, “I don’t think you’ll improve those points by going to her place on a bike.”

Silence.

The flutter in Bucky’s heart drowned by Natasha’s words. “Don’t worry. Only Tony and I know. We’ll handle Steve. Just don’t let our image fall further,” she concluded, walking out with a smirk.

.

“Truffle, Fluffy, stop looking at the neighbour’s lunch and come eat your chicken thighs,” you announced from the kitchen. With a bandana on to keep your hair as far away from your skin, your skin itched for something colder than what the air conditioner was providing right now. This was the third time you had fiddled with your thermostat today. Damn this summer! That’s it, I’m moving out of this fucked up city. 

Fluffy’s taps came to a skidding halt at the doorway to slip towards his bowl while Truffle gracefully walked to his bowl and ate his share while keeping a paw between him and the corgi’s audible gobble and chomps, nearly pushing his face away. 

Sighing, you sat down on the seat by the kitchen table, looking at your two kids devour their lunch while you questioned the disappearance of your appetite. Maybe it’s the PMS. Is it the PMS? You looked at the calendar over your fridge. Still a week to go. Maybe it is him. That stupid fucker.

Your thoughts started forming around that magnificent frame of Bucky. There were not enough times you could say you had been left attracted to a bewildered face of a guy in awe of your skills. Men would mostly take that power inside you as a wrong stroke on their ego. But this one? This one just stood there looking at you as if the theme of Love Story 1970 was playing in those anime eyes while he watched in gasping admiration at something out of this world. That was the first time someone’s face had given you such warmth. Well, a stranger’s face. Don’t let my family hear it, you thought to yourself. Just then, Truffle looked up from his bowl to turn and stare at your for a solid minute before going back to his lunch.

The doorbell rang, getting you out of those dreamy thoughts- for barely a second- that were making you sweatier by the minute. Getting up and walking to the door, you kept wondering about that metal hand, those absolutely luscious lips, those surprised yet aroused eyes and oh Gods! Those shoulders. Those beautiful shoulders you wanted to bite into. Arrr!

You did not realise when you clicked the door open. But you did feel like eating your own words when that Love Story 1970 theme started playing in the background just as your eyes locked onto those beautiful oceans of blue; the abyss inside them widening just as you came into view.

Bucky forgot how to breathe. For a second you did too. You did not expect him to be standing here; not after the humiliation you put him through in front of his team/friends. And yet, here he was. At your door. Standing in front of you, the bad guy, moving his hair back with his hand, revealing the redness of those kissable cheeks that had been struggling to keep the blood inside the veins the whole elevator ride to your floor. The rubbing of his hand fingers against his palms while his legs shifted his weight on each other.

“Hi,” his husky, barely audible voice sent shivers down your spine straight to your core.

“Hi,” you responded with a softness you had not heard in ages. And the guitars strum in the background, the tune carrying all the unspoken feelings in the shape of melodies in the air around the two of you.

“Can we talk?”

Bucky was almost scared of having the door being slammed in his face. But when you moved aside to let him in, he felt live rush back into his bones. He had not felt this alive since Wakanda. With sure steps inside, he was not letting this feeling go away anytime soon.

The gush of that one magical wind inside you made you discreetly smile to yourself and you could not help but wonder if it was his last night’s visit to your place that brought him back or just his curiosity with this mission. Whatever it was, you challenged yourself to not let this one get away till you had explored every little inch of his being in person.

[caltropspress]

Notes on Pink Siifu’s NEGRO

You and anybody else who wants to get their random vicarious kicks off White Power can stay the fuck away from me. 

—Lester Bangs

Tell a nazi he can suck my dick. —Pink Siifu, from “SMD”

My first contact with white america was marked by her violence, for when a white doctor pulled me from between my mother’s legs and slapped my wet ass, I, as every other negro in america, reacted to this man-inflicted pain with a cry. A cry that america has never allowed to cease; a cry that gets louder and more intense with age….A cry? Or was it a scream? —H. Rap Brown (Jamil Abdullah Al-Amin), from Die Nigger Die!

it is the hour of conflict, antagonism, struggle the world turning autumn in warpaint everything silently prepares to scream —Amiri Baraka, from “Disorder”

1.  

White institutional power operates to negate or suppress. To that end, white institutional power bestows awards on singular figures when it’s convenient. Let’s call one such example Kendrick Lamar. Pulitzer Prizing DAMN. is white institutional power taking cover. This, in no way, defangs DAMN. But it does provide crowd control. Pink Siifu, meanwhile, won’t be awarded a Pulitzer for NEGRO. If he did, I’m confident he’d pull an Adrienne Rich, telling President Clinton to choke on his National Medal for the Arts, seeing as how the U.S. gov’t drives “the demonization of our young Black men.” Siifu would be PE boycotting the Grammys on the grounds of Black invisibility. Or John Lennon relinquishing his membership in the Most Excellent Order of the British Empire because, well, empire (see: Biafra).

2.

NEGRO is what happens when Three 6 Mafia goes full bandolier, full decolonization, full Thomas Sankara. When the emphasis is on the 666 sirening[1] across white cop foreheads, reflecting off Makrolon face shields. Siifu cites and channels Sun Ra, June Tyson, Death, and Bad Brains, but you also hear the mass hysteria of Abbey Lincoln’s vocal cords trembling, of Max Roach’s We Insist! in a street brawl showdown with the LRAD. Basically, it’s Ornette blowing sax in a riot, harmolodics like incendiary devices.

3.

“FK” is the primal scream reaction of hearing the news another one of your people has been killed, snuffed out. Suffer through our screams, it says to the listener. And “out of body, out of mind” distorts what we see with what we witness. It’s the re-played, re-tweeted, re-shared visuals of Black death.

4.

At moments, NEGRO sounds like Aaron Dilloway organizing a chapter of the White Panther Party.

5.

Siifu’s lyrics are a Stokely speech draft. His artistry is prismatic, shattered pane glass: crust punk, jazz cat, marching band drummer, hood ballerina, noisemaker, bareknuckle emcee. His lyrics should be run off on the mimeo and saddle-stitched into a chapbook for Totem Press to publish.

6.

“SMD” samples from Ivan Dixon's 1973 film The Spook Who Sat by the Door (“Do you hear me, man?...I am BLACK!”). Just like dead prez sampled the dialogue before Siifu on “We Want Freedom.” Siifu and dead prez are bedfellows, for sure, but Siifu's head rests on a pillow of static. It’s the friction that electrifies.

7.

NEGRO is the art of de-arresting in audio form. As the comrades at Mask Magazine have stated, de-arrests “are beautiful,” reminding us “the law and the state are not supernatural forces.”[2]

8.

I’ve always felt uncomfortable using the word freedom. It’s a word that’s been co-opted and gutted to the point of parody. I subscribe only to a different form of freedom, one articulated in noise. Suicidal Tendencies’ “Freedumb” cuts it: “Peace through politics is a fallacy—that doesn’t exist.” Liberation more seriously expresses the extinction agenda. Poor Righteous Teachers taught the curriculum out of Trenton, on “Freedom of Death”: “Consciousness—it’s a must / Just avoid the wicked, wicked ways of this pale Caucasoid.”

Regardless, we see freedom, liberation, knife through even with Siifu’s orthography. Revolutionary thought requires revolutionary language. Ask the Combahee River Collective. Come correct. Fuck autocorrect. Remember womyn. Siifu spellings like: nxggas, eye, tyme, iono, and the evergreen ameriKKKa. The abbreviated words—eliding letters wherever possible—don’t reflect self-censorship so much as the mindmaze of a harried man. Deliberate typos demonstrate no faith in the system. It’s like if Bon Iver (see: “22 (OVER S∞∞N)”) decided to forgo BLM symbolic gestures (Mahalia Jackson) and straight-up encouraged looting. Siifu is CAPS LOCK happy, too. We’re witnessing the joy of militancy.

9.

To begin with, it must be said that former African slaves and their ancestors have been the avant-garde of everything in this country. There’s no culture in America, in this American wasteland, without us. There’s no classical music; there’s jazz, and that was invented by us. And besides that, America has nothing to offer the world and it never has. —Idris Robinson, from “How It Might Should Be Done”

Siifu in the audience of the Congress of Afrikan Peoples, and Baraka imploring him like, “Get up, Pink Siifu.” It’s nation time. But on “Nation Tyme.,” Siifu groans, I’m tired…can’t fall…asleep. Black rage, of course—but what of Black insomnia? The French revolutionaries abolished the calendar. CPT, so, is rightly weaponized. “I feel fettered by Western time,” Gregory Pardlo writes in “Colored People’s Time.” Punch clocks need punching, smashing. I saw Baraka roll up to a conference panel late as fuck once, cane-walking right down the center aisle, shameless, commandingly.

In a somnolent slur, Siifu says, “They treat me like I’m wasting away / I know I’m worth more than they pay.” What of these capitalist definitions of work? What of productivity? What does it mean to monetize every waking moment? He’s been quoted as saying, “I ain’t have to work for no white man.”[3] “Nation Tyme.” picks up there.

10.  Feel like deadmeat. They say I’m deadmeat.

“DEADMEAT” is a pig siren stuffed into an industrial-grade slaughterhouse grinder. It sounds the way Alan Vega's sculptures look—hazardous masses of electronic junk, like wires raveled inside a homemade bomb, like buzzing viscera. 

I want to see Siifu perform it at the Meat Locker, a cellar club in the underguts of Montclair, New Jersey (s/o the dramacydal Outlawz). The place is dingy and bedecked with feces—a venue befitting a GG Allin opener. GG Allin, a racist, who also hated cops. Who, on “Shove That Warrant Up Your Ass,” a track that appeared on the posthumous Brutality & Bloodshed For All album, sang, “You say I broke the laws in your state… / Your courts and cops should all be hung.” Allin hoists a headless, legless, armless torso on his hip in the cover photograph—a slab of meat. Like the Beatles with baby doll parts and prime cuts in their laps, bloodless butcher coats on the original Yesterday and Today (1966) artwork. Like the papal kill floor in Francis Bacon’s “Figure with Meat” (1954) with its tapestry of offal. But what you don’t get from Bacon, or the Beatles, or GG Allin is what Siifu needs us to hear. What Siifu tells us is the reality of corporeality is that cops continue to make carcasses of Black people.

11.

That cellar club can be scream therapy, can be cell therapy. Siifu brings us there—to the darkest, dampest corner of the Dungeon Family’s dungeon. Big Gipp, speaking self-defensively: “Try to separate me from the blood / Is disrespect like you coming in my home and not wiping your feet on the rug.” It’s echoed in Siifu addressing the question of his audience: “This [album] is for black people, but I know white people are going to fuck with it. I’m mad cool with that. I just want everyone to know, before they come through the door, that this is a black house and you have to respect my people.”[4] The theme of respect as it relates to a sense of home, to cultural tourism, is paramount in both. Everyone’s got to know their place. No listener should approach ignorant of the auction block. Siifu’s noise refuses the separation of kinsfolk and his stubbornness makes the dungeon shake—he is rightfully “tough, dark, vulnerable, moody,” and, on NEGRO, he has a “definite tendency to sound truculent.”[5]

12.  

“ON FIRE, PRAY!” eventually grinds the brakes to a cavernous slowjam pace. “Blood on my body / Blood on my face.”

13.

The racist dog policemen must withdraw immediately from our communities, cease their wanton murder and brutality and torture of black people, or face the wrath of the armed people. —caption on Huey Newton photograph

NEGRO’s album cover, painted by Junkyard, is a call-and-response. Pink Siifu is a portrait of exhaustion, slouched, shirtless like Huey was when he was released from the Alameda County courthouse in 1970. It’s a tableau like Huey in that rattan peacock chair was. Eldridge Cleaver orchestrated it, right down to the zebra rug.

If you squint, the glimmer of Siifu’s gold fronts looks like his jaw is wired shut. Of course, violent threats are routinely directed at Black people—that's how the system operates. Media is often behind the scope. Relentless orders to “shut up,” to silence yourself, police yourself. We know this from David Wojnarowicz, photographed with his lips sewn shut, blood dripping like shadows, in “(Silence = Death)” from 1989. The violent threats on queer life are kin to those on Black life. But Siifu, like Wojnarowicz, refuses the censorship. After all, those aren't wires—they're the glint of his grill. Siifu is dribbling blood, too, and those black splatters across the flag are like pen bursts—ink poisoning for all. If you squint, the mind’s eye might see the Pan-African flag.

The flag above his head recalls Jasper Johns’ flags: elliptical, non-patriotic, made slop-bucket sloppy from newspaper shreddings and other detritus, i.e. amerikkka is a trash heap. At least the stars are black in the “Flag (Moratorium)” rendition. Bullet hole dead center, too.

If all goes well, the riots going on—bless them—will go on interminably. Sly Stone’s customized flag with black in place of blue[6] and sharp solar-flared suns in place of Betsy Ross geometric stars is yet another parallel to Siifu’s flag. Like Sly, Siifu isn’t opposed to police ambushes. They both know you’ve got to grin at the gun of the devil. (“Don’t you mind people grinnin’ in your face,” Son House sings eternally.) Citizen takes on cop on “Thank You For Talkin’ To Me, Africa”: Bullets start chasin’, / I begin to stop. / We begin to tussle. / I was on the top. Just the same as Siifu on “SMD”: “Iono why eye ain’t shot ya.” Or on “run pig run.”: “Kill a cop / Left a pig dead.”

14.

We can't disparage any aggressive protest on the reductive grounds it's aggro or violent. I think of Pam Echols in Milwaukee in 1968. Siifu’s assertion of you are my enemy on “steal from the ENEMY” corresponds with Paris’s sophomore and shadowy album, Sleeping with the Enemy. Like on the corrode-ode “Coffee, Donuts, and Death”:

You get poached when you fuck with black folk. Said it ’til my voice was hoarse. I ain’t down with excessive force, But of course I wasn’t heard so I’m silent now. Black folk can’t be non-violent now. […] The only motherfucking pig that I eat is police.

Which is to say, try no pork, ameriKKKa.

15.  RE: punk

Think of Bad Brains playing CBGB’s in 1982. Lester Bangs writes of a woman in the scene who referred to Black people as “all these boons.” He tells us a Black friend of his believes the clubgoers “[strive] to be offensive however they can.” Anti-Blackness plagued CBGB’s and nascent punk like vermin, a pestilence. A white woman in the music business claims she “liked [Black people] so much better when they were just Negroes.” These anecdotes are culled from Bangs’ 1979 Village Voice piece entitled “The White Noise Supremacists.” He notes Ron Asheton’s predilection for “swastikas, Iron Crosses, and jackboots.” He cites Ivan Julian, guitarist for Richard Hell and the Voidoids—one of the few Black individuals to grace those inchoate punk stages—as saying “whenever he hears the word ‘n-----’…he wants to kill.” He calls Nico a “dumb kraut cunt” for her brazen, Third Reich-ish brand of racism, which was no industry secret. Bangs even implicates himself, quoting an earlier article: “…it’s the n-----s who control and direct everything just as it always has been and properly should be.” He meant this, somehow, as a compliment.

16.

On “we need mo color. Abundance,” there’s no innocence left in asking “tell me your favorite color.” Siifu answers rhetorically, parenthetically, melanin. Don't settle for forty acres of color—demand abundance. Take, loot in abundance. And don't be contained by the gendered parameters of “pink or blue.” “You can have any color you like” suggests the limitless possibilities if you move your mind beyond the imposed parameters.

The “favorite color” invoked on “we need mo color. Abundance” becomes abundantly clear on the following track, “BLACK!”

17.

“ameriKKKa, try no pork” starts in a slurry of radio static, news reports of Black death. Black, Black, Black, Black. Sped up. Slowed down. Drag the progress bar. “Progress,” ha.

18.

“run pig run.” See the pig / Run away / Run, pig, run. Like a Dick and Jane basal reader. Like picking your favorite color. Like a Three Little Pigs fable. Like huffing and puffing. These are childhood exploits for childhoods that aren’t allowed to be. As long as the Kenneth and Mamie Clark doll experiments keep providing the proof, there can be no childhood innocence. So it's a carnival game in the meantime: See a pig / Shoot a pig. Huffing and puffing: Run, pig, run.

19.

"myheartHURT" is the safehouse after the shooting. It's the cooldown, the chillout. The hypnagogic nightmare. It's vaporwave minus whiteness. We all know Biz had the vapors before Daniel Lopatin. As if DJ Screw was just an apparition, a codeine cloud. The fact remains, Screw's phantasmagoria hovers above all our heads.

20.

The wail of distorted police sirens introduces “Chris Dorner.,” a track gleefully indebted to Ice-T and Body Count’s “Cop Killer.” Repetition was a popular device and it still is: die, pig, die. Chris Dorner has achieved folk-hero status in anarchist circles and beyond since he waged asymmetrical warfare on the LAPD. His manifesto has been published as a zine.[7] “No one grows up and wants to be a cop killer,” he wrote. Begs the question.

21.

“faceless wings,BLACK!” nods to Frank Castle[8], a figure who may or may not be recoverable from militias and thin blue liners, despite Gerry Conway’s best efforts.

22.

White institutional power operates to negate or suppress. Pink Siifu, through NEGRO, refuses suppression and negation. Siifu delivers a hole in the head, and it’s sublime.

Footnotes:

1  “The Law comes sirening across the town.” Gwendolyn Brooks, “THE THIRD SERMON OF THE WARPLAND” from RIOT

2  “De-Arrests are Beautiful.” Mask Magazine.

3  “The Necessity of Pink Siifu’s Rage.” Marcus J. Moore. The Fader.

4  “Pink Siifu’s ‘NEGRO’ is a Riotous Mix of Jazz, Rap and Punk.” Max Bell. Bandcamp Daily.

5  Baldwin, the god.

6  “What did I do to be so black and blue?” (see: Armstrong); light a reefer and listen to the phonograph (see: Ellison)

7  Research and Destroy New York City. https://researchdestroy.com/

8  https://archive.org/details/PunisherPigs

Images:

Emory Douglas work (detail), courtesy of Sean Stewart archives | Makrolon face shield, Google Image Search result | Amiri Baraka performing at the Congress of Afrikan Peoples (screenshot) | Alan Vega light sculpture (photograph) | GG Allin Brutality & Bloodshed for All album cover | The Beatles Yesterday & Today album cover | Francis Bacon, “Figure with Meat” (detail) | Goodie Mob “Cell Therapy” (screenshot) | Splitting up a family at auction, Public Domain | Huey Newton Black Panthers Minister of Defense, photographed by Blair Stapp, 1968 | Andreas Sterzing, David Wojnarowicz (Silence = Death), 1989 | Sly and the Family Stone There’s A Riot Goin’ On album cover | Jasper Johns, “Flag (Moratorium)” | Pam Echols punching cop, 1968 (photographer unknown) | Sid Vicious, nazi (photographer unknown) | Emory Douglas work (detail), courtesy of Sean Stewart archives | Biz Markie Goin’ Off album cover | Oneohtrix Point Never Memory Vague album cover 

[70swonderpoisonstark]

Wait, you survived? ( V )

// You and Steve survive the plane wreck and end up seventy years in the future. Everything’s different and the only person that understands the confusion and pain of losing your entire world is your now dead husband’s best friend. When the two of you are forced to adapt to the world around you, things can get complicated. //

 “If you love someone, tell them.

                         For hearts are often broken 

   by words left unspoken.”

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Buildings were falling, crashing onto the streets. Aliens flying everywhere. You and Steve were helping civilians get inside or underground. Trying your hardest to keep everyone safe while also fighting for your lives. Your shots were dead on, head shots killed aliens just as effectively as they killed Nazi's. You went down the streets, rushing people away from the action while aiding the team with killing down the numbers. You'd lost Steve at this point, you'd been running up and down the streets, listening for the sound of Tony's blasters as you vigilantly fought the hoard of creatures that had been released through a giant portal in the sky. You were in the main part of the city, at the center of the action, punching, kicking, flipping through the air as you avoided being dusted by the alien weapons.

Steve watched helplessly as you were cornered time and time again by the horde that was unleashed on the city. He tried to fight his way over to you, but they kept coming, pulling him away from you. There were too many, they'd never make it out of this alive if they kept coming at this rate. Giant centipede-from-hell creatures filling the skies with fury, destroying everything in their path, releasing more aliens onto the ground. It was hopeless, but you kept on fighting, with the rest of them.

Energy blasts were coming from every direction, time itself seem to slow as you dodged blast after blast, shot after shot. Pure adrenaline forcing every move you made. Instinct driving you to fight, kill, survive. A crash a couples miles away lead you towards the rest of the group. You circled up, watching as more of them came out of the giant blue hole.

Steve ran off, helping the local police align their plan with his own. Saving the people was what mattered right now and he had to focus.

You fought alongside Natasha and Clint, dropping alien bodies as quickly as they came. Thor made an electrifying entrance, and Steve finally made his way over to you. He looked you up and down, checking for any obvious injuries and silently panicking about you being non-enhanced and not an assassin. He couldn't stop the fight to physically check you over, but by God that would be the first thing he did when this was all over.

Dr. Banner had finally showed, driving on a beaten down motorcycle. His look of shame had been replaced with strength. He seemed ready to do what needed to be done, and make up for his past mistakes in New York. He was ready to be the hero he had always been.

"That's my secret Cap, I'm always angry." A devastating blow demolished the skull of whatever armored alien whale, causing it to fall literally head over heels onto you guys. Steve covered you and Natasha as it came crumbling down. Igniting a fury in what was left of the aliens as they screamed their battle cries at the top of their lungs. Steve took the lead, shouting out a plan as the group fanned out. You, Steve, and Natasha stayed on the ground, taking out as many aliens as you could, bouncing creatures between the three of you as you tired out, working in unison as you ripped throats out. Natasha bounced, clasping onto one of the hover machines being flown by the aliens, flying off to God knows where. You and Steve stayed behind, throwing each other looks as you fought side by side, fighting memories as you kicked ass. They'd redone both of your original suits, his was more vibrantly star spangled and yours a much more abstract collection of dark navy, maroon and gray. It was hard not to imagine the two of you doing the same thing all across Europe before the fall as your moves synchronized together. Every crippling blow, every strike of the feet and hands, it was impossible not to see the symmetry you possessed on the battlefield; mirroring each others move without even a glance.

Steve focused on his fight, shield, punch, hit, uppercut, roundhouse. Fighting his way through squadron after squadron of evil. How was he reminiscing and battling at the same time? Aliens mirroring HYDRA goons time after time, the howling commandos behind and around him, you and Bucky on either side, taking down foe's with ease. His heart ached for the old days when the whole team was together, he'd have something smart to say to Dum Dum, only to be reminded that you were all he had left. He had to adjust to the times and realize he was fighting aliens, not Nazi's.

"Captain, the bank on 42nd past madison. They've cornered a lot of civilians in there." Clint radioed. He looked at you, torn between leaving for another fight or staying here with you.

You grabbed two aliens by the back of the head, breaking their necks in one swift pull forward as you looked at Steve. "Go! They need you, I can handle myself."

After a brief hesitation, he left to defend the civilians, all the worry for you pushed to the back of his mind as he found another clan of invaders. Silencing a bomb as he resourcefully kicked tables and mantles to take the aliens off their feet. Taking the full force knocked him out the window, and shortly he found his way back to another fight.

You looked up just as Tony had flown into the belly of the beast, shortly blowing himself up and flying out into the street.

"Try not to die, Tony. I haven't had a chance to clown your tech yet." You shouted as you continued to fight. He'd smashed into a few signs, slightly injuring himself but accomplishing the task at hand.

"I can shut the portal down." Natasha yelled throughout the comms.Finally, victory was in sight.

"Do it!"

"No, wait." Tony exclaimed, his voice strained from all the damage he'd taken.

"Stark these things are still coming!"

"I've got a nuke coming in and it's gonna blow in less than a minute." Was the last thing you heard before you saw a hundred pound nuke being flown into the sky by none other than Tony Stark. He barely missed his own building, and you heard the cheers of the city as the nuke passed through the wormhole. You and the team knew it was a one way trip, but they didn't. They hugged their coworkers and their families as you watched Tony sacrifice himself for the world. You couldn't move as you watched the portal collapse with Tony inside, as the opening narrowed slowly, Tony's armor nowhere in sight. You wanted to cry, but forced yourself to have hope that somehow he'd show up. The aliens around you powered down one by-

You inhaled sharply, knowing the intense feeling too well, one of the Chitauri had managed to stay up long enough to sneak attack you, driving a blade clean through your abdomen, the blade sticking out the back, you tried to radio for help, but just as the alien soldier fell, so did you.

Steve and the team moved to corner Loki in the tower, you weren't responding, but your coms may have been damaged in battle so there wasn't anything to worrisome about that. Thor handcuffed him with asgardian cuffs, and shortly after muzzled him. The team was given assignments and handed equipment off to other agents as they slowly cleared out the room. Thor kept Loki guarded, with the magic that was entwined in his cuffs he wasn't going anywhere, but nobody was willing to take their eyes off him regardless. Steve went to coordinate search and rescue making his way down the stairs, starting with the Stark tower to look for any survivors. He wandered around the city in a two block radius from the tower, knowing eventually you'd make your way there even with busted comms. After his check he asked the team if anybody had seen you, told them to scan around and see if they could see you walking around lost. Nobody had seen you since Tony fell the first time. A gut feeling told Steve something was wrong, and he frantically searched the surrounding area, praying you were only mildly injured, even though the voice in his head was telling him otherwise. Clint was the first to speak, and his words froze Steve in his tracks.

"Cap. I found her, but you're not gonna like it." And just like that Steve's heart stopped, his blood chilled as he listened, no details nothing as he sprinted to the nearest window. Clint gave him your location and Steve found you immediately.

"Tony. (Y/N)'s down. I need medics on 40th past the deli." Tony didn't bother radioing back as he quickly armored up and flew to where you were, he collapsed next to you, taking his helmet off as he felt the sting of each of his own injuries. He checked your neck for a pulse, hearing the sirens and knowing Steve was on his way, you had to be alive. He held his two fingers on your neck, praying to feel something, anything bounding around. He was dizzy himself from his fall, so keeping focus on something as simple as seeing if you had a pulse was hard when he could feel his own beating his skull. Tony used all his strength to to focus on you, pressing deep down onto your carotid. His head dropped, nothing. With the puddle of blood around you it didn't shock him, but he knew it would unravel Steve. He'd lost hope knowing the reality of the situation was heartbreaking, and then he felt it. Nothing strong, but he felt a slight pressure against his fingertips. You were holding on, barely, he heard the sirens getting closer but they needed to get there soon.

Steve's knees hitched as he saw you, blade impaling your side. You're unconscious body laying on its unaffected side, the sword holding you up unevenly.

"Is, Tony is she.." Steve couldn't breathe, the sight in front of him made him dizzy, he ran five feet and threw up, staring at your pale body he doubled over, hands on his knees. He couldn't force himself to believe the sight that was so real in front on his eyes. He dropped to his knees, grabbing your hand as he watched your chest with scrutiny. You were struggling, but he could see your breathing, it was definitely not as much as it should have been, and your chest shook with every half breath you took, but it was something, right?

"Tony, tony, she, she's not, she's gonna be." He pushed your hair out of your face, you'd taken a beating and a half and still you were the most beautiful woman in the world. He held back the tears he so desperately wanted to cry.

"Steve, it doesn't look good, but let me handle this, I promise I'll do my best." Steve couldn't let go, you were all he had, you were everything, and now you were dying in his arms. He was helpless yet again, watching another person he loved die before him.

Cheeks stained with silent tears, you used what was left of your strength to squeeze Steve's hand, he knew you loved him, he was your best friend, but you couldn't leave him, not like this. Stark pulled you from him and disappeared into the sky. Blasters the last thing Steve saw before he broke. Sight going black, the last thing he see's is Natasha running his way.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

//There goes Tony being the most selfless person on the planet like ALWAYS(Tony Anti’s will be blocked SNS) You’re kind of a badass huh? Who knew, oh wait, YOU DID BECAUSE YOU’RE FUCKING AMAZING AND I LOVE YOU SO NEVER DOUBT YOUR SELF WORTH BECAUSE YOU ARE ALWAYS IMPORTANT, ALWAYS LOVED, AND ALWAYS HAVE A PURPOSE AND A REASON TO BE HERE AND ALIVE NO MATTER WHAT. FIGHT LIKE HELL, BECAUSE AFTER YOU SURFACE AGAIN NOTHING AND NOBODY CAN FUCK WITH YOU. BE PROUD OF YOUR SMALL VICTORIES AND NEVER DOWNPLAY YOUR EMOTIONS. YOU. ARE. VALUABLE. AND NOT BECAUSE OF WHAT YOU CAN DO, JUST BECAUSE YOU’RE HERE, ALIVE, AND BREATHING IN AIR. YOU MATTER, ALWAYS, AND FOREVER. Sorry for the all caps rant but my own personal anxiety/depression has been kicking my ass so I know there’s others who may need to hear that. If anybody reading this needs to talk to somebody, or just vent to an unbiased person I am MORE than willing to be your sounding board. No issue is too big or small. Message me, please. I know what it’s like to have all these feelings and emotions and not have nobody to tell them too because they wouldn’t understand or you don’t wanna be a bother or it’ll go away eventually. SO TALK TO ME, if I can’t help you’ll at least be able to get it out.//

//You guys are going to love this! This is such a fun story for me to write, and all the positive feedback is really helping, so thank you all for your likes and reblogs, every one of them brings a smile to my face and makes my day. Let me know what you guys think, what you’d like to see, what you don’t wanna see, and some crazy vocab words and I’ll write accordingly, thanks for the read, and HAPPY SPOOKY SEASON!!//

[pheuthe]

If you are still doing the prompts thing. "Are you drunk?" Atomwave with a drunk!Ray and confused!Mick

((Sorry it took forever :D and this kinda got away from me... it’s post-Xover and doesn’t really end on a hopeful note. Also the atomwave is more of the companionable variety :) I can write a funny/cute one for you if you end up hating it :’D))

Mick doesn’teven look at the damned doppelganger. The trip back to the Waverider is awkwardat best, and Mick’s aware of the other man shooting him quizzical looks. He’s Snart,no doubt about it, with his stupid knowing eyes and tiny little smirks, payingattention to the shit Mick wants to hide. At the same time, something’s missing,like a beer bottle without a label on it to tell you what’s inside.It’s still beer, probably, but there’s no telling if you’re getting the goodshit or just watered-down piss.

And Mickdoesn’t feel much like gambling tonight, so he takes off as soon as they get tothe time ship and beelines for the kitchen. He needs a drink, a real one,labels and all, and he doesn’t stop until he’s halfway through the firstbottle. That’s probably why he doesn’t immeidately notice he’s nota lone – or itcould be because Haircut’s kinda hunched in on himself in that corner, forearmson the table and head hanging down like they haven’t just defeated fuckingNazis.

Mick gruntsand pulls out a chair, slamming his bottle down with a little more force thannecessary.

“What got your panties in a twist?“ he snaps,and then regrets it a little bit when Haircut glances up and he looks...hurt. Because Haircut hasn’t grown up in the same world as Mick has, and hedoesn’t know that Mick isn’t being an asshole, he just doesn’t have any otherway of doing this ‘feelings’ crap. You gotta have some rough to balance out thesoft, that’s what Mick learned, and sometimes it drives him nuts to see Raymondletting all the sappy, soft emotions justhang out for the world to see.  

Like whenhis mouth twists into a sad smile – there’s something so openly vulnerableabout him that Mick’s gut twists into a tight knot. Anyone could use that againstRaymond, anyone, and what does itmean that Raymond’s not afraid of Mick being the one to do it? Mick doesn’twant to think about it, so he grasps for anything else to say: he’s not one tofill silences with unnecessary words, but somehow, this quiet, pensive Raymondis way too wrong.

And then, Haircutcurls his fingers around his glass and brings it to his lips, and the sharpscent of alcohol carries all the way to Mick.

“Are you drunk?”he asks, the glassy sheen of Raymond’s eyes suddenly making a lot more sense.

“Not yet,” Haircutmumbles, “but I’m trying to be.”

Mick doesn’tlike the sound of that. “Why?”

“Becauseyou seem to be doing that a lot… so it must be helping, right?”

That’s howMick knows Haircut’s boozed up to the gills: who in their right mind would makeMick an example of healthy coping?! Even heknows that he’s been drinking a lot. It’s not a problem, he could stop if hewanted to, it’s just that he doesn’t have a reason to want to be sober.

Maybe Haircutdoesn’t have one, either.

“What’re wedrinking about?” Mick shrugs. He always hates talking about the thingsbothering him, mostly because he doesn’t know how to voice them, and partlybecause he’s afraid that letting them out would just bring the nightmares back.But Haircut’s different, Haircut always has words for every little stupid thingthat crosses his mind, dozens, hundreds of words just flooding his mind, so heprobably knows what the fuck it is that’s driving him to the bottom of abottle.

It takes alittle while for Raymond to breathe in deeply enough to let out what’stroubling him.

“A friendgot married today,” he says. Mick nods – he was there, and he doesn’t think nowis the time to point out that the speedster didn’t, in fact, marry hisgirlfriend because Nazis invaded. He doesn’t think the technicalities areimportant here: when Haircut continues, it turns out Mick was wrong anyway. “Iused to be in love with her. And it kind of reminded me of Kendra, and how it didn’twork out with her, and how every woman I ever cared about left. Or died: but withmy track record, who’s to say Anna wouldn’t have left in the end too?”

Hechuckles, but it’s sad and broken, and he finishes his drink in one long gulpthat leaves him coughing into his hand. When he looks at Mick again, there aretears in his eyes, and Mick doesn’t believe it’s just because of booze goingdown the wrong pipe.

“Go on,” Haircutshakes his head, mouth twisting in something like a smile, “tell me. I know I’moverreacting, and it’s stupid and I shouldn’t be doing this-“

“Nah,” Mickinterrupts, gulping down the rest of his beer, “sometimes you just gotta let ithurt.”

Raymondlooks at him then like he wants to ask about all the times Mick has taken thatadvice, and one of them is definitely not drunk enough for that conversation.

So Mickgets up (ignoring the resignation in Raymond’s eyes is harder than he would’vethought) and punches his order into the fabricator: because this right here,this needs something stronger. He sits down a minute later, setting the bottleof Jack in front of Haircut, and huffs when he’s met with a small, gratefulsmile.

“You don’thave to keep an eye on me, you know,” Haircut says quietly, like he’s ashamedof taking up too much space and time. It’s a feeling Mick knows too fuckingwell, and he’s not about to let Raymond wallow in it all by himself.

Mick poursthem both a healthy four fingers’ measure and pushes a glass towards the otherman. “Sure I do. You need to get shitfaced, I’m here to make sure you do itwell.”

Mick canpractically hear the lecture about alcohol not being an answer, but Raymondmust be more drunk than Mick gave him credit for, because he doesn’t sayanything except a quiet ‘cheers’ as he downs a good half of his glass at once.Mick whistles appreciatively, and wonders how much booze they’ll need, if not toget answers, then to tune out the questions for a while.

[ma-at-thought]

Story-Time With Ma’at

White Supremacists and Nazi Bingo

I actually had to sit here for a minute and stare at this title. I’ve written about a lot of things on Tumblr, but even just a few months ago, I wouldn’t have thought I’d be writing a current events piece on fucking Nazis. Given the content, this will be a long time-traveling story-time.

Let us go back in time, to my innocent years fresh out of high school.

There I sit, at the computer. It’s not my computer of course, but it’s the first home computer I ever had access to. Ah, how I remember those buzzes and pwings that heralded incoming internet connection. I scroll through the chat rooms that have been created that day on Prodigy, and I stumble across one for white supremacists. Curious creature that I am, I go in.

It was really boring. I can’t honestly remember what was being discussed in there. It certainly wasn’t anything relating to white supremacy. It was just people who happened to be white supremacists chatting about whatever was happening on the news, or talking about a TV show, or sharing stories about their lives. I was very baffled; by the chat name, I should have been bathed in vitriol about the more colorful people in the country. But nope, just people talking like ordinary people.

I finally get curious enough to send a private message to one of them. I pick the most articulate one, and open the conversation stating that I am not a white supremacists, but want to understand what was going on with such a thing. I even tell him that I’m half Hispanic, a lie to see if he changes how he speaks with me.

Spoilers: It didn’t change how he spoke to me. I ask him how my mixed race would influence his behavior, and he tells me that he wouldn’t marry or have a child with me. That’s it. I ask him about concepts like ethnic cleansing and he is disdainful of the very idea. All he cares about in relation to other races is that his bloodline be “pure”, and there is no reason to do any harm to anyone over it. It was his choice to not marry or have a child with someone non-white, you see, but he has no problems working with or interacting with any people of color. I find that to be very weird (and a potential start for a modern Romeo / Juliette story,) but not harmful or violent like historical Nazis or the KKK is. I thank him for his time, he wishes me well, and that was it.

Let us go further back, to my 8th grade year.

Schindler’s List is released. My 8th grade class has a field trip to go and see the movie for educational reasons, and we’d spend the next two days in history and religion (Catholic school) classes discussing it.

That movie is awesome. In the sense that it fills you with awe. Do you know how hard it is to keep a bus full of 8th graders quiet? Well, on the trip back to school, it is easy as pie, because literally nobody says a word. Complete silence. And if you’ve seen the movie, you understand why. If you haven’t seen the movie, I strongly recommend it. It isn’t something people want to see, but it is something people need to see.

And we’re solemnly lined up, still shrouded in quiet, to file into our class room when it came time for the 6th and 7th grade classes to switch rooms. They knew we’d been going to see the movie, and some want to ask us questions. Most of them are hushed, like we were, wanting to know what happened, wanting to be told about this masterpiece of sorrow. But one boy comes up to me, grinning like an idiot. He flat-out asks me “How many boobies did you see?!”

I don’t even think. I punch that kid in the face hard enough to send him staggering backwards. I didn’t even know why I did that, and when the principal asks me, I just repeat what he’d said. And when I tell her what prompted the punch, she looks appalled. An act that would normally come with a three day suspension was instead recorded with a single note of the act, because most of the education staff was utterly horrified that anybody would even think such a thing. 

About a week later, we are all gathered in the auditorium for announcements. Parents are invited to this meeting as well. As it turns out, there is a planned KKK march coming up, and the school staff wants to discuss options for us. Our school is on the route, and while we don’t have many kids of color, everyone is still very concerned about this, and what our few non-white students would experience if the KKK happened to come by during recess. 

In the end, it is decided that the safest thing to do is to close the school that day. The teachers ask our parents to not show up to this “parade” either; they feel that the best way to show these hooded assholes they aren’t accepted was to have them marching down completely empty streets with no one to yell at. Most of the public schools take our lead and cancel school that day too. Some people joke (in that somewhat non-humorous, mildly disturbed way) that school is cancelled on account of ‘heavy snow’.

We spend our day at home researching the KKK and the Nazis, so we will all have class discussions on the matter the next day. And as far as I know, those paraders really did march to nearly-empty streets.

And one last trip further back in time. I am right around seven years old.

Her name is Ruth. She and her husband are friends of my grandparents, and came over to our house (my grandparents raised me) to play Bridge every couple of weeks. I’ve known her for most of my life, and years before had been given an explanation for why her arm was crippled. I understood what Polio was. She’d been very sick when she was young, and was lucky she didn’t die because of it. 

So here all these old folks were, waiting for the fourth couple to show up so they could play a card game I do not understand to this day. I'm sitting on the couch with Ruth; I'm not allowed to hang out in the room once the game started, but my grandparents are just fine with me socializing before it begins.

I don’t know.. maybe I just never saw Ruth wearing short sleeves before. She usually wore long-sleeved blouses and sweaters, but today she’s wearing a short-sleeved white shirt beneath her jacket, and she’s taken the jacket off. We’re chatting, because she’s a very cool adult who is all about socializing with kids, and then I see her tattoo. I’m shocked, because tattoos were strange, and mostly on younger folks. I reach out and touch the blue numbers on her inner forearm and ask why she got them.

The whole room goes silent, which is enough to make me shy away; I thought I’d done something wrong. All eyes are on this couch. But apparently, Ruth is prepared for this question. And so that day, I learned about Nazi concentration camps, and how Jews were rounded up and labeled with a numbered tattoo. I learned how she got Polio in the first place. The Bridge game was put off for about an hour, as these adults talked to me about this dark time in history, let me ask questions, and tried to help me understand these events well beyond what history classes taught seven year old kids.

And now, we come back to the present.

In this particular present, Nazis are still relevant. Two days ago, I discovered that a few people I was friends with on Facebook had Nazi inclinations. At first, I thought they were posting pro-Nazi political cartoons to mock them, but as it turned out, I was wrong. I kept trying to discuss the matter with them, mostly because I was desperately hoping that I was incorrect in starting to think they were Nazis, but it wound up being like a game of Nazi Bingo. 

They call the Nazi symbol the NSDAP flag. They believe that banning immigrants is the first step to making America better, and don’t think it should stop there because people of color are making trouble. They treat the Nazi Party as though it was a worthwhile and acceptable political platform. They talk about how no violence or imprisonment or lists would be necessary if there wasn’t so much active resistance to their ideals. They’re white. BINGO!

In truth, though, I do see a problem with what’s going on today, from “the good guys”, and that’s the over-liberal usage of the term “Nazi”. Not all white people are Nazis. Not all Republicans are Nazis. Not all who voted for the Mad Mango are Nazis. Not even all white supremacists are Nazis (though all Nazis are white supremacists. It’s sort of a prerequisite.)

Political parties do not equate to Nazis. (Unless it’s the Nazi party, which I half expect to show up on ballots in some places.) I know quite a few Republicans who are horrified by what’s going on. Even ultra-conservatives are outright comparing Bannon to Nazis. You don’t get much more right-wing than Glenn Beck, for example, and he’s declared Bannon to be similar to the Nazi propagandist Goebbels. My grandparents were Republican and if they were alive today they’d be absolutely livid about our current government. 

As for the Outrageous Orange, many people did vote for him because they liked some of what he had to say, and were certain that there was no way he could enforce the rest. You can recognize those guys now; they’re wide-eyed and shaken, regretting their vote. And believe me, I understand the “I told you so” urge. But let’s not label them as Nazis. They’re horrified, and they Do Not Want what is happening; many want to try and stop it. They don’t want four years of this.They don’t even want four months of this. They could help ensure that we don’t have to deal with that, but if we keep calling them Nazis, it’s going to drive them away. They didn’t understand before the vote, but they absolutely understand now.

I support punching Nazis. I’d like to do it myself, but there aren’t any in my immediate vicinity. There have been some political comments going around about how anybody can be labeled as a Nazi to excuse violent behaviors toward them. Those comments are correct; I’ve been seeing little hints of that here and there, and we can’t let that keep happening. Anybody who supports ethnic cleansing, be it through deportation, denials to immigrants, or violence, qualifies for Nazi-hood, and therefore punching. Anybody *coughBannoncough* who insists on being prepared for a religious war and tries to ‘rally the Christian soldiers’ against Islam (or really, any religion or skin color) qualifies for Nazi-hood, and therefore punching. But just being Republican, or voting for the Crazy Carrot, aren’t enough to qualify as punchable Nazis. 

Violence isn’t the answer, not when it’s applied in a blanket manner over whole groups because of the actions of some members. Call your Senators; you can look them up here. Call your House Representatives; you can look them up here. All of us should have learned from history, but it is rapidly becoming apparent that our Cheeto-In-Chief and his Cabinet of Horrors are ignoring history entirely. Tell the government officials that represent you in House and Senate that this is wrong, and ask them what they plan on doing about it.

[musingsfromindia-blog]

Remembering Gandhi When The World Feels Bleak.

"You must not lose faith in humanity. Humanity is an ocean; if a few drops of the ocean are dirty, the ocean does not become dirty." - Mohandas K. Gandhi

 Today is the anniversary of Mahatma Gandhi's death.*

Last year on this day, I walked into the morning assembly at Happy Hours School in Jodhpur, India, and everyone was silent. From the oldest seniors to the littlest preschoolers--palms pressed, chins tucked, and faces squished inwards in concentration--they stood in silence and honored the great, peaceful leader for a full minute.  It is one I will never forget.

Livia taught at the Akiyam school in Auroville this morning and told us afterwards what the principal had said to the children: "Today is the day that Mahatma Gandhi was assassinated. But remember that it was us who killed him. Laying blame on someone else is wrong, for it is our responsibility to be good to each other, especially when we don’t see eye to eye."

I've been thinking a lot lately about what Gandhi would do or say in the face of the absurd and nightmarish happenings of today. If he were in our shoes he would, well, take them off because who needs shoes!? But he would also certainly be marching, striking, and working tirelessly (and peacefully), to effect positive change in all the many places it is needed. I see my friends at home doing just this and I feel like he would be real’ proud of you.

Either that, or I just imagine him face-palming "Seriously? This crap again? Good luck, humanity! I did my best." And then he would fly off into the universe with Pete and Toshi Seeger, MLK, Carrie, Bowie, Lennon, Maya Angelou, Mandela, Rumi, Jesus, and Lao-Tsu**.  All jokes aside though, we are still here. And, despite my impulse to scowl towards the bible belt and shake the idiots who voted for Trump, I must remind myself: WE did this.

Pete Seeger said, "It's a very important thing to learn to talk to people you disagree with." But, how many times have we gone silent or quietly judged a person with whom we fundamentally disagreed? Every time we tuned out or dismissed the opinions of others, every time we sat with each other laughing into our echo chambers, ridiculing "those idiots" instead of reaching outside our bubbles, we helped to create this mess.  

We know this. Just the same way we all know Trump is a symptom, not a cause. Our responsibility was never to point out the flawed logic of Trump supporters or to punch Nazis (using this reference because it's trendin’ right now): our responsibility was always, very simply, to be good to each other. No matter who we are or what we believe.

It is beyond incredible to witness SO MANY people doing this now: standing up for justice--literally being the change we need to see in this world. But it is a sad and sorry thing that we are only doing so now, as our bubbles burst. It's not like we didn't know that throughout our entire lives we were supposed to be good to each other. That piece of wisdom is universal. It exists across every religion, spiritual practice, and philosophy--and it is so infuriatingly simple. I'll bet, very early on, most of us learned it somewhere, more than once.

But, like most important life lessons, learning them is not the same as living them. When a lesson enters our body, that is when we really get it. (I don't know about you, but my body felt it the moment Trump got elected.) We are living through the lessons we learned from all those wise souls who fought these very same fights before us. And the good news is, they will never leave our bodies now. They are shaping and changing our future with every chant, with every call to action, with every fist raised in solidarity.

While I've been using the collective "we" here to drive home the point that we are all in this together, I think it's also important to remember that it only takes one person to create change. Just as one tiny-handed Trump has granted us permission to validate our sense of entitlement, our growing rage, and our fear of otherness, Gandhi granted us permission to live simply, take action against injustice, and, of course, be good to each other. 

As I write this, people all over India are taking quiet moments to honor Mahatma. As I write this, my friends are protesting loudly, but peacefully, at airports all over the US. As I write this, the question we have been casting into our stunned echo-chambers for the past three months--"how did this happen?" feels like it is finally starting to transform into "now that this is happening, how can we change it?" 

Thanks to you, Mr. Gandhi, we know how to do this. Drop by drop, folks. We got this.   

__________  

*The anniversary of Gandhi's death was actually Monday, Jan 30th, but I've been exploring a new city this week and this got set aside. **That list of lost idols kept growing, but I chose those characters because, in my opinion, each of them were able to say and do the truest most obvious things in the simplest ways.

[sincerelymrnaked]

Danger Room: Toronto’s most hostile comedy show for hecklers

“GET OFF THE STAGE MAN BOOBS!”

“DON’T EAT THE MIC YOU FAT FUCK!”

“GET DOWN BEFORE ONE OF YOUR BUTTONS HITS SOMEONE IN THE EYE!”

“SAY A JOKE YOU SAGGING ASSHOLE!”

We walk into the bar known as The Corner Comedy Club, a grimy comedy club with a fitting slogan: “It’s so small it’s funny,” on the corner of John Street in Downtown Toronto. A fat comedian in a red plaid shirt and ripped jeans is sitting on a stool on the stage with a mic in a sweaty hand, getting chewed alive by a crowd of the most ruthless hecklers I’ve ever witnessed.

“YOU’RE AS COMICAL AS YOU ARE SKINNY!”

“Yeah, that’s what your mom said when I was sitting on her face last night!” Fat Comedian calls.

“BOOOOOO!”

“GOOD MOM JOKE YOU FUCKING AMATURE!”

“I PAID TEN BUCKS FOR THIS SHIT!”

The poor guy can’t get two sentences in without being ripped to shreds. Chirps fly through the bar like rapid gunfire, the heavy-duty artillery leaving the brave comedian wounded and humiliated on the grimy stage. He’s struggling to stay upright, pushing weak incest and dead baby jokes, desperate for the slightest trace of laughter that he’s actually responsible for, trying to make a joke and not be the joke. He has no such luck.

But this wasn’t your usual comedy night. This was Danger Room — a night were most comedians don’t last more than one minute before the shark tank of hecklers swallow them whole.

And one of my best friends was soon to perform.

Let’s back up to six hours prior.

I was at the gym near the free-weights when I bumped into one of my old buddies from High School. He’s a writer too and whenever we see each other we often dive into discussions about the pressure to engage readers. He told me he’s been writing a new short story every day, but that he’s also been doing some stand-up comedy to test material in front of a live crowd. 

“Really? Stand up?”

“Yeah man. There’s this open mic place I go on Sunday nights on Danforth and Broadview.”

“How’s the crowd?”

“Depends on the night. Sometimes there’s silence, but it’s a good crowd to go to for your first time. Everyone’s pretty open and positive.”

“I’ve got a friend who I’ve been wanting to get on stage for a while. He’s a born comedian! I would love to get him on.”

“You guys should definitely come by!”

My friend Phil is the funniest guy I know. Not only can he spit out any accent with cunning precision, he can also spiral into rants of improvised comedy as if he wrote the stuff down and rehearsed it for weeks. He can play any role. Become any character. He’s quick. Spontaneous. And damn right hysterical. But here’s the problem: he’s nervous about getting up on stage.

Here’s why.

Phil and I are fraternity brothers, and a couple years ago I convinced him to do some stand up for a sorority’s philanthropy event. I had helped him prepare his set, making sure to throw in some of his signature stuff. His Frat Bro PC character he not-so-loosely based off of South Park was one of his best rants, and we decided it would be fitting for a Greek life gathering.

But were we ever wrong.

The audience of sorority sisters, children, parents, and distinguished philanthropists were not prepared for a set screaming about how “PC DOESN’T STAND FOR PUSSY CRUSHING!” 

Though his material was comedic gold to my buddies and I, it wasn’t the right time or place, and it left a sea of mothers and daughters staring at him with lowered jaws and wide eyes — all in deafening silence. 

Phil’s been rightfully nervous to get back up on stage ever since. I figured tonight would be the perfect opportunity to get him back on that horse.

I shot him a quick message: “We’re going out tonight.”

After meeting up with Phil and some buddies for a quick pre-game, we all hit the road in my buddy’s soccer mom van and drove twenty-five minutes to Danforth and Broadview. This was the night of Thanksgiving Sunday and most of us had dinners with our families that delayed our departure time, so we were running a little late. Actually we were running very late. By the time we arrived at the bar, the show was over and everyone was gone.

Giving up, we considered the alternatives of going to another bar, racking in some shots, and maybe getting Phil a mic anyway. But then my buddy Bernie came up with a final idea.

“There’s another comedy club not too far,” says Bernie, scrolling through his phone. “It’s just on the corner of John Street. Ten-minute drive from here. Some show called ‘Danger Room.’”

“Is it open mic?” Phil asks.

“I think it’s for actual comedians. And I think there’s cover.”

We agree to check it out. Nothing else was happening anyway.

When we get to the bar, we ask the guy running the door — a bearded man in a leather jacket, sporting a red bandana around his head — if our buddy can get up on stage. “You done this before?” he asks Phil.

“This is my first time,” Phil replies, not counting the sorority event.

“First time? And you’re fucking stupid enough to come here!”

In that second, as if on cue, we hear from inside: “GET OFF THE STAGE MAN BOOBS!” 

We shuffle through the crowd and find seats near the front of the tiny bar. The place reeks of beer and tobacco smothered clothing, with faint lighting illuminating a small wooden plank constituting a stage. Drunken chirps are firing from a group of guys scattered all around the grubby place; the poor comedian currently up is being publicly decimated. He struggles to squeeze in some of his prepared jokes until one of the drunkest hecklers literally rips him off the stage.

“YOU ARE FUCKING AWFUL!”  

“PLEASE! NEVER COME BACK HERE!”

More comedians step on, and nobody does any better. The drunker the hecklers get, the more shameless they are with their heckling. This results in comedic desperation: comedians resort to new levels of vulgarity in hopes of cheaper laughs. Jokes about sex become jokes about overdosing on drugs, which becomes jokes about being fucked by dads, which spirals into jokes about being a child predator. The laughs never come. Well, besides the laughter deriving from shameless heckling. The cycle continues.

One guy is heckled so badly, he tries to avert the attention to the Muslim sitting in front of him, hoping to use pathetic racism to weasel out of the ambush. (Yup, a real stand-up piece of shit.) He’s proven weak and unfit, and this only amps-up the insults.

“YOU LOOK LIKE A GERMAN SKATEBOARDER THAT ALSO DJ’S!” one guy screams at a comedian in a bomber jacket with a big man-bun dangling from a backward cap.

“AND YOUR CAP LOOKS LIKE IT’S TAKING A SHIT OUT OF YOUR HEAD!” another heckler adds. (Not all of them were so clever.)

“I THOUGHT THIS WAS SUPPOSED TO BE COMEDY, NOT A SPECIAL-ED ASSEMBLY!”

Why would anybody stand up before such a merciless crowd? Simple. To battle the most vicious monster there is, and survive to tell the tale. Most of the guys who go up are actual comedians, who come to Danger Room to test their skills against the worst crowd you could possibly encounter. After a Danger Room attack, silence would feel like a compliment.

But even these guys were used to getting up on stage. Phil was up next. 

He sits on the stool and raises the mic to his mouth.

“WHAT’S THIS PUSSY GOING TO DO? SING HIGHSCHOOL MUSICAL?”

“GET OFF THE STAGE PEDRO!”

“YOU LOOK LIKE YOU WATCH CHILD PORN AND JERK OFF IN PUBLIC SWIMMING POOLS!”

Despite these initial heckles, Phil starts off strong by faking weak. He begins with a quaky, loud and high-pitched voice, playing the character of someone terrified to perform — like a voice-cracking thirteen-year-old about to read the Torah for his Bar Mitzvah.

“H-high g-guys, my n-name is Ph-Phillip and I’m s-super n-nervous t-to perform t-tonight in front o-of all o-of y-y-you…”

Before the next heckle can fire, he jumps up, snaps into a booming southern accent — blaring with confidence and authority — and ascends into an incredible rant about the astonishing diversity of the crowd which he “ain’t used to in ma neighborhood back in Virginia!”

Everyone erupts into laughter.

A heckler screams a dumb Jew joke.

He switches from his southern accent to his Gay-Nazi-German-accent. “Vhat nobody veally knows is zhat vee vere all gay!”

His set is completely improvised. He rolls with the punches and starts introducing all his classic characters that were once confined to the frat house living room: Puerto Rican drug dealer, Australian pervert, Chinese businessman — those that were previously only available to the boys at the end of a drunk night with pizza boxes scattered on the floor. For the first time, Phil’s contagious humour is completely unleashed. And nobody could get enough of him.

When the heavy chirps start flying, unlike the other guys, he doesn’t revert to desperate comedy by raising the vulgarity or trying to deflect the cruelty towards people sitting in the crowd. He’s genuinely funny, and not desperate to make the crowd think so. He simply is.

And if you think I’m just being biased, even the drunkest hecklers gave him a big round of applause. It was the first and only applause of the night. None of the boys could believe it. But I’m gonna be a huge cheeseball and say I knew he had it in him all along. 

As we walked out, the owner told Phil he could come back anytime. Two comedians gave him their business cards as they hacked darts outside the bar. People who were in the audience asked him where his next gig is. He was the newly-emerged celebrity of the night. 

People often feel like they need to ease into challenges. They prefer slowly moving forward, gradual development, and keeping their dignity intact throughout the process. But sometimes your dignity has to be compromised. Sometimes you need to dive headfirst into the trenches of difficulty in order to come out stronger. Sometimes you need to go all in.

Failure has a way of holding people back — the silence of the sorority is something that may’ve stopped Phil from further performances, but the bravery to move on was the key that popped open the door to the night’s success.

Now, allow me to be sincerely-naked-honest for a second: There’s a lot of assholes in the world. 

There’s a lot of people who are going to give you every reason possible to stay safely buckled to your seat. They’ll take pride in ripping you down, in laughing or shaming you for even trying. But that’s all part of the system of growth. When you make yourself vulnerable and try to pursue something scary, chances are you’re going to eat shit sometimes. And most times, people will shit on you.  

It’s one of the biggest risks of starting a blog — hell, about writing in general. Not everyone is going to agree with the things you’re writing about, and a whole lot of people will make the effort to make their disagreements heard loud and clear. They’ll so much as bombard you with novella-long comments about how you don’t have the right to say the things you’re saying. They’ll send you hate emails. They’ll even straight up say that you don’t have what it takes and that you should just give up — the equivalence of a heckling reaction to a punchline. 

When I was the opinion editor for my university paper, it was a hard pill to swallow: the acceptance that not everyone will like or agree with my stuff. But I eventually began to see flack as a necessary part of my development, similar to the way comedians who come to Danger Room see ruthless heckles. It’s part of the process, and the more accustomed you get to the horrors of people protesting against your stance, the taller you eventually stand. 

In summary, there’s two ways of approaching assholes who love to shit on you like it’s their day job. 1) You could play victim and cry about being verbally assaulted, complain about feeling unsafe, or blame all lack of success on the pricks that walk the earth. 2) You could suck it up and use those same assholes to make you stronger. 

We may bomb it. We may kill it. But until we try, we’re letting the hecklers win.

We all live in a Danger Room. So let’s use those pricks to our advantage.  

Let’s raise our red solo cups (or cheap glasses of wine if you think you’re classy or something) to the assholes that make silence feel like a compliment — and who make our worst fears a fucking joke.

Sincerely,  Mr. Naked.