#sandwich tribunal

[sandwichtribunal]

10 Years of Sandwiches

The Tribunal has been writing about sandwiches for 10 years now, and if we've learned anything, it's to eat more sandwiches!

10 years ago today, on August 21, 2014, I registered the domain sandwichtribunal.com. A Quick Recap I’ve told the story before but essentially, early in 2014 my friends Josh and Thom and I started tweeting pictures of sandwiches at each other, basically bragging about the delicious things we were eating. We started calling ourselves the Sandwich Tribunal in jest. @dodecaphonix @El_Josharino 2…

[unopenablebox]

another tremendous offering from the sandwich tribunal

[disco-elysium-via-polls]

Given the way this game was effectively stolen from its original creators, I can't recommend you purchase it. But if you were to acquire a copy of the game, here are some things you could try to do or see that we didn't in this playthrough:

Get your *shit* together.

Shoot down the body.

Encounter a mysterious pair of eyes.

Hear out Measurehead's race theory.

Jump over the railing to the policeman's cloak.

Find a fourth way into the harbour.

Convince Kim to let you work on his Kineema.

Convince the Deserter that you are a real communist.

Get Kim to wear the jacket. You know the one.

Order a pie.

Find out about another cryptid.

Steal Gaston's sandwich.

Convince Rene you're a war hero.

Recruit a new detective.

Fail the Authority check to convince Titus to listen to you.

Succeed at dodging the first shot in the tribunal.

Fail to save Ruby.

Fail to save Kim.

Become THE ICEBREAKER.

Truly embody the spirit of Kraz Mazov.

Visit the fair.

Organize a committee.

Re-conceptualize yourself.

Buy the lamppost from Roy.

Throw away Dora's letter.

Cause a shitstorm.

Recover your address.

Learn the victim's real name.

Call in sick.

Discover what Kim wanted to be when he grew up.

Arrest Klaasje.

Figure out what kind of animal you want to be.

[geigenklang1]

AUTHORITY - The bonds between officers -- partners -- are *paramount*. That's how trust is built. Trust saves lives.

This is supposed to be a funny scene where you convince Kim to share sandwich with you, but in hindsight, I'm actually touch by this Authority line. Because later during the tribunal, it is an Authority check, and it is *trust* that saves Kim's life.

[lightfallensea]

I wish post tribunal you could make Gaston the perfect sandwich

[one-kind-of-cosmos]

I love Disco Elysium for many reasons, and one of those reasons is how quickly I fall in love with some minor characters, usually within their first bit of dialogue, these four are the most notable examples (on the men side for now, women in the next post):

- Bird’s Nest Roy is just a pawnshop guy, what drew me to him was how like, relaxed he is and his explanation on some of the things you can buy. His voice and his whole thing about why he takes drugs made me fascinated, it’s basic but sometimes that’s all I need;

-  Call Me Mañana is a good one who I thankfully got to talk to a lot more during my second playthrough. His general vibe and coolness is almost effortless. It got even better when I asked for his name and gave mine as “Tequila Sunset” which we both agreed was better/cooler;

-  Gaston Martin feeds into my whole thing of just liking elderly folk, he’s friendly. While on the first I tried to take his sandwich via failed persuasion (which I backed out of), the second time around I let him keep it since I would just feel bad. For those who know what happens after the Tribunal, all I’ll say is that, man- almost started crying during that scene like c’mon don’t make him sad-;

-  Tommy Le Homme feeds into another thing, liking characters with little/no complex reason, he’s a funky, relax dude who likes his lorry and has some interesting things to say, that’s really it. It’s “the jam, my man”.

[fearthereaperx]

WHERE: Sons of Silence Clubhouse WITH: @nathaniel-donovan

In the midst of a club sized wound being ripped wide open once again, not only with the most recent Tribune article but with her nephew entrusting her with the truth of what had happened with the bomber, Laura had damn well doubled her presence at the clubhouse. She’d done it for a myriad of reasons, ranging far and wide from the club needing endless support to her nephew sinking to the absolute lowest she’d ever seen him, sparking this inherent need of hers to try and raise him up in any way she could. Today, she was stockpiling the fridge with enough to keep the club fed for the week, but she was also using it as an opportunity to check in and get a glimpse of where she was needed most. Parking her Bronco just outside the clubhouse, she stepped down from the driver’s side and opened up the back, revealing several covered dishes that would take her a couple trips to manage on her own. But then she spotted Nate and whistled loud, hoping to catch his attention and wrangle him into helping her. “Hey, honey– you mind helping me carry some of this shit inside?” She needed help with everything, and she realized it’d been a while since she’d checked in with him specifically– in her mind, it was two birds, one stone. “I brought some sandwiches, lasagna, a couple pies,” she explained, gesturing over at the dishes. “Got some fresh sweet tea too– sometimes I think Cole’s the only one that loves this shit, but oh well,” not that he’d really had much of an eye for anything as of late, but Laura hoped the sweet tea might be an exception. "Anyway, you got a second to help?"

[bethanydelleman]

This might be my favourite funny part in all of Jane Austen’s novels, and it’s just even better considering how we have parties today:

Mrs. Weston proposed having no regular supper; merely sandwiches, &c., set out in the little room; but that was scouted as a wretched suggestion. A private dance, without sitting down to supper, was pronounced an infamous fraud upon the rights of men and women; and Mrs. Weston must not speak of it again.

-Emma, V2 Ch11

You mean... a buffet? A buffet is an infamous fraud upon the rights of men and women? How dare Mrs. Weston even think of such a thing! It sounds like my human rights have been violated for years and years. This is basically every Super Bowl party I’ve been to in my adult life!

Summon the tribunal!

[thislovintime]

Peter Tork, early 1980s (photo 2 taken in Japan).

“In addition to the [Studio 19] club shows, Tork and his band will play Sunday night [March 21, 1982] at Peaches Records in Clearwater at 6:30, 7:30 and 8:30 p.m. The Peaches shows were added because many of Tork’s fans are too young to be admitted into the club, said a spokesman for Studio 19.” - The Tampa Tribune, March 19, 1982

“Last weekend in Clearwater, Tork and his new band, The New Monks, broke up. Until then, his latest comeback attempt had been rolling along smoothly during the last 18 months. […] The breakup resulted from poor attendance at two Studio 19 concerts, an abruptly canceled canceled gig last Sunday and a flare-up resulting from an on-going friction between band and management, Tork said earlier this week. ‘It was the culmination of a long, slow descent,’ he explained. ‘It’s been a struggle. I thought things had been getting better.’ However, drummer Vince Barranco recently said that the band’s split-up is not final, just in limbo, pending working out problems with management. ‘Oh, it’s further out than limbo,’ Tork said. ‘The band is not intact, and not functioning.’ Calling from a pay phone at a YMCA in New York City, where he works out regularly, Tork said his trip to Florida, which coincided with the annual Monkees Fan Club Convention last week in Largo, has left him in less-than-enviable financial shape.
 He said the band members claim they did not get paid for the Clearwater concerts. ‘I’m broke,’ he said flatly. ‘I cannot buy a sandwich. Well, I can, but it’ll stop me from eating for two days.’ Tork said only bass player Paul Ill has served official notice of quitting the band. The rest are ‘not too anxious to get back to work,’ he said. Barranco, pianist Tom Myers and guitarist Phil Simon remained in Clearwater last week waiting to get paid for last weekend’s concerts from the promoter, Barranco said, adding that the break-up is not based on personal hostilities. ‘Peter’s a nice guy and all,’ Barranco said. ‘It’s strictly business. ‘I’m game (to rejoin) if everything’s comfortable,’ he said, noting relations between management and band members would first have to be cleared up. […] ‘When I left the Monkees, I found that I was not grounded,’ [Tork] said, referring to his lack of dues-paying and basic music industry know-how. ‘I wanted to learn the trade from the bottom to the top. In California, you can’t do that — there’s no middle ground.’ The small turnout at the Clearwater shows made him question his career direction. ‘I asked myself, “Do I not draw?” Maybe I overplayed my own value,’ he mused, ‘or maybe it’s Reaganomics.’ Due to cost of traveling, The New Monks have been giving small, well-received performances only in Boston, New Jersey and New York, shows featuring Tork on banjo and guitar. […] ‘Some reviews said “don’t do any Monkees material,“ some said “do only Monkees material,”’ Tork said. ‘We decided to call our own shots, but we don’t have enough consistency or experience.’’ […] [During Monkeemania] separating the musicians from the characters on the show was almost impossible. Cast as the dunce, Tork’s character undermined his formidable musical talent. ‘The Peter Tork character reached a lot of people,‘ he said. ‘He was an outcast — he lurched around, not getting hurt by his own bumbling idiocy.’ The character had a built-in protection system — that dumbfounded, naive look — that appealed to everyone, he said. One of Tork’s fondest Monkee memories came during a break in the filming for the pilot of their first TV episode, in which they had been pretending to play instruments. ‘We got them to give us power in the amps and we just started playing,’ he recalled, ‘and everybody started dancing.’ However, Tork is most proud of the second stage [of Monkees history], circa 1967. On ‘Headquarters,’ their third album, the group, for the first time, played almost all of the instruments. Other personal favorites from that period include ‘Pleasant Valley Sunday’ and ‘Goin’ Down,’ a one-take jam released only on the flip side of ‘Daydream Believer.
’ […] [I]n 1978, Tork started easing back into show business, circulating his picture in hopes of landing a spot on a sit-com but drawing few offers. 
After a brief stint as a strictly oldies act, he founded The New Monks, ‘and now here I am, broke in New York City,’ he said. But the 38-year-old [sic] singer is far from calling it quits. ‘I’m going to keep plugging,‘ he vowed. ‘I’m not done — this is my craft, my trade.’” - The Tampa Tribune, March 27, 1982

[gracegrove]

Neil Simon's The Odd Couple AU but make it Harringrove

Billy Hargrove is a divorced dad and sports columnist for the Chicago Tribune. Living alone in his messy nest of a bachelor pad, Billy hosts weekly poker games with friends from the office. It's during one of these poker nights Billy hears from one of his pals that a mutual friend... more of an acquaintance really, has fallen on hard times.

Steve Harrington, a news columnist who works a few floors up from Billy's cubicle is going through a separation with his wife. He's been kicked out. Tossed to the curb. Nowhere to go.

Billy feels for the guy. Truly. His own divorce a few years back with his own old lady was damn messy. He still owes more than a few checks in alimony.

So Billy gives Steve a call.

"I know we've only met in passin' a couple times, but how bout you stay with me till you get your feet back under you?"

Steve moves in the next day with two suitcases, shaking Billy's hand furiously in gratitude.

Steve is on the verge of tears he's so happy.

"I can't begin to thank you! ...I'll stay out of your way. You won't even notice I'm here!"

"Nonsense. Make yourself at home..."

"But you'll tell me won't you?"

"What?"

"You'll tell me if I get on your nerves?"

"Certainly."

It's only been a week. A week. And Billy can hardly stand it.

It first started with the small things.

Things of his being moved. Items that he always left in the same place. That one Sports Illustrated from 1989 that was always on top of the 3rd shelf to the lefthand side. Now it's nowhere to be found.

Then his records. There was a system. Organized from best listening experience to least. Now they were alphabetized.

Yeesh.

Then... oh then it upgraded.

Flowers.

Flowers in soft pinks and vibrant reds. In cut glass vases placed on end tables around the apartment.

And dinners. No more, quickly made sandwiches hurriedly eaten over the sink. Oh no no no! Plate settings and napkins and two forks for god only knows what reason!

But worst of all.

Was the notes.

The little notes. Left by Steve. All around the apartment.

On the bathroom mirror. On Billy's pillow. On the front doorknob. On the fridge handle.

"Out of toothpaste. - SHYTE ❤️"

"Gone to store. - SHYTE ❤️"

"Don't eat before dinner. I mean it. - SHYTE ❤️"

Billy crumpled yet another note in his fingers, toeing off his sneakers and chucking his bag against the hall closet.

"I can't take it anymore!" he yelled at the cieling.

"Can't take what?" Steve asked, poking his head out from the kitchen, whisking batter in the mixing bowl perched in his arm.

"This!" Billy yelled motioning at the flowers plucking the stems out furiously and tossing them before grabbing the vase and smashing it to the floor.

"That!" he groaned, snatching the doily off the top of his television set lassoing it above his head and chucking it away.

"All of this...." he complained, leveling his hand across his desk, knocking down all the organized and neatly stacked papers and magazines.

Steve stilled in the kitchen doorway watching.

"Has something happened?" Steve asked dumbly, stirring slowing.

Billy stiffened, side eyeing Steve from the living room.

"What's happened?" he regarded him.

"Is it my cooking? My cleaning?" Steve pressed anxiously, "The crying...?"

Steve looked away sheepishly, setting down the bowl and wiping his hands in his apron.

"I'll tell you exactly what it is..." Billy grumbled.

"It's the cooking... the cleaning... the crying."

Billy looked at him harshly, eyebrows high.

"It's the talking in your sleep. It's the operatic gargling and coughing that opens your throat at 2 o'clock in the morning."

Billy mimicked the most horrendous noises. Steve crossing his arms unamused.

"I can't take it anymore Steve. I'm going mental. Everything you do irritates me..." Billy huffed, shoulders hunched.

"And even when you're not here, the things I know you're gonna do irritate me..." he shifted his hands out side to side.

Steve rolled his eyes.

Billy strode across the room, closing the space between them.

"You leave me little notes on my pillow..." Billy accused, "I told you 158 times I can't stand little notes on my pillow!" he poked Steve hard in the chest.

"We are all out of Cornflakes, SHYTE.... took me three weeks to figure out that S H Y T E was Steve Harrington, Yours Truly Eternally."

Billy threw up his hands dramatically.

"Who the hell signs things like that?!"

Steve put his hands on his hips. "Me..."

Billy slapped a key down on the counter.

"What's this?" Steve questioned, eyeing it warily.

"A key to the back door" Billy stated.

"Stick to the hallway and you room and you won't get hurt..."

Steve looked at Billy with disbelief. "Meaning what?"

"Meaning that if you wanna live here, I don't wanna see you..." Billy listed on a finger, "I don't wanna hear you... and I don't wanna smell your cooking. All right?"

"Now kindly get that omelette off my poker table..." Billy pointed with a thick digit.

Steve laughed, waving a dismissive hand.

"The hell is so funny?" Billy charged.

"It's not an omelette it's a frittata" Steve giggled.

Billy walked over to the small dining area, picked up the plate and threw it against the wall.

"Now it's garbage." he stated simply.

Steve stared at him dumbfounded.

Walking over, Steve stared at the wall, then at Billy.

"You're crazy. I'm a neurotic nut. But you're crazy."

Billy crossed his arms smugly.

"I'm crazy huh? That's really funny coming from a fruitcake like you."

"Uh-huh" Steve nodded sarcastically.

"I'm not cleaning that up." he pointed sharply.

"Is that a promise?" Billy mused with hope.

"Did you hear what I said?" Steve's voice raised, "I'm not cleaning that up, that's your mess!"

Steve couldn't take his eyes off the wall.

"Look at it. Look at it! It's all over the wall!"

Billy nodded with approval.

"I like it..." he smirked.

Steve scoffed, "You'd just leave it there wouldn't you?"

Billy nodded along in mock agreement.

"Just leave it there until it got all hard and brown and..... accck! That's disgusting!"

Steve moved towards it.

"I'm cleaning it up!"

Billy lunged after him, "Leave that alone!"

"I've got it!" Steve reasoned reaching for a piece of oozy cheese stuck on the plaster.

"You leave that alone....!" Billy warned cutting around the corner of the table.

"You touch one piece of that frilly egg shit and I'll punch you right in your sinuses!" Billy threatened making a fist.

"Billy! Billy c'mon now!" Steve scurried away back towards the kitchen trying to shut the door.

"Now listen... why don't you just take a tranquilizer?" Steve muttered as calmly as possible through a crack in the door.

Billy walked around the hall and in through the second door to the kitchen behind Steve.

"Go to your room!" he stated firmly, making Steve jump.

Steve stood there mousily looking at Billy.

"Go to your room!" Billy yelled.

"Let's just all settle down huh?" Steve reasoned, as Billy started herding him down the hallway.

Steve hustled into his room, slamming the door.

Billy pointing a finger at the door, "I'm warning you Steve! You wanna live through this night you better keep this door locked! And your windows too!"

He slammed his palm on the door for emphasis, Steve jumping in response.

As Billy stalked off into his own bedroom, Steve peered out. A guilty expression on his face.

How was he going to make good with his roommate?

@every-dayiwakeup @ickypuppi3

[crimsonfluidessence]

Prompt 26: Last

Content Warning: Mention of beheading, lack of eating

Esredes had been acting strangely since he came into the office later in the morning. The Tribunal had called him for a session in the morning, and while he normally at least greeted his team's coworkers if they were in, he didn't acknowledge them at all. Magdelaine and Alvere had both tried to say hello to him at different points, but he only muttered back a hi and left the room.

Now that he was back to his office, he only relaxed a little in the comfort of it. He took out today's newspaper and instead of setting it on the side of his desk, he threw it directly into the trash, and got to work. And unlike what happened at the Tribunal, he randomly emerged from his office at multiple points to go down and across the hall, telling Heilyn and Ferrant both he appreciated them a lot and what they did for him.

To top it off, when lunch hour came, he didn't re-emerge from his office. This prompted Heilyn to check in on him. He came in and put a half sandwich and bowl of soup on his desk. "Hey." He said. "It's fine if you don't want to come eat in the breakroom, but at least eat while you're doing it. Esredes looked up at Heilyn, then at the food, and winced a little. "I'm feeling a persistent sense of nausea today." He offered. "Can't eat. Not feeling it." Heilyn's look grew concerned. He closed the door to the office and pulled up a chair. "Hey, wanna talk about it? I don't keep up with the news, learn most of it from folks at the workshop chattering away while doing their crafts. Clearly something's got you though and... I can go, we talk, or I can just stay and keep you company so you're not alone. Take your pick." "Mmm." Esredes said, finally sighing. "So you didn't read the newspaper." Heilyn shook his head. "Nah, fell out of the practice in Ul'dah. Too depressing in a city of greedy money-lovers as a low-income house. Learned what I needed to about local events in the market, and little Ala always brought home the good stories." Usually Esredes skimmed through the newspaper, but today, front and center as the headliner, they had elected to print about a recent execution. An infamous and highly wanted for years criminal had finally met his end by the sword, and the paper discussed how joyous of an occasion it was, and how the streets were now safer. "My appetite went away." He said. "Can't eat. Waiting for it to come back. When it does, I'll eat." Heilyn's ear twitched. There was silence for a moment. "Hey, if you need to miss the party this evening, that's okay. Just know that you are supported. No matter what happened, I'm going to have your back. Just make sure you are taking care of yourself, alright?" "The...? Oh gods. I forgot about the party." Fuck. "No, no, I'm not skipping it or anything. I just won't eat."

The building's custodian was retiring, and Ferrant arranged for a going away party near the end of the workday. Esredes wouldn't miss it for anything- keeping two rooms clean for him, especially the blue room, was not an easy task, and he was forever grateful for it. So when four rolled around, he stopped working and joined his coworkers in the break room. There was cake, and he still didn't touch it, but he smiled and put on an upbeat demeanor, continuing his thankful and appreciative words from earlier with everyone else as they thanked a beloved employee for his work and wished him well in retirement.

When the workday ended, Esredes didn't immediately have plans. Usually that was a blessing for him to go home, but he didn't want to, not today. Instead, he immediately linkpearled around his friends, taking care to avoid anyone who was in any way part of the military before the war ended, to see who was available to go out as he changed out of his work clothes in the bathroom. While putting his work clothes back in his bag, he came across his badge for the Sky Vigil, which was always on him somewhere just in case Temple Knights tried to stop him. More specifically, he came across the back of it, which listed if he could donate blood and his next of kin, Seraphiaux Rosemond. And then he covered it with his work shirt.

Fortunately for himself, several friends responded to his call and agreed to come with him to one of those Empyreum startup bars. At the bar, the same question came up when others ordered food with their drinks and he didn't: are you going to have anything, Esredes? But he shook his head and said he wasn't hungry. His appetite might just rival his neck for the most fragile part of his body. Like he had done with his coworkers earlier, he told all of his friends who came he appreciated them. Some of them found it a little odd, others hugged him or squeed his name in joy in response. The night went on and on as the group chattered, about everything going on in their lives. Weddings, getting engaged, new job or life opportunities, children for the couple people in the group who had them, and what they were doing for Valentione's Day. He came in and out of the conversation, but it seemed the group noticed he was off. They kept asking his opinion on things, they turned the conversation to him on multiple points, they teased him in good faith and he retaliated with even more teasing. By the end of the outing, he had managed to steal a few pieces of an appetizer that no one stopped him from taking.

It was late when he said goodbye and went home. Esredes did some brief candlelight reading in bed, then drew the covers over himself. As he'd calculated, he was tired enough to pass out without thinking too much, and for a small mercy, he didn't have nightmares. In the morning, he would wake up, and send a silent thank you- to what he didn't know, but he did- as he rose and got ready for work. Some days were harder than others to get out of bed, but today he felt exceptionally light. He didn't linger in bed at all, instead springing right up. Today was a new day, and he'd rise to face it for whatever it was.

[sandwichtribunal]

Dutch-Surinamese Broodje Moksi Meti

"I got serious bánh mì vibes from this sandwich. The savory/sweet mixture of meats and slightly sweet pickles pointed in that direction. Better bread would have helped; cilantro and hot peppers would have sealed the deal." Broodje Moksi Meti

Broodje is a word in Dutch meaning bread, or bread roll, or more specifically a sandwich made in a bread roll–the German equivalent would be brötchen. Our first Dutch broodje at the Tribunal was Broodje Kroket way back in the early days, though more recently we’ve also tackled Broodje Haring and Broodje Hete Kip. The latter in particular was based on a dish popular in Paramaribo, capital and…

[unopenablebox]

is sable actually just a jewish thing? do people not know what sable is? sandwich tribunal guy managed to only learn what it was in 2017 apparently which has really shaken my assumptions here

[wherewhereare]

JJ is more Clints friend I believe. He likes to flash his wealth, i get the feeling he buys his friends with things like footing the bill for elaborate hunts even though those guys are millionaires and not billionaires. I don’t like him. I’ve seen some very disgusting pictures of him with dead animals. Run Blake!

Fact check: Jimmy John's founder hunted big game before he sold chain (usatoday.com)

Hunting Report, which keeps an online database of hunt reports and related articles, documented several of Liautaud’s hunts. The last hunt listed on its website took place in South Africa between March 26 and April 4, 2004. On that hunt, the major game killed included a rhino and lynx.

You can read the entire article, but this is the summation.

Our rating: Partly false

We rate the claim that the owner of Jimmy John’s uses his money from the sandwich chain to kill endangered animals as PARTLY FALSE, as some of it was not supported by our research. The sandwich shop’s founder, Jimmy John Liautaud, no longer owns the sandwich chain. Liautaud did hunt big game, but has not done so for years. 

Our fact-check sources:

Chicago Tribune, "Jimmy John's founder opens up on expansion, big game hunting, possible IPO"

Hunting Report, "Search Results for 'Liautaud'"

Hunting Report, "Hunting Report 4027"

Inspire Brands' website

Inspire Brands, "Inspire Brands Completes Acquisition of Jimmy John’s"

USA TODAY (Associated Press), "The owner of Arby's acquires Jimmy John's Sandwiches"

[axels-corner]

Reminders of the Everblaze

Notes: Keeptober day 3 the council! I was originally going to draw something but I saw the prompt "sandwiches always reminded her of him." and I wanted to write this for the council, and draw the other thing for keeptober day 5 head cannon

@keeptober

Characters: Councillors Oralie, Bronte, Terik, and Liora, mentioned Councillor Kenric, Sophie and Fitz

Warnings: mentioned character death 

Words: 573

Sandwiches always reminded her of him. Of those picnics they would organize on councilor bonding day. After doing trust exercises like trust falls, truth or dare, or two truths and a lie. Of when Kenric would tease Bronte for wearing black in the summer time.

“Not even a shade of gray Bronte?” Then Terik would join in with teasing him, and it was like they were at Foxfire once again.

They reminded her of when the two of them would have a secret picnic for lunch, and how the rest of the council would turn a blind eye to their romance as long as it wasn't affecting their job and the work they did. How they would talk about the future and how one day they would step down from the council, together. Build a life together, maybe have kids. But being reminded of him always drew her back to that one memory the worst memory she has.

As she stopped to catch her breath, she looked back. Big mistake, the fire roared, Everblaze painting the sky. It was beautiful in a horrible way. Oralie did a quick headcount, Tiergan, Alden, and then other councilors. Fitz and Sophie were no where to be seen, as well as Kenric. She was just with Fitz and Sophie, but she had run to find her colleagues to find the others, she didn't expect for the wind to catch the Everblaze and shift the direction. She fought her way over to where the rest of the council was. "Sophie, Fitz and Kenric are all missing she told them.

"What!" Emery shouted before doing a quick headcount of his own.

"miss Foster and Mr. Vacker went to bottle quintessence so we can extinguish this." as she said the last word Liora gestured around to the Everblaze. Oralie let out a sigh of relief, but only for a minute, "Wait, that still leaves Kenric uncounted for.” The whole council don't look at her, in fact they look any where other than her “what's wrong, where's Kenric?” despite it being hot with everblaze roaring and the heavy fire proof clothes she was wearing a chill ran up her spine, goosebumps raising on her arms. Bronte cleared his throat and wrapped her in a hug as he told her the news,

“Kenric-he's dead Oralie, we're so sorry.”

Dead

Dead

Hearing those words echoing in her head of "He's dead Oralie we're so sorry." Bronte breaking protocol by not using her title but who cared, nothing mattered any more because, Kenric was dead the whole world was ending. How was she supposed to survive without her best friend by her side? How dare the sky look so beautiful in such a deadly way on that night the Everblaze that killed her love mixing with the stars that reminded her of his eyes. How dare it. Every time she saw the stars, it brought her mind back to the memories. The time they were in Foxfire and they did their astronomy assessment together, how Kenric helped her study the stars, while she helped him study the elements. The time that Sophie had her first tribunal and he plotted the stars. But all the reminders eventually go back to that day. She didn't know if she would ever be able to forget, but she did know she would keep trying her best, keep living, and keep remembering him.

Because what else could she do.

Writing taglist (ask to be added or removed): @gay-otlc @fintan-pyren @almostfullnerd   @the-abandoned-schoolbus

[howwelldoyouknowyourmoon]

Ex-Moonie recounts his life as a follower of the Rev. Moon

Chicago Tribune March 1979

By Michael Hirsley

One week, he was a Yale University graduate with a bachelor of arts degree in psychology and philosophy, considering graduate school and beginning summer vacation in Berkeley, Calif.

The next week, he was on a farm with his new friends, jumping and pumping his arms up and down while chanting, “Choo-choo-choo-choo,” like a “choo-choo” train in a sort of rural Romper Room gone wrong.

After four weeks, he called his parents to assure them he was doing well. Within six months, his new California friends had become his only family.

He turned over to them his earnings from selling flowers, then from washing dishes, while settling for peanut butter sandwiches as nourishment, and four hours for sleep. Once, he sneaked away and bought himself a glass of milk and a cookie. After he finished them, his shame was instant. He threw up.

Why would a 22-year-old man with a college education begin acting like a child, pliantly follow orders and work for next to nothing, and be unable to eat a cookie in solitude without feeling like a traitor?

He met them that first week in Berkeley. A man who had been kind enough to direct him to a hotel invited him to dinner. There, he met the group.

“They didn't say anything about being a religious group. They were friendly and paid incredible attention to everything I told them about myself,” Edwards says. ‘‘I liked the atmosphere better than social hours in college.”

But still, it is disquieting to imagine that someone like Christopher Edwards — who still fits the Ivy League image in a vested suit, and still looks like a college student as he sips a cup of coffee in a Chicago hotel room — “gave” his soul temporarily to a cult.

His credentials are non-radical, middle-of-the-road: Son of a doctor, member of an upper middle class family, spent summers traveling in this country and in Europe... Was he really the typical college graduate he seemed to be when he became a Moonie?

“What’s typical?” he asks. “One of the last memories I have of college is sitting with a friend and watching (on television) the last troops leave Vietnam. I was somewhat disillusioned with the war and our society.”

He said his peers in the Moonies included many white, middle-class, college-educated men and women in their early 20s.

“There are people who are more susceptible to a religious group like this, people coming out of college, a little disillusioned, looking for a loving community,” he says. “But I really fight the notion that something has to be wrong with you to get involved in a group like this. I think only an extremely selfish, narrow-minded person would not be susceptible.”

He accepted the group’s invitation to go to the farm in California for the weekend. Once there, he ignored guards at the front gate, the silly “choo-choo” game and the fact that “someone followed me everywhere I went, even to the bathroom.”

Edwards admits he found those things “silly and embarrassing, and very odd, but they seemed harmless. I thought theirs was a simplicity that could be trusted.”

And, he concedes, that as a psychology student, “part of my motivation for staying was pure curiosity. Their tactics attracted me.”

His early days with the group consisted of repetitive exercises and lectures in which “you were praised for following directions and accepting repetitive boring speeches without questioning them,” he says. “I felt confident that I couldn’t be manipulated, but I was.”

Those childish games and dogmatic speeches were exercises to break down resistance to brainwashing, he says. “I was put in a hypnotic state,” he says. “I was in a trance.”

For nearly four months, his parents — Dr. Charles Edwards. a surgeon, and his wife, Betty, of Montclair, N. J. — were blissfully unaware of what was happening to their son. It wasn’t unusual to hear little from him when he was traveling on his vacation.

Even a letter, in which he described to them his work with a Creative Community Project in Oakland, caused them no anxiety until they saw the project name again in a newspaper article.

“It was about a meeting for parents who had lost their children to cults. It indicated that Christopher’s project was part of the Rev. Sun Myung Moon’s Unification Church, the Moonies,” Dr. Edwards said in a phone conversation from his New Jersey office. “We were shocked.”

The Edwards attended the meeting, and were shocked anew. “It was supposed to be a one-hour meeting, from 3 p.m. to 4 p.m.,” Dr. Edwards recalled. “It lasted until 8 p.m. There were over 500 parents there.” Unification Church membership is estimated at 80,000.  [There were never more than about 10,000 core members in the US and many of those were imported from Japan and Europe. If everyone who ever had any connection with the UC was counted the number of 30,000 might have been reached decades ago.]

After the meeting, the Edwards’ contacted Ted Patrick, the controversial “deprogrammer” who assists parents in kidnapping their children from the Moonies.

“Patrick had a three-and-a-half month waiting list,” Dr. Edwards said. While he waited for Patrick’s call, he read everything he could about the Moonies.

In January of 1976, Dr. Edwards met with Patrick to plot Christopher’s kidnaping.

The doctor closed his practice for three weeks. He flew to California, found his son after considerable searching, and said he just wanted to be sure Christopher was all right.

“I met him in a coffee shop were he worked,” Dr. Edwards said. “I saw all these kids there walking around with passive looks and mechanical movements. I thought they were in a trance, and I have had some training in hypnosis.

“I didn't say anything against the cult, and I was invited to lunch the next day. I watched recruiting techniques used on me. They looked me in the eye and spoke lovingly, flatteringly, and made me feel important.

The next day, Patrick and assistants helped Dr. Edwards pull his son out of a car and away from a fellow group member.

Dr. Edwards said the weeks of deprogramming that followed — including plane fares for five deprogrammers and assistants and a detective after the family received threatening phone calls and suffered two break-ins at their home — cost “tens of thousands of dollars.”

Christopher Edwards now lectures on cults, and has written a book about his experiences, entitled, “Crazy for God.”

“Its just coincidental that my book is coming out just when Guyana and Jonestown are making us worry about cults,” Edwards says.

“The People’s Temple suicides in Jonestown and thereafter; and an “informal” congressional hearing on cult worship last month; are heightening public anxiety about cults.

Edwards’ book provides fuel for such concern, citing mechanical movements, glassy eyes, and loss of intelligence and initiative as changes which cult members undergo hypnosis.

In one small section, where Edwards expresses hope that “a psychological test will one day emerge to verify these changes,” the book provides a scary glimpse at the potential for “psycho-war” between cults and deprogrammers.

“I fought against the deprogrammers for quite a while, and I told them I would die for my cult friends and leaders,” Edwards says “That still worries me a great deal.”

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Crazy for God: The nightmare of cult life by Christopher Edwards

The Social Organization of Recruitment in the Unification Church PDF  
 by David Frank Taylor, M.A., July 1978, Sociology

Moonwebs by Josh Freed (the book was made into a movie)

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Unification Church’s deceptive recruiting tactics - Part 1

4:00 Ford Greene “At the outset there is never a disclosure: 1) We are the Unification Church
 2) We believe that Rev. Moon is the second coming of Christ
 3) We believe that you are dominated by Satan 
4) The way for you to become free from Satan is by being unconditionally obedient to Moon because he is the only human being who has ever conquered and defeated Satan.”

1:30 Allen Tate Wood
“…The purpose of getting there is to get them off to a training center, run them through a training regimen of 7, 21 or 40 days. When that is complete that person is going to be on a bus for the next seven years, working 16 hours a day. They are not up front about that.”

Unification Church’s deceptive recruiting tactics - Part 2 5:00 Ford Greene:
 “The pitch that is always made is a pitch to conscience, is a pitch to a person’s highest, most moral inner yearnings and the ultimate result is enslavement.”

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Ford Greene on Sun Myung Moon and the Unification Church

Allen Tate Wood (was also interviewed by News Center 4) LINK to a webpage of interviews with Allen Tate Wood