#setting fire to government buildings with extreme malice

[writeouswriter]

Ooh everyone desperate for workers but then need a fucking background check to stock apples in your own hometown I'm going to strangle someone

[razrbladekiss]

Tyrants | Chapter One - Disclosure

A/N: This was supposed to be a Jax x Fem!OC fanfic, but it took a little turn as I started to write more of it. So, it’ll be Tig x Fem!OC, but Jax does play a very important role in this.

SUMMARY: A sick turn of events sees Isla Telford thrown in at the deep end, battling to govern the sudden pressures of all that her father's club decidedly bestow upon her.

WORD COUNT: 2.7k

WARNINGS: Brief mentions of murder, the guy that got his ass shit is in this one. Jax and Tig get their own warnings, too, for obvious reasons.

The older I get, the more I realize that age doesn't bring wisdom. It only brings weary.

John Teller was always so astute.

His judicious character befell his son, too. Jax had that same perceptive nature as his old man--everyone would comment on that.

To Isla, it was admirable. For Jackson Teller to be a man of such stature--to hold such a reputation--and to remain somewhat level-headed through it all, was only something she could commend.

She'd seen many of her father's friends crumble under the pressure of Samcro, unable to balance the weight of living with the responsibility and commitment to the club, and meet their unfortunate demise--in some not-so extreme cases.

But Jax was different. He'd always been different.

Maybe that wasn't so great, however.

"You're fucking insane, Isla."

"Not insane." She mumbled, sifting through the box of shitty medical supplies that Gemma had left atop the pool table last night.

"Just trying to patch this shit up so Hayes doesn't kick the fucking bucket before Jax gets back here."

Tig snarled. "But it might be infected, and the bullet is still in this dude's ass--"

Isla whipped her head to glare at the man, her eyes wide, forehead slick with sweat--and a little blood, too.

"Shut the fuck up."

"Isla--"

"Tig, with all due respect, unless you're gonna help, please get the fuck outta here."

"That's not gonna suffice," he pointed out, referring to the medical tape, ignoring her scolding.

She wanted to throttle him. Truly, Isla was willing to wrap her crimson-coated fingertips around Tig's neck and squeeze the absolute life out of that man.

"I know." Her lips kneaded together in frustration, watching her father dab an alcohol-infused pad on the wound. "But unless you've got any better ideas, then we're just gonna have to keep reapplying this shit."

"But the infection, Isla."

"But the lack of medical equipment, Tig."

He slapped his palm against the table and glared at her, pointedly. "Why've you gotta be such a bitch all the time, huh?"

"Watch it, Trager." Piqued, Chibs growled.

"I'm not a bitch all the time," she dismissed her father, wiping at her palm with a wet rag. "I'm actually able to control the way I act around other people."

"Oh, fuck you--"

"Christ!"

The Scot's yell was muffled by the cap of his whiskey bottle, his hand pressing against Cameron's skin as the man screamed into the cloth Isla had placed underneath his head.

"God, for fucks sake, both of you just pack it in."

"Chibs--"

"Shut the fuck up. You're a fucking geriatric and you're spending your morning bickering with an almost thirty-year-old. Grow up, Tig."

Despite laughing at his comment, and enjoying the irritation wash over the other man's face, she felt bad.

For riling her father up--who was simply trying to help the innocent Irishman caught in the literal crossfire--she felt fucking awful. Especially because he never seemed to get mad at her all too often.

Tig, though...That was a different story entirely.

"I'm gonna go see if Clay has any more shit lying 'round here." She declared, throwing a damp towel onto the table, backing out of the room.

Her heart was in her throat, stomach in damn knots. Isla wasn't confident that Cameron was going to make it--not with such a deep wound.

And in his ass, too? Jesus. She wasn't confident at all.

Of course, she'd seen men get shot. Her own father, for one. But she hadn't seen somebody have to go so long without actual medical attention.

Chibs was ex-army med, but there was only so much a man could've done with a bottle of liquor, gauze, and a towel.

She was relieved that the bullet hit Cameron and not Clay, though. As sick as it sounded, she was so fucking glad that he'd managed to dodge the line of fire--initially intended for his own skull--and come out completely unscathed.

But for every ounce of relief she'd felt, an even more fervid sense of anger prevailed at the thought of Jax taking so damn long with those medical supplies he'd sought to get last night.

Gemma mentioned something about heading to the hospital--or a friend's house, or something--but Isla wasn't paying any mind to the woman as she, and Chibs, were trying all ways to stop the bleeding coming from Cameron's ass cheek.

It was the most bizarre turn of events she'd ever experienced.

One minute, Isla was sipping on a glass of wine while she eagerly awaited the spirited ping of her tiny microwave oven, ready to spend a rare--though well fucking deserved--night alone.

However, things took a drastic turn when she received a call from Tig--on behalf of a very busy Chibs--casually requesting her assistance because the Mayans had tried to assassinate Clay.

But Tig failed to mention that the man was completely fine.

She'd spent fifteen minutes on the way over mentally preparing herself, wondering what hell she'd walk into when she set foot into the clubhouse. But it was normal--strangely so.

Isla wasn't a professional, she didn't exactly know how to handle such a trauma, but she trusted her father and she just wanted to make sure he had a helping hand.

God knows that Tig wouldn't have been very much use, and Juice was a little nervous--though, he was doing incredibly well throughout the ordeal regardless of his internal apprehension.

"How's it looking?" Gemma threw at Isla, getting to her feet.

"Bloody."

She quickly scanned the room, taking in the uncomfortably sparse bar. It wasn't usually so empty, so quiet.

Clay, Gemma, and Juice. That was it. Not even Piney--not even Epps.

"Is he doing okay?"

It was still early in the day, though. She guessed that they'd pop in once they properly came around.

"He's better than he was last night." The brunette nodded. "Dad is certain the laceration is gonna get infected if we leave it any longer without trying to get the bullet out--"

"You've gotta wait 'til Jax gets back here, Isla, we can't risk Hayes dying on us."

"I know, Clay. He's just fucking tired--he's been up all night. We need a real medic on the scene before something bad happens. It's only a matter of time."

He mumbled something to himself that only Gemma seemed to catch, but Isla didn't particularly give a damn at that point. Like Chibs, she was exhausted.

The tattered and torn plaid shirt she had thrown over a random tank top--now smeared with another man's blood--was wrenched between her fingers as she pulled it off, folding it not-so-neatly.

She hadn't dealt with such a bloody wound in a while. Not since her mother's palm, decorated with shards of glass, was in dire need of stitches and her father was across the country, unable to offer his medical assistance.

"I'll grab one of Jax's shirts for you--"

"No, Gemma, it's okay," she smiled, taking a seat on one of the couches opposite her.

The older woman pinched her eyebrows together skeptically, watching Isla shift. "I insist."

"It's fine." Isla was adamant. "I'm gonna head home as soon as Jax gets back here--if he gets back here--so, really, it's fine."

A minimal amount of already dried blood was spread over her wrists and fingers, and the excess had been rubbed off on her crimson flannel, so she didn't particularly feel bad about making any mess.

Though, she shouldn't have felt bad. Not after she'd been coerced into helping and eventually receiving that shitty reception from Tig.

"Aren't you cold?" She questioned, waiting for Isla to capitulate, but she never did.

The thought of wearing one of Jax's shirts--after it being given to her by his fucking mother--didn't sit right with her for some reason. Plus, she didn't particularly feel like walking out of that building wearing the damn reaper on her back.

She didn't want to flaunt their patch. Not any more than she already had been for the last ten years.

"Where the fuck is he?"

Clay glared at the clock on the wall, realizing they'd been without the Vice President for hours. In an attempt to put him at ease, Gemma ran a hand along his shoulder.

Isla could only watch them--admire, perhaps.

"He told us he was gonna swing by Tara's place for the equipment. But that was last night, man." Juice shrugged, circling the lip of his beer bottle with his thumb.

She felt her throat thicken with a sick sense of trepidation. She hadn't heard that name in years.

"Tara?" She stuttered, feeling Gemma's piercing glare.

The woman hated Jax's first love, though she never said it aloud. Isla knew her perception of her, however, and she'd started to feel the exact same as the years went on.

Bitch.

"Yeah, y'know, Tara Knowles--"

Her heart sank--fuck that, it dove straight to the deep caverns of her chest, throbbing away into nothing. Until she felt completely void of all emotion. Completely fucking numb.

"I know her, Juice." Her response came hastily, snappy. "I'm sorry. I just didn't expect you to say that."

He shrugged it off. "It's alright. I wasn't expecting her to be back in town, either. I thought you already knew."

Suddenly uncomfortable, Isla's head shook.

The crow situated at the bottom of her spine began to smolder, blistering away at her skin until she physically flinched.

It was a brilliant idea at the time, getting a matching tattoo with Jax's old lady--the one woman she truly adored and trusted, never once feeling an ounce of malice toward.

Because that was a rare thing for Isla, and she wanted their friendship--and relation to Samcro--to prevail for eternity, she supposed.

But as time went on and Tara decided to distance, and eventually alienate, herself from the club, an ample sense of regret persisted for fucking months.

Isla loathed her ink. She hated the negative connotation of the crow she once lauded, and the mere idea of that thing being slapped above her ass forever churned her stomach.

It wasn't one of her finest moments, she had to admit. But she was young and extremely fucking dumb. She'd bet top dollar that Tara felt the same--if she hadn't gotten the crow covered up already.

"Jesus, Jax, where were you?!"

Her eyes flicked upward, attention on the blonde as he sauntered across the wooden floor of the bar.

She hadn't even noticed his presence until Clay spoke, but she soon started to heed how Jax was trembling a bit with every step that he took.

It wasn't obvious. To most people, the slight shake of his wrist would've gone completely unnoticed. But to Isla--to the most observant woman in Charming--his discomfort was striking.

Jax ignored him, stomping his way toward the back room. His line of sight never satisfied Isla's. It didn't even come close to it, either.

Something had happened. It was obvious that, in the time he had been with Tara, he'd encountered something grizzly enough to chill him to the bone.

Which was saying something, what with the horrific shit that he'd already seen in his time.

"Jax!" Clay yelled, following closely behind him. "Hey, asshole, where the fuck did you put the bag--"

"I've got it."

If she had the option, Isla would've allowed the floor to swallow her fucking whole.

"Tara." Pissed, Gemma acknowledged. "You're here because?"

"I asked her to help, mom."

"But Chibs had it covered. He just needed some actual instruments--"

"Gemma, quit it."

She simply nodded at her son, not wanting to cause another problem that she'd have to fix later--which, honestly, Isla was shocked to see.

"He's in there--"

"I know." Jax cut her short, ushering Tara to the back of the clubhouse--striving to get her into the room before she heeded Isla.

But she did.

The first person she clocked--aside from Clay--was Isla Telford, the woman she had purposely alienated herself from ten fucking years ago.

It wasn't anything that she'd particularly done to Tara, more like the crowd she ran with--and the way her loyalties never seemed to lay very closely to her friends, or anything outside of the club.

Isla wasn't a part of Samcro--she didn't want to be a part of Samcro--but her coalition was strong enough to convince anybody that she was more than merely a daughter of a Sgt. at Arms.

She had been brought up around the Sons--her father's choice, of course--and when her mother passed, she had no choice but to dive a little bit deeper into that world. But, as expected, it was constantly under the watchful eye of her old man.

She was dedicated to them. They were, essentially, family, and she was an honorary member.

"Isla." Jax mumbled, nodding his head toward the entrance of the clubhouse as he closed the back-door. "Outside."

He pulled a carton of cigarettes out of his leather vest, shaking the box as he strived to seem a little less suspicious to Clay and his mother.

The blonde wobbled to her feet--knees weak after hours of standing--while simultaneously pulling her bloodied flannel back onto svelte, freckled arms, recognizing that the chill was to hit her the second she stepped onto the gravel.

Jax was casual while he strutted ahead, taking long strides that Isla found fucking impossible to keep up with.

He pushed the door to close behind her, offering a cigarette that she hastily declined.

"What's she doing here?" Was how she decided to break the silence, her eyes searching for a hint of something written on his face.

But there was nothing. Not an ounce of emotion--scarily so.

"She's fixing Cameron up--"

"Not at the clubhouse, Jax. I meant back in Charming."

He ran a thumb across his lower lip, trying to soften his gaze on Isla, but it was futile. He looked discomposed--unsettled.

"She's uh--she's workin' at the hospital now." She started to nod, waiting for his elaboration. It never came, however.

"Oh, that's nice. I wonder what happened in Chicago...Do you know why she's back here? Or how long she's gonna be staying in town--"

"You sound like my fucking mother--give it a break with the thirty-seven questions about Tara, damnit."

He snarled, heeding the distaste of his words the second she glowered at him.

"Excuse you?"

"I didn't call you out here for a sweet little conversation, Isla, I called you 'cause I need your help--"

"With what?"

Jax's hand hooked onto the back of his neck while he tilted his head to look upward, thinking of a way--any fucking way--to explain just what damn mess he'd found himself entwined with over the course of the last twenty-four hours.

He didn't know what to say or how to say it--if he should've fucking said it. He trusted Isla with his life--always had--but sometimes he appreciated that she mightn't have appreciated finding herself tangled within Jax's boisterous, at times frightening, life.

But it was too late for that. She'd been dragged through the deepest shit and wasn't crumbling that easily.

"Jax--"

"Kohn." He stated simply, waiting for the cogs of her brain to begin turning.

"What about him? You got in trouble with the ATF or something? Because we can handle that--"

"I already did." Jax laughed humorlessly, finally meeting Isla's line of sight.

The skin underneath his eyes was red raw, blotchy and irritated after he had used the sleeve of his hoodie to scrub away the tears he'd shed.

The tears he hadn't wanted to shed, but had fallen freely--uncontrollably--from those cerulean hues Isla never tired of looking at.

"What do you mean by that?" Nervously, she quizzed.

He didn't even have to say anything. She fucking knew. She knew exactly what he meant by that, but there was a tiny morsel of something within her that hoped and prayed that he'd declare that her gut feeling was wrong.

But he couldn't. Because it was right. Like always, Isla's intuition didn't fail her.

"Jax, honey, what did you do--"

"I killed Kohn."

[bigskydreaming]

princeescaluswords replied to your post:

Alex Summers, after the most recent of 128979889...

Why don’t you write Marvel? You couldn’t possibly do any worse and I could use the laughs!

Lol, its a nice dream, but realistically I don’t think there’s any universe in which Marvel would ever let me write the X-Men. 

Like, my very first story would probably have Bobby refreezing the Arctic while Storm heads up a team of elementals to combat climate change. And then a Republican senator and a Democrat senator would go on TV and make a bipartisan show of expressing their gratitude towards mutants for helping save the planet and this is the real future of humanity, this is them all building a world where they can live side by side in a mutually beneficial -

And then the broadcast would cut off because Cypher just hacked every satellite worldwide and said “all your binary codes belong to me now, resistance is futile, blah blah” before turning the camera to Sunspot who’s all decked out in his snazziest suit and dressed to the nines. Roberto yawns and flips the whole world off and says “LOL fuck you, the X-Men are done with respectability politics, we took a vote and our democratic process actually works, we don’t have a fucking electoral college. We only saved the planet because it happens to be the planet we live on, dipshits, nobody did it for you, you’re still cordially invited to go extinct. Or you can play nice and try getting along with the rest of us for a change but good luck trying to make Sentinels happen again, lmao, funding’s gonna be an issue for you pretty soon I think.”

He turns off the camera and goes back to planning his and Sam’s wedding, because look, I have my priorities, okay.

Then Mystique unleashes her new Fellowship of Evil (Same Name, But This Time Its Evil as in STFU, Its Ironic U Assholes) Mutants that she’s been recruiting from the ranks of the young and disenchanted. Overnight, the market is flooded with gold and gems transmuted from ordinary materials by mutant powers, as well as a bunch of shit ‘liberated’ from the coffers of the 1% via her Fellowship’s alliance with her son-in-law’s Thieves’ Guild. Value plummets instantly, and then technopaths join in the fun, crashing every banking system worldwide.

“Whoopsie, I broke capitalism, money’s worthless now, vive la revolution, everyone eat some fucking cake,” Raven sing-songs merrily from the chaise she’s lounging on while eating grapes. The city outside her window is burning. Meanwhile, a fiddler is playing nearby. She calls him Nero, because Aesthetic.

“Oh relax,” she rolls her eyes when Remy attempts to frown at her disapprovingly. “I had my teleporters evacuate the city before I set it on fire. I’m not a heartless monster, you know.”

“You mean you didn’t want to spend the next ten years dealing with your children yelling at you about innocent civilians and how could you,” Remy says dryly.

Mystique just shrugs and eats some more grapes. “Or that.”

Far-right dominated police forces and white supremacist militia groups attempt to forcibly establish martial law, except mostly they’re just standing around clutching their heads and trying to cope with the mother of all migraines as a gestalt of telepathic minds headed up by a Cerebro-powered octet of Jean, Emma, Betsy, Rachel, Quentin, and the Stepford Cuckoos psychically screams FAKE NEWS!!! into their brains every time their CO’s attempt to bark out new orders.

“Best school project ever,” Quire shouts. Emma smirks.

“Extra credit to the first person to psychically leak the full extent of just how extensively governments have invaded their citizens’ privacy with surveillance extremism in the name of national security.”

Jean attempts a half second of chastisement, but with them all linked this closely, there’s really no way to hide that she’s mostly just amused. Oh no, she and Emma are seeing eye to eye on something and there are witnesses and everything. The revolution was a mistake.

Atlanteans and mutant hydrokinetics team up to shove the worst oil and toxic waste and trash spills up onto the shores of every beach marked ‘privately owned’. The mile-wide ‘island’ of plastic debris that formerly sat in the middle of the Pacific is now parked off the coast of Malibu.

There’s a twenty foot demon from Limbo sitting in the Oval Office. It burps. Illyana beams and boops its nose. “Good boy.” It wags its tail and breaks the Oval Office.

Kitty and Kurt direct teams of similarly powered mutants in raiding the top secret R&D facilities of major pharmaceutical companies for all their research on diseases that never made it to mass production because they decided those treatments or cures wouldn’t be profitable in the long run because healthy people don’t need to spend a ton of money on medical care. Teams of healers are standing by to vet the viability of various research, while Hank, Cece and other mutant geniuses are already working on filling in the gaps on all the projects that were shutdown and Forge, Madison Jeffries and tech-based geniuses are converting existing infrastructure into the necessary machinery to take over mass production of these drugs, prosthetics, and sweatshop labor in general.

Speedsters and teleporters are redistributing food and stocking up the millions of properties worldwide that have just been sitting there empty for god knows how long, useless. Colossus is standing in the smashed remains of a mansion with his arms crossed sternly while a man who is definitely not meant to resemble the CEOs of either Tesla or Amazon or look like some kind of Musky Bozo hybrid cowers on the floor.

“You are a very stupid man,” Colossus says. “Why are you wasting billions funding research into space travel when there are aliens with a strong grasp of the technology in the ships that brought them here on every superhero team on Earth? You could have easily provided the Earth with working and widely accessible space travel by now if you weren’t so miserly.”

“Yeah,” Juggernaut says behind him, scratching his head. “Aliens have been coming and going from this planet for like fifty years. There are tons of fancy spaceships anyone could’ve just reverse engineered and mass produced by now. How come nobody’s ever done that and we’re all just acting like space travel is some far-off dream when everyone we know’s been to space like at least ten times?”

“Stupid people,” Colossus rumbles again. Musky Bozo wets himself and Piotr sighs and shakes his head. He didn’t even touch him.

Cyclops and Wolverine and their teams of bruisers are already done with the ICE facilities and have progressed to busting open prisons and liberating all nonviolent offenders. They inform everyone else that they can appeal to a panel of telepaths to read their minds and see for themselves that they’re innocent.

“Guilt determined by mind-reading?” Someone asks. “Lots of potential for sketchiness there.”

“Absolutely,” Scott says. “Which is why laws about boundaries and oversight have to be established. For now, its a volunteer basis only. Nobody has to get their mind read, but its an option available in the meanwhile as we sort out a better system for determining who’s been imprisoned for crimes of premeditated malice and abuse and who’s just been railroaded by an unjust and biased system.”

“So this is your new utopia, huh?” Sneers the prison warden, from the floor where he’s on his ass with a busted face because, idk, Reasons.

Scott just shakes his head. “No. It’s merely a start.”

“If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it, but if its broke and you wanna fix it, you gotta start somewhere,” Logan says gruffly. “Shit was broke. This is ‘starting somewhere.’”

He and Scott share a very Passionate look of camaraderie. Rogue sighs loudly.

“Just fuck already, jfc.”

Logan grunts. He already offered, but apparently all Personal Business must wait until after the Revolution was over, because a Scott Summers who put himself first was very clearly an impostor, so its not like Logan could even fucking get mad considering Scott putting in a pin in sucking each other’s faces after their We Were Both Dead But Now We’re Not and Also What the Fuck Was Up With Us For the Five Whole Years Before That reunion was what confirmed that it was definitely the Real Scott’s tongue in his mouth.

“Alright, let’s move it people,” Logan barks, clapping his hands. “There’s three more joints to hit before sundown. We got a timetable here.”

Jubilee squints at him suspiciously. “Since when are you efficient?”

“Mind your own fucking business.”

At no point does anyone suggest they erase the most sacred sites of all the world’s major religions and call them all fake or randomly resurrect a bunch of dinosaurs and release them on unsuspecting and innocent populations, because those are terrible ideas and make no sense and just because they’re stinkin’ commies now doesn’t mean they’re fucking morons.

Also, nobody grows a ridiculous beard or stops using shampoo or starts wearing flip flops or robes, because apparently those are not actually essential components of being a stinkin’ commie or even just a garden variety peace-aspiring socialist. They checked. Extensively. It was almost a dealbreaker. Emma, Monet and Roberto all threatened to side with the Capitalist Pigs if that was not thoroughly clarified before proceeding any further.

Thus ends my first issue. I email Marvel the script. They email it back, almost entirely redacted in red, with the note “This isn’t quite what we were looking for. Do you have anything about a new cure for mutants, maybe?”

I email them back: LOL NO. MAGNETO WAS RIGHT.

I am promptly fired.

I go back to ranting about how Marvel sucks on the internet.

[palestinianliberator]

Story of our family’s blood curse

OKAY SO I didn’t realize how detailed this was until I actually sat down to try and write about it...but I’ll try to keep things juicy and concise.

It’s important to preface this by saying that in my village, there are three major families, or “clans”. There’s Manasrah, which my family hails from, Saramah, and Awowda. These clans supersede the immediate family units, and are incredibly unified and caring of one another. 

The story starts with my grandma Mohdia and her three brothers, Musa [also known as Moses], Yousef, and Tawfik.

My grandmother spent her whole life in Palestine, very rarely leaving, while her brothers moved around the world to find work - Tawfik and Yousef moving separately to the US, and Musa moving to El Salvador where he started a family and became known as “Moses al-Arabiy” [Moses the Arab].

Yousef had 5 sons and and 4 daughters, one of his sons were Waleed and one of his grandkids was Khaled. Waleed was a good kid, working with his father and helping to support both his family, while Khaled was a gambling alcoholic who would beg friends and family for money. Yousef’s wife [who hails from the Saramah clan] had a daughter from a previous marriage who herself had a son, Mohammad. This daughter and son were not a part of their new family [my family basically], as they were loyal to her biological father of the opposing clan and remained with them. I KNOW THIS IS PROBABLY CONFUSING BUT BEAR WITH ME!

One day in the mid to late 1960s, Khaled went up to Mohammad, who was a wealthy man, and asked for money. Mohammad denied him and apparently chastised his behavior and inability to support himself. Khaled, drunk and furious at the slight, gunned Mohammad down and ran off, going into hiding.

Now my village is INCREDIBLY strict when it comes to dishing out justice, and they take family honor and alliances very seriously - when it came out that Khaled was responsible for the murder of Mohammad, our family offered up his life to make things even, knowing that he was guilty of murder and should face punishment for what he’d done. Not everyone agreed with this, but it was seen as the best way to keep things from escalating. Khaled was then executed, and after a period of mourning for both victims, things went back to normal.

Except that the mother and uncle of the family friend that was murdered weren’t satisfied. Keep in mind, my grandma’s brother/my “uncle” and my family are of the Manasrah clan, while the murdered man and his bereaved family were from the Saramah clan.

The mother, distraught at the loss of her successful and beloved son, went out into the village declaring that God had not allowed true justice to prevail, and that she would cast a blood curse on Yousef [her mother’s new husband], his family, and his entire lineage, and that she would seal it with blood so that nobody will ever forget the crime committed against her, her family, and her clan. Think of how serious and committed someone must be to go out and publicly speak of blood magic in a relatively conservative village like this - she wasn’t joking around. Not long after this, she disappeared completely. 

Things remained somewhat tense, but overall okay.

Several years later, however, one of Yousef’s kids was killed under “unknown circumstances”, his body dumped in the street. The general consensus was that the family of Mohammad, the man killed previously, was responsible, but otherwise nothing solid and things eventually moved on.

In retrospect, that was the “blood” that sealed her curse.

Now switching gears and going back to Moses al-Araby, my grandma’s other brother living in Bolivia. He was involved in leftist revolutionary movements and opposed the US backed government that took over following the coup in 1964. I don’t know too many details about his life, but I hope to learn more as I reach out to family still in Bolivia in the future. Anyways, after the collapse of the organization Moses was involved in, he went into hiding.

Several years later, sometime in the mid to late 60s, Tawfiq [the last of my grandma’s brothers] travelled with his son to Bolivia to meet with Moses, not knowing ANYTHING of his involvement with leftist revolutionary groups, and not being involved in any sort of political movements himself. Tawfiq was falsely identified as Moses, and was assassinated along with his son by a hit squad. Moses used this as an opportunity to flee the country, going into hiding in the Middle East for a period, before he himself was eventually killed by Israeli forces in the late 80s. 

Now back to Yousef, who in the late 70s was living in Idaho with his wife and some Waleed, where they owned a jeans and fashion store. One day, both Yousef and his 25 year old son Waleed were assassinated in a case that, to this day, remains an “unsolved murder”. The funny thing is, we know who did it, and we know where this individual currently lives.

Anyways, it was made well known that the assassination of both Yousef and Waleed was still part of the mother’s payback, and she followed through with her threat to murder her biological mother’s new husband. This entire time, however, she remained missing. She was never seen again after her initial threats of a blood curse. The building where Yousef and his son was assassinated is know known as a “haunted location”, a building in which future tenants have claimed to here voices and shouting, and where a man eventually hung himself. You can read about some of that bit here. So it’s great to know that if I ever want to visit my distant uncle, I can find his spirit in that building. 

The body count at this point is 7, including the original murder and murderer. 

Given this brazen attack on our family, and given that we knew the two men responsible for the murder, our clan decided to strike back. One of the two murderers was killed and his body hidden in a dessert in Las Vegas. you can read about that in the link above^. I don’t know who was responsible exactly, but it’s common knowledge that it was all in connection to the assassination of Yousef and his son.

Man there is so much more that I’m glossing over, but I’m trying to keep this from turning into a novel x_x.

There’s an ENTIRE other story about how this back and forth killing led to a feud so big that the IDF had to storm Deir Dibwan to resolve things, all sparked by two more killings tied to clan relations with this blood curse/feud.

By the end of the initial killing spree, each of my grandmother’s brothers had been murdered, with people at this point blaming the blood curse, and hoping it was the end.

Well...it wasn’t. 

In the years since - two of Yousef’s sons died in car accidents, and a third was gunned down in a random attack. One of his daughters died with her family in a house fire.

One of Moses’ kids was gunned down in Bolivia under unknown circumstances.

Two of Tawfiq’s kids lost ALL of their money in different ways, leaving their families in shambles. One of his daughters committed suicide.

One of Tawfiq’s grandkids, the ~rapper~ Mally Mall [who is my cousin lol] had his house burn down, killing his pet wildcat.

Another of Tawfiq’s kids just went missing one day, and was never found.

One of Tawfiq’s grandkids also went missing, but he was eventually found in his car, which had been set on fire with him inside.

My grandma’s sister, who had been through enough shit with al-Nakba and some stuff that had happened to her due to Israeli forces, ended up losing her eye.

Then you have my immediate family & immediate aunts and uncles - I don’t want to divulge THEIR personal details here, but suffice to say......things are pretty messy. My grandma lost two of her children, and three of my aunts and uncles lost 4 children between them. My aunt had her San Francisco store burned down in an arson attack and lost a child to drowning. I came into this post fully intended to discuss some of the personal details with my family/uncles that more recently reflected manifestations of ~the curse~, but I realize now that I don’t want to share that info publicly...sorry x_x. 

To this day, the curse and this entire ordeal is pretty well-known throughout the village, and two clans have since made amends. There have also been multiple “attempts” to tackle the blood curse, but.....you know, HOW do you know when one has been lifted? Especially one cast out of such malice. And sure, you can just go and blame any negative occurrence on ~a curse~, but given that the body count is well over 20, given the extreme unlikelihood that so many houses in my family have been burned down, given that my uncle’s goddamn spirit is said to still haunt the building where he was assassinated.......you know??

At this point, any negative major event that happens, we joke about as being the result of the curse~ [and those that know me..............well.. (: ]. At this point I’m going to stop typing, because holy hell this is long.....and I should probably proofread it first, but I just want to post it before I lose everything. 

[lotornomiko]

The Sacrificial Maiden Overhauled Chapter Two (Still some violence to make it a NSFW read?)

A slow burn kind of romance, Rufus Alicia pairing. Both caught and rescued by a man, a God, who claims to know her by another name, she is a veritable prisoner up in his home in the heavens, past and present at war, her reality versus his memories, and a deal that may cost them both more than they could ever imagine. The revamp of My Sacrificial Maiden fic.

Chapter Two: A Rufus POV

The village lay half in ruin, its buildings on fire, things overturned, smashed, and outright destroyed. The devastation had spread to the fields, the harvest that these people had spent all year working to grow, and the crops not yet picked in danger. Such needlessly cruel havoc, it was worse than anything he might have expected, and yet so completely in line with the malevolent nature of Nifleheim. That brand of evil, it made his fingers tighten on his weapon, his anger such that the man was almost sick with it. That blaze of fury, it bubbled up inside him, a majestic surge of power shooting outward, the light of it spreading slowly but surely over every inch of Coriander.

As potent as it was heady, that use of the power of Creation inside him, Rufus watched as the fires were put out in an instant, buildings rapidly restored, things rebuilt and righted, down to the crops that was so necessary for these people’s survival, it was to his lasting pity that this same power couldn’t right the wrong done to villager’s souls.

It was not that there was a limit to Creation’s power, so much as they were laws that governed just what could be done. A promise that not even God himself could break with, the lives once lost cast into the cycle of rebirth and ruin, souls either reborn or so wholly destroyed that all trace of them were removed from existence.  It was more than a death sentence, that, it was a complete annihilation of a person’s being, such an extreme act reserved for only the most vile of sinners and the most desperate of sacrifices. Rufus had born witness to both suffering that fate, that of the mad man who had blasphemed against the entirety of the world, and that of the brave women who had let themselves be destroyed for the chance to stop him.

Five souls in all had been lost as a result, sinner and saints alike, and with them, balance and order had been restored. Creation itself was saved, the world and its people no longer in such imminent danger. Their every day struggles continued, eight of the nine varied realms content to maintain a lasting attempt at harmony, with only Nifleheim determined to destroy all chance at peace. With Hel as their leader, the demons, monsters, and that of the damned, all strove to steal every bit of existence that they could, to spread their despair and greed to all. Coriander was just the latest in their bid for dominance, and yet it angered him all the more, Rufus aware that these senseless acts of violence, had finally had a true purpose behind them.

Meant to strike a most personal blow to the God who ruled over all of Creation, this unforgivable act had been meant as a trap. Even knowing this, Rufus had still come, discarding Freya’s concerns, putting himself and the world in jeopardy to right the wrong done in the name of catching God. He had been called foolish as a result, deemed needlessly reckless, and far too human in thought. He had argued back that those same faults as she saw them, were what had allowed for God’s benevolence to extend to all the realms, and not just the heavens alone.

Furious as Freya had been, the Goddess has not been able to argue against the truth of that. Creation was thriving, ALL of it, such peace and prosperity the likes of which had never been known under Odin’s thoughtless tyranny. The world itself had become like a paradise, food and resources plentiful, whole nations thriving, Creation remade to be what SHE would have wanted. Freed from the cruel manipulation of the Gods, their mad schemes and blatant toying, it was what SHE, Alicia, had sacrificed her soul for.

“Alicia...” The name and the memory of her, never failed to bring him pain, it and a desperate longing spiking through him. Such bitter sweet hurt, that of a heart never fully healed, Rufus had and still suffered a wealth of varied emotions, the unresolved feelings of a love that had never truly had a chance to be. Now wasn’t the time to slip in to the melancholy over what he had been denied, that poignant loss something to be set aside for a time better spent righting the wrongs of this past night.

“Report.” He said to the sudden presence besides him. The soul, an einherjar, had dropped to one knee, head bowed in a kind of reverent respect that wasn’t easily cast aside. The awe and esteem placed on him, was something Rufus still wasn’t used to, and even less liked, but old habits died hard, more heroes than not resisting the break of tradition.

“Only a few stragglers remain on the outskirts of the village.”

“Good, see that they are caught and returned to their mistress’ stern embrace.” A pause then, Rufus trying to keep the beat of his heart from betraying him. “What of the girl?”

There was a noticeable flinch as reaction from the kneeling einherjar. “Missing.”

He couldn’t stop the surge of unease, the panic and the worry, the alarm bells going off in his head, as the God turned to focus fully on this bearer of bad news. “What do you mean she is missing!?” A different kind of power spread out from him, colored as it was by his spike of emotion, its spread across the village instantly confirming his einherjar’s words.

“Shit!” Rufus swore, already on the move. The einherjar hurried to his feet, following after the God, but there was no keeping up with a man as desperately motivated as Rufus now was. His long strides pounded down pavement and dirt, Rufus passing through the heart of the town, to get to the outskirts, where fighting still took place. It was the heaven’s warriors and it was the scourge of Nifleheim, the damned souls of human sinners not yet ready to give up. Engaged in that bloody and violent combat, no one paid real mind to the cloaked figure who had entered into the midst of the battle.

A rising urgency within him, Rufus began pushing aside einherjar and blasphemer alike, his power still out there searching. Passing over each person, tasting of their soul, and finding them lacking, he continued his frantic quest, until at last before him, stood a demon, it’s malevolent eyes a crimson color that marked it as one of the undead.

Immediate was both their reactions, the demonic creature’s claws going for the God whose weapon rose to block the blow. Sharp tipped nails scrabbled over metal, the divine lance sending off sparks of power that had the monster screeching in pain. With a strong kick out of his right leg, Rufus sent the undead fiend flying back, the momentum only broke by a tree in its path. Its snarl cut off short, to find a glowing arrow in its face, the divine energy slowly but surely burning a hole into the creature’s cheek.

“Where is she!? Where have you taken her!?” His voice was more frantic than commanding, the hand that held onto the bow and the arrows, visibly shaking.

Even so wounded and in pain, the demon still took the time to taunt him. To mock him with a twisted smile, claws grabbing at the arrow head embedded in its cheek. “Hers will make a ripe soul for Hel’s feast.”

Another arrow flew, this time pinning a hand to the bark of the tree. The undead fiend howled in pain, the divine energy pouring off the metal, burning its tainted soul little by little. “She is an innocent!” Rufus was the one snarling now, drawing the attention of einherjar and damned alike. “Free of Nifleheim and its Queen’s grasp!”

Coughing up blood and saliva, the demon spat in the God’s face. “Believe that all you like...it won’t spare her soul from going under.”

Near blind with his rage and with his desperation, a third arrow was unleashed, and with it a horrible, grating sound, that of the monster laughing. It set Rufus off further, Gungnir transforming from bow to lance in an instant, the divine weapon suddenly at the fiend’s throat. Even that didn’t stop that mocking noise, Rufus wanting answers, and wanting them now.

“You have lost.” That piercing laughter continued, the demon brash and bold as it locked eyes with the God. “So what will it be? Creation or the girl? Which one will you see damned for all of lasting eternity?” A smirk then. “Surely God would not be so selfish...to sacrifice the good of the all for one single, solitary soul...” A pause, the smirk growing all the more grotesque. “Ah but we mustn’t forget, that this one is special…”

“Damn you...”

“I’ll extend to you Hel’s invitation.” The demon spoke over him. “You’ve not much time left to accept…”

“Oh I’ll be there.” A hiss followed by the pressure of his arm pushing down on the divine lance. “But old Hel is in for a surprise, if she thinks I’ll give up the world OR the girl!” The monster’s mocking laugh was cut off by its head being severed, the narrowed eye malice of it’s expression captured for all eternity, as it fell free of the body, and rolled to a stop against the God’s foot. He stared down at it, still so angry and full of so volatile a need, Rufus bringing his booted foot down to smash the offending face to bloody pieces.

Turning swiftly, he looked at the gathered einherjar, saw that most if not all of the damned had been subdued by them. Such a miserable and angry lot, their hostility and wicked ambition was radiating off them in waves, the group defiant to the last, and clearly intent on causing more trouble should the slightest mercy be shown them.

“Kill them.” Came the cold order, but it was not the God who had given voice to the command, but that of a Goddess.

“Freya!” Surprise was in his voice, along with a wary hostility, the two a pair that weren’t on good terms under the best of circumstances. “Have you come to stop me?”

“Yes, from being more foolish than usual, you idiotic God!” A emerald colored glare met his, the green clad Goddess standing in mid air, with her hands on her hips. “Honestly, do you ever think things through!?” She gestured wildly with her arm, encompassing the newly restored village. “Unleashing God’s miracles with little regard for the target it paints...”

“Coriander was a target long before that..” He countered, Rufus bristling despite himself. “Freya, they know...” He gave a sharp jerk of his head. “Not only that, they HAVE her.”

“Yes, I know...”

Those clipped sounding words raised his hackles, his glare narrowing further as he raged and glowered at the Goddess. “What do you mean, yes, you know…!?”

“Why ELSE would I be here!?” Tensions escalated with that, Rufus feeling very close to throttling the Goddess.

“Well then you understand what I HAVE to do.” It was his tone that was terse, Rufus barely in control of his rage. “And WHY I can’t let anyone stand in my way…!”

Sudden was her reaction, the gold glint of ether the only thing that lingered in the space the Goddess has just been occupying. In the span of the millisecond that it took einherjar and damned to blink their eyes, the lady Freya had gone from her lofty position in the sky, to standing right before the God. That divine energy gleamed upon her hand, followed by a loud slap of sound, the blonde haired woman in green having struck the man’s face.

It was a slap so hard that he actually staggered back, and the sound that escaped him was shocked at best. That nonsensical noise, it and the look that he gave her, were the only reaction he seemed capable of, Rufus doing an open mouthed gape at the Goddess. Freya’s lips pressed together, the woman’s emerald colored eyes looking stormy with her anger.

“You are always such a fool...I fear this side to you will never change, no matter how many more centuries may pass...” She shook her head, and took another step forward, briefly touching fingertips to his weapon, Gungnir. “Coriander may have been ONE of their targets, but never forget that THIS and the power to wield it are their true goals.”

That power came with more than just physical strength, all of Creation’s knowledge stored within, every last rule and responsibility bound to a single choice. To do right by the world, or to do wrong by it, and never had this God wavered with that particular indecision before, Rufus having always wanted to be the direct opposite of his tormentor and predecessor, Odin. It was to his and the realms’ detriment, that the single, solitary element, that one soul in particular, had been found, HERS the only thing in existence that the God might be willing to damn the world to never ending darkness for.

With that thought he could barely meet the gaze of the emerald green eyes that bore into his, the weight of her stare not just one of consideration, but one of daring, the Goddess expression and manner so like that day of a few hundred years ago. That time, on the very tops of Yggsdrasil’s branches, she had put forth a challenge, willing Rufus to prove himself worthy of the power he had been about to claim.

The stakes weren’t much different now, as it had been then, Creation itself seeming to hold its breath, Rufus knowing the one and only answer that could satisfy the goddess, was a promise he could not give.

“I will be careful...” He stated instead. “I don’t intend to give up my power OR the girl’s soul, to the likes of Hel and her minions.”

A great breath expelled out of the Goddess, the sounds so exasperated and weary, Freya taking a step back. “Then you best hurry.” This change in attitude seemed to stagger him as much as her earlier slap had, Rufus just staring at her, flabbergasted. Was it a kindness that had the golden haired Goddess choose not to comment on his slack jawed response? He’d never know for sure, the green clad deity speaking.

“Her innocence buys her soul some measure of protection.” Freya continued. “But there are ways to work around even that.”

“Ways?” He croaked out, barely able to comprehend what she was implying.

“To drag a soul worthy of the heavens down into Nifleheim’s dark abyss.” clarified Freya. “Evil magic,  a long forbidden ritual, that can disguise the purity within...” Her green gaze was troubled, as though the Goddess was doubting herself in telling him this. “It will take time to cast, to make the sacrifice ready for its descent….”

“Sacrifice!?”

“No living creature may tread foot upon the underworld that’s not demon or divine....” She fixed him with a look. “You should already know this...” A shake of her head, a kind of promise in her eyes that foretold that the lecture he was to receive would be put off only for this one time.

“Head to the forgotten temple...” Her arm raised up, ether dripping off one single finger tip. “Those abandoned ruins are perfect for the desecration that must be committed there.”

He has so many questions, might have even owed her his apology, but above all else, amid the many varied emotions he was feeling, the urgency and the desperation, and that thin bit of hope that he’d make it in time, was a sliver of gratitude.

“Thank you.” He said and meant it, the gold orb of divine energy flying free of Freya’s hand. It shot off in an arc, zigzagging past people, marking the path the God needed to follow. A glow accompanied its travels, the light turning faint when it slipped through the trees, and into the depths of the forest.

“We will finish up here...” He nodded, but barely took to the meaning behind those words, a growing sense of urgency worsened, Rufus innately knowing that to lose track of the ether trail would result in a slim window closing, the soul that he was so desperate towards saving, perhaps lost for good. He took off running, the cloak clasped in place over his shoulders, flaring out, and with every step taken, he seemed to fly, moving with the grace of a divine, and a speed that was unnatural to any other of Creation’s beings. His surroundings seemed to blur around him, his focus narrowed down to the one aid Freya had lent him, moving as it did, with sharp zig zags over and around tress, past the startled creatures of the forest, to climb higher and higher up a mountain, until abruptly a drop was upon them, the arc of gold light shooting down into a valley to come circling around what had to be the ruins of a temple.

His expression grimly determined, Gungnir obeyed an unspoken command, shifting from it’s natural form, to that of the shape of his preferred weapon of choice. The polished silver gleamed, reflecting the light and the glow that surrounded the ruins. Save for the ether, nothing else stirred, not animal and certainly not damned or demonic, Rufus taking careful steps forward.

“Too easy...” He murmured with a frown. Did they not expect him here, or was this yet another of Hel’s traps? Whatever the answer, he had to keep moving, and then all attempt at being quiet was lost, to the sight of blood on the ground. What had started out as a few smears, soon turned into a distinct trail, as though something wounded had been dragged. He feared the answer as to what that something had been, but more than that, it made him nearly blind with fury, Rufus taking off running, his booted feet pounding the ground, and then the broken marble of what remained of the interior’s floor. Things spooked inside the temple, animals from the sound of it, both predator and prey made wary by the God tearing through their makeshift home.

The blood trail stopped just short of the flood, a room that was more filled with water than not. From across its icy surface, came a sound, that of a low monotone voice speaking, chanting some kind of nonsense out. He then plunged waist deep into the water, abandoning the cloak that tried to drag him down with its wet weight, and came at last to the deepest part of the temple. To a place that had once been the heart of a divine worship, now made a mockery of all its values, by the monsters, the demons, who played at stealing a soul.

He couldn’t see the soul in question, but he could FEEL it, both the girl and that ebb of her life starting to slip free of her body. She was barely hanging on, and the claws around her throat weren’t helping the matter, Rufus notching an arrow to his bow. Divine energy didn’t just glow on the feathered tip, it poured off it in strong waves, the God a snarling mass of fury, as he proclaimed to the gathered demons that they had NO right.

The blinding blaze of that launched arrow marked it’s path as true, the pointed tip slamming into one of the wrists of a demon. It screamed and dropped its hold of the girl, her pale and near lifeless body, hitting the floor harder than Rufus would have liked. He was beyond furious in response, arrow after arrow flying, the God on the move, nightmares rushing towards him, more than he could keep track of, his figure swarmed and swamped by that dark mass. He went under, with claws tearing into him, the pummel of fists and other appendages striking him, those fiends relentless but then so was he! With a roar, and a power that shot off him in waves, that strong surge of divine energy sent Nifleheim’s worst flying back, arrows again airborne, piercing into body after body, the God this wild thing, an unstoppable force that bit by bit made his way closer towards the altar, and the broken form of the girl who lay unconscious before it.

Not even the reinforcements that came rushing out of the shadows could make a difference, Rufus dispatching them all with an ease that was almost laughable if not for the mad rage inside him. Gungnir’s wire sang with every arrow unleashed, this room of worship lit up by all the divine energy burning apart the very essence of the demons. His own ragged breath was heard, a sign not of exhaustion, but one of wordless fury, nothing and no one able to calm him save for the life he was taking into his hands.  

“Ah….” His fingers hovered uncertain for one second too long, Rufus cursing himself, for now was NOT the time for any kind of hesitation. He was nervous all the same, whole centuries having passed dreaming of this kind of moment. A touch of any kind, his hands a kind of reverence normally reserved for only the Gods, she was then cradled close against his chest, the girl’s head falling back to give him a start of his own.

Far older than he had anticipated, the girl---more so a young woman, and with the body to prove it, marked the passage of a time he had not realized had even fully passed. To him it still felt like it had only been just yesterday, that he chanced upon the child, the soul that had inexplicably been reincarnated. But for the mortals of Midgard, time had never stopped, at least a whole ten years having passed, if not more, for this woman.

He was made stupid in the face of a beauty that didn’t so much rival that of his memories, as replicate it completely. From the sweet curve of her lips, to the honey hued color of her hair, to the thick lashes of her eyes, she was the spitting image of his Alicia. No, she was more than just her twin, branded as she was by the ever weakening soul inside her, this young woman somehow against all the odds, and the laws of providence, this was his lost love reborn!

“Alicia…” His vision blurred with a hint of his gratitude, a tear falling free. It was a miracle, one he had prayed for and given up on ever happening, this soul meant to be struck from existence. It had never sat right with him, the unfairness of it all, the idea that Alicia would be punished instead of rewarded for the sacrifice she had given.

The impossible had happened. Somehow, someway, some power higher than even that of God, having righted a wrong that had tormented him for centuries. He didn’t know who or what they were indebted to, but the grateful deity wasn’t about to squander this, their second chance. Not to Hel, and not to the young woman’s own fragile state, Rufus lowering his head to brush lips over hers.

Cold and trembling at first, the warmth of the ether on his lips began to work it’s own miracle. Her lips began to take on a heat of their own, quivering mouths joined together, and from that merging of flesh, a healthy flush began to overtake the pale skin. It was life, and it was vitality, a healing magic that brought her heart beating a stronger tempo, her chest rising and falling easier with an even breath, a soul that had almost snapped free, instead pulled back, death and damnation both held at bay once more.

Snuggled into the warmth, the young woman began to stir. Slowly at first, but then with a rising panic, her soft hands pushing at him, trying to break them free of the kiss. It was wrong of him, he knew, but Rufus lingered longer than the miracle required, enjoying the kiss in a way that was pure need of a different kind, that of a love and a desire denied for so many centuries thus.

Her hands became more and more insistent, the tension within that frame making her come off as frantic, and only belatedly would he then remember, that mortals had need to breathe. She was already half swooning as a result, eyes that he knew would be colored so beautiful a blue, fluttering to look up at him.

“Hey...” It was more awkward then he felt their reunion should be, Rufus giving the young woman, a sheepish looking grin. “It’s been a long time…Alicia…”

“Ah...” She struggled to form the words, a questioning sound at the end of them. “Alicia?” He could hear the flustered beat of her heart, the sound faster than was healthy, that frightened tempo more than any mortal could maintain, and with it, went her eyes, the blue color lost to the sudden weight slumping against him, the woman having given in to the faint.

To Be Continued…

I’m glad I took a nap in the middle of writing this. I was having SO much trouble with my first draft of the Freya Rufus scene...so much so, that upon coming back, I HATED that first attempt, and trashed it into what felt like the better read. Overall, Freya aside, I had enjoyed writing this chapter. XD

---Michelle

[hail-to-the-republic]

The White House • August 5, 2019

President Trump: ‘Hate has no place in America’

On Saturday morning, a wicked person opened fire on innocent families shopping at a Walmart store in El Paso, Texas. Precious children were among the victims. The following day, another act of evil took place on a crowded street in Dayton, Ohio. These two horrible incidents left more than 80 people killed or wounded. 

Earlier today, President Donald J. Trump addressed the nation from the White House:

  The First Lady and I join all Americans in praying and grieving for the victims, their families, and the survivors. We will stand by their side forever. We will never forget. These barbaric slaughters are an assault upon our communities, an attack upon our nation, and a crime against all of humanity. We are outraged and sickened by this monstrous evil, the cruelty, the hatred, the malice, the bloodshed, and the terror. Our hearts are shattered for every family whose parents, children, husbands, and wives were ripped from their arms and their lives. America weeps for the fallen. We are a loving nation, and our children are entitled to grow up in a just, peaceful and loving society. Together, we lock arms to shoulder the grief. We ask God in Heaven to ease the anguish of those who suffer. And we vow to act with urgent resolve. 

Hate, in any of its forms, has no place in the United States of America. In the two decades since Columbine, our nation has witnessed one mass shooting after another. It’s easy to feel powerless in the face of such violence. America can and will rise to the challenge.

By taking action, “we will ensure that those who were attacked will not have died in vain,” President Trump said. He laid out those steps today:

First, Americans must come together in condemning racism, bigotry, and white supremacy. “These sinister ideologies must be defeated,” the President said.

Second, law enforcement must have all the tools it needs to investigate and disrupt any hate crimes or acts of domestic terrorism. President Trump has asked the FBI to identify any additional resources needed to confront these threats. Part of that effort includes fighting radicalization online.

Third, America must do a better job of identifying—and acting upon—early warning signs of violence. Today, President Trump directed the Department of Justice to partner with government agencies and the private sector, including social media companies, to develop tools to detect mass shooters before they act.

Fourth, we must stop the glorification of violence across society. It’s far too easy for troubled individuals to surround themselves with gruesome, grisly images on a daily basis. “Cultural change is hard, but each of us can choose to build a culture that celebrates the inherent worth and dignity of every human life,” the President said.

Fifth, our country must reform its mental health laws to better identify, treat, and—if necessary—confine individuals who may commit acts of violence.

Last but not least, we must ensure that those posing a great risk to public safety do not have access to firearms—and that, if they do, those firearms can be taken away through rapid due process. The President has called for “red flag laws,” also known as extreme risk protection orders, to keep weapons away from dangerous people.

These steps build upon important work that President Trump has already done to address the scourge of mass violence in America. Last year, Republicans and Democrats joined together to pass the STOP School Violence and Fix NICS Acts, providing grants to improve school safety and strengthening critical background checks for firearms. On the President’s orders, the Department of Justice also banned the sale of bump stocks.

Today, President Trump also called upon DOJ to propose legislation that ensures anyone who commits hate crimes and mass murder will face the death penalty.

“Now is the time to set destructive partisanship aside . . . and find the courage to answer hatred with unity, devotion, and love,” the President said. “Our future is in our control.”

President Trump’s Proclamation honoring the victims in El Paso and Dayton. 

  Watch: “In one voice, our nation must condemn racism, bigotry, and white supremacy.”

Photo of the Day

Official White House Photo by Tia DufourThe United States flag flies at half-staff atop the White House in solemn respect for the victims of the mass shootings in El Paso, Texas, and Dayton, Ohio | August 4, 2019

Privacy Policy | Contact the White House | UnsubscribeThe White House · 1600 Pennsylvania Ave NW · Washington, DC 20500 · USA · 202-456-1111

[bountyofbeads]

https://amp.cnn.com/cnn/2019/01/08/politics/donald-trump-prime-time-address-immigration-wall/index.html?__twitter_impression=true

Trump lies on a daily basis and now the media is going to give him cart blanche in prime-time to continue to spew their propagandist and lies. This is exactly how we got Trump in the first place. #BoycottTrumpPrimeTime

#boycottTrumpAddress #BoycottMediaOutlets

#TrumpShutdown #TrumpLiesMatter

Why is @POTUS even doing a Prime Time Trump address? Because @realDonaldTrump is losing. He doesn't have public sentiment behind him, or the facts, or the votes. None of that changes after he finishes reading from the teleprompter tonight.

Prime-time Trump faces credibility crisis

Analysis by Stephen Collinson, CNN | Updated 8:53 AM EST, Tue January 08, 2019 | Posted January 9, 2019 |

Washington (CNN)President Donald Trump will face one huge obstacle when he appeals to Americans in a prime-time Oval Office address Tuesday to unite behind his crusade for a border wall: Himself.

Trump has spent years exploiting immigration -- one of the nation's most divisive fault lines -- during an insurgent campaign and a presidency sustained by the fervor of his committed political base.

But now, the downside of that strategy is becoming evident. In his attempt to convince the nation that a genuine crisis is unfolding at the southern border, the President's arguments face extreme skepticism from those not already in his camp.

About 57% of Americans oppose Trump's wall compared with 38% in favor, according to a December CNN poll conducted by SSRS. Those numbers are similar to where they were just after Trump took office in 2017.

On Tuesday night, Trump will commandeer the symbolic might of his office in an effort to bolster a political approach that has failed to force Democrats to cave to his demand for $5 billion in wall funding amid a government shutdown now in its third week.

He will hold forth on a deeply contentious issue from the spot where President Ronald Reagan eulogized the Challenger space shuttle crew and where other predecessors gave notice of the start or ends of wars.

The historically resonant stagecraft represents an attempt to convince the country -- with scant hard evidence -- that a real threat is unfolding on the frontier of the US and Mexico border, including drug trafficking, rising sickness among migrants, increasing border crossings and a busted asylum system.

"The American people will hear from the President tonight that we have a crisis," Vice President Mike Pence told "CBS This Morning" Tuesday, part of a series of appearances on network morning shows to make the administration's case. He urged Democrats to "come to the table" to make a deal but did not indicate that the administration's funding demand was negotiable.

Trump's capacity to make a similar argument is complicated by his choice not to broaden his support beyond his loyalist base in two years in office. And he's often used immigration as a cudgel to attack Democrats and moderate Republicans.

The address promises to be yet another extraordinary moment in a singular presidency. When news broke of his prime-time appearance, a remarkable debate broke out in Washington about whether the President of the United States can be trusted to tell the truth in an address to the nation.

Democratic House Speaker Nancy Pelosi and Senate Minority leader Chuck Schumer demanded the right of reply.

"Now that the television networks have decided to air the President's address, which if his past statements are any indication will be full of malice and misinformation, Democrats must immediately be given equal airtime," they said in a joint press release.

Pelosi and Schumer will deliver the response for the Democrats, which CNN will carry live.

'Build the wall'

Many Trump supporters do believe that the border is being besieged by criminals, is easily penetrated by drugs and gangs, and share his view that "without borders, we don't have a country."

And the President can clearly argue that he won election by promising to purge deep concern about a broken immigration system. At almost every rally, Trump beams as the crowd chants "build the wall, build the wall." The border issue has become an almost mystical symbol of Trump's appeal to his supporters.

But Trump has also stigmatized Mexicans and other immigrants and his dark vision of a nation under siege from hordes of invaders has turned a border security dispute into a political quarrel that tears at American cultural and racial divides.

The wall is just as powerful a metaphor for liberals, including Democratic leaders he now wants to fund the project after failing to get it built during two years of GOP control on Capitol Hill.

For Trump's critics, the wall is a metaphor for an inhumane and un-American approach to immigration that has seen undocumented migrant families separated and several detained children die of illnesses. So, when the President seeks to corral public opinion behind him Tuesday, he will be operating on scorched political ground and will require something extraordinary to shift opinion.

That is especially the case since Trump's hardline rhetoric on immigration was seen by critics inside and outside of the GOP as a key factor in the party's loss of the House in the midterm elections. The risk for Trump is that after the fire and fury of his relentless immigration rhetoric, anyone left who has an open mind simply will not believe him.

"I expect the President to lie to the American people," said New York Rep. Jerrold Nadler, the Democratic chairman of the House Judiciary Committee on Monday. "Why do I expect this? Because he's been lying to the American people and his spokespeople continue lying to the American people," he said.

In the latest notorious case of the administration peddling untruths, White House spokeswoman Sarah Sanders was caught on Fox News implying falsely that up to 4,000 terrorists have poured over the southern border.

In an annual terrorism report published in July 2017, the State Department reported that there was"no credible information that any member of a terrorist group has traveled through Mexico to gain access to the United States."

White House counselor Kellyanne Conway told Fox News Monday night that Sanders got "confused" and made an "unfortunate misstatement." "So, I think, it got unfortunately confused by my colleague," she said. "That was an unfortunate misstatement and everybody makes mistakes."

Conway said the nearly 4,000 people Sanders was referring to are known or suspected terrorists prevented from entering or traveling to the US via any means - not just over the southern border.

'Immigration arguments not landing'

Trump has claimed that a wall is needed to deter "drug dealers, human traffickers and criminals." He also argued without evidence that a caravan of migrants from Central America that headed to the border last year included "unknown Middle Easterners" -- another reference to terrorism.

Such a record will complicate Trump's attempts and those of his key aides, such as Pence and Homeland Security Secretary Kirstjen Nielsen, who are due on Capitol Hill Tuesday to sell his message before the President heads to the border on Thursday.

CNN's Kevin Liptak reported on Monday that Trump's decision to deliver a prime-time address followed warnings from advisers that his arguments about immigration -- delivered in tweets and impromptu media scrums in recent days -- are not resonating amid the shutdown.

But if Tuesday's speech is pockmarked with factual errors and easily discredited spin, any hope the President has of influencing anyone other than his supporters will likely be dashed. The President's set piece speeches have rarely succeeded in changing public opinion on a key issue or easing tensions in a political standoff; in fact, the opposite is more often the case.

Trump's decision to trigger a shutdown, apparently fearing anger from conservative pundits if he folded over wall funding, left an impression that he is covering up his embarrassment over his so-far failed campaign promise.

Given his hyper political approach in the past, it's always possible that Trump has no expectation of changing the partisan brew over immigration, but just wants to show his supporters he's ready to fight.

Trump's most difficult assignment will be to make a case that the situation at the US-Mexico border really amounts to a genuine crisis.

Apprehensions of undocumented migrants coming across the border did rise by about 100,000 in the 2018 fiscal year to nearly 400,000. The administration has also warned of a rise in families crossing the border illegally. The numbers reached more than 51,000 families in October and November. But the figures are still nowhere near record-setting levels of up to 100,000 families a month in the early 2000s.

The number of asylum claims among migrants rose nearly 70% to almost 93,000 in fiscal year 2018 from the previous year. But 90% of those claims are not granted.

Nielsen told reporters at the White House that the asylum system, which was designed to process far fewer applications was "bogged down."

But the White House's critics are more likely to put those failures down to the administration's draconian approach and mismanagement than to an outside crisis that truly threatens US national security.

CNN's Tammy Kupperman, Geneva Sands, Jim Acosta and Betsy Klein contributed

[racingtoaredlight]

Opening Bell:  January 5, 2018

This week, initial excerpts from a new book by journalist and former businessman Michael Wolff about the first year of the Trump administration raised eyebrows by placing the president in a poor light, exposing criticism of the president by his former chief strategist, Steven Bannon, and declaring that Donald Trump never wanted to become president in the first place and was ink fact aghast at the election night result in November 2016. Chapters from Wolff’s book—which was scheduled to be released on January 9, but instead had its release date moved by the publisher to this morning—appeared in New York Magazine, the Hollywood Reporter, and GQ Magazine. Predictably, the president reacted to Bannon’s criticism of his children in the book by saying that Bannon has “lost his mind.” Rather than quell the firestorm created by the book, subsequent coverage has only highlighted other less noticeable but just as embarrassing criticisms of Donald Trump, namely that he refuses to read any briefings or memos, even if they are a single page long, and regularly checks out of meetings with international leaders.

Rather than ignore the book, instead Trump attempted to counter it in two ways: by threatening to block publication of the book through a lawsuit and by sending a “cease and desist” letter to Steve Bannon directly in order to prevent him from commenting any further on the contents of “Fire and Fury,” the book by Michael Wolff. Little is likely to come from either of those efforts; a cease and desist letter itself has no legal weight and Bannon can choose to ignore it and, if Trump decided to file a lawsuit to enforce the letter, Bannon has more than enough resources to resist it. The lawsuit against Michael Wolff and his publisher is even less likely to amount to anything; the bar for proving defamation is an incredibly high one that requires intent and malice on the part of the publisher. A more practical restraint upon Steve Bannon is the loss of backing by the billionaire Mercer family. In response to Bannon’s comments in “Fire and Fury,” Rebekah Mercer issued a rare public statement which appeared to rebuke Bannon’s conduct in speaking to Wolff for the book.

For those of you waking up anywhere along the East Coast of the United States, the worst of the so-called “bomb cyclone,” which brought historically extreme cold weather and snow from Florida to New England, has passed, but frigid arctic air is set to follow, causing a deep freeze of any and all precipitation that fell over the previous 24 hours. While the storm may have passed, it appears that the extreme conditions are likely to stick around for a few more days. I hope that all of our East Coast readers have stocked up at the liquorsmith and procured enough space heaters. This latter note is important for our brethren in the southeast United States: attempting to heat your home with your oven and/or stove is a bad idea.

In other circumstances, a State Department announcement that all military and security aid to Pakistan, a close and yet not always reliable ally in Afghanistan and terrorist insurgencies, would be suspended, would be front page news. But alas, this is America in the age of Donald Trump. This move by the Trump administration, along with a parallel move to place Pakistan on a “watch list” of countries accused of failing to protect religious freedom, comes days after the president derided the two previous administrations for giving Pakistan $33 billion in aid over 15 years, with nothing to show for it. This criticism led to demonstrations in Pakistani cities and to Pakistan’s foreign ministry to summon the U.S. ambassador in order to demand an explanation. There are two sides to this position: on one hand, publicly criticizing Pakistan and stopping aid from going to the country is more likely to anger Pakistan than to encourage it to change its behavior, but on the other hand, Pakistan has accepted U.S. money and assistance for years while blatantly refusing to go after certain insurgent groups that are alleged to have ties to Pakistan’s national intelligence service, the ISI.

Yet another story that, in an ordinary news cycle, would probably have been above the fold, front page material, the Trump administration abruptly dissolved a commission tasked with investigating allegations of widespread voter fraud. The commission was established by the president shortly after his January inauguration and appeared based on a completely unsupported claim that Trump, who prevailed in the Electoral College, would have also won the popular vote but for millions of illegal votes. The reason given for the dissolution of the controversial commission was the lack of support given to it by individual states, many of which refused to provide voter information to the commission. Given that the reason for the commission’s existence was based upon shoddy if not completely non-existent evidence, it lacked the leverage necessary to convince state election officials to go along with its mission. As focus shifted in the fall from actions by the White House to the effort by the GOP-controlled Congress to pass some meaningful form of tax reform in order to provide a much-needed legislative achievement, the very existence of the commission fell from the headlines and public consciousness.

The apparent dysfunction of the executive and legislative branches of the federal government, along with vitriol which has been focused on these branches by the public and by the members themselves, has led to a strikingly high number of retirements of long-time members of Congress, especially Republicans. Politico talked to several retiring members of Congress from both parties to find out exactly what was propelling some of them, including several that represent safe districts, to leave office.

In Virginia, after a lengthy recount of several extraordinarily close state house district races, the balance of power in the state’s House of Delegates hinged on the outcome of one race. That race, after another comprehensive review by a three judge-panel, ended in a tie. According to state law, the tie was broken yesterday when a state election official drew a plastic film canister out of a ceramic bowl, opened it, and revealed the name of Republican David Yancey. This seemingly contrived way to decide a democratic election ensured that Virginia Republicans will indeed retain control of the House of Delegates, albeit by the slimmest of margins. This will allow the state GOP to act as a brake on the agenda of Democratic Governor-elect Ralph Northam.

Minnesota Democrat Al Franken officially resign his Senate seat on January 2. The very next day his replacement, Minnesota Lt. Governor Tina Smith, was sworn in. Geoffrey Skelley of the Center for Politics looks at the decidedly lesser advantage of incumbency that an appointed Senator enjoys and how this bodes for Smith’s chances of retaining the seat in November.

Since entering office, President Donald Trump’s policy towards Israel and Palestine has been markedly different from that of the two previous administrations, especially the Obama administration. Not only has the Trump administration recognized Jerusalem as the capital of Israel, but they have also encouraged Israeli settlement building in the West Bank. Foreign Policy reviews how the Palestinian government of Mahmoud Abbas appears to have little recourse to these policy shifts other than by registering their anger.

Let’s round out this week with a series of longreads. First, how and why the graveyard shift of cleaners at American’s slaughterhouses are the worst employment shifts in the country. Second, while many people have heard of Mount Vesuvius and the threat it poses to the city of Naples, Italy, few people know about the caldera of Campi Flegrei, which poses a greater danger. And finally, a lengthy assertion that there is no defense for the continued existence of the humanities.

Lastly, on January 1, photographer Mark Holtzman captured an instantly iconic image of a B-2 bomber flying over the Rose Bowl during the pregame festivities. In The Atlantic, Holtzman explains how he captured the now viral photograph.

 Welcome to the weekend.

[deniscollins]

A Voice of Hate in America’s Heartland

If you owned a welding company, what would you do if informed that one of the welders was a committed organizer for the Traditionalist Worker Party, a Nazi-group, who did podcasts for Radio Aryan, and posted Nazi support material on his Facebook page: (1) do nothing and respect his freedom of speech, (2) speak with him about restricting his political viewpoints, (3) fire him, or (4) something else (if so, what)? Why? What are the ethics underlying your decision?

Tony and Maria Hovater were married this fall. They registered at Target. On their list was a muffin pan, a four-drawer dresser and a pineapple slicer.

Ms. Hovater, 25, was worried about Antifa bashing up the ceremony. Weddings are hard enough to plan for when your fiancé is not an avowed white nationalist.

But Mr. Hovater, in the days leading up to the wedding, was somewhat less anxious. There are times when it can feel toxic to openly identify as a far-right extremist in the Ohio of 2017. But not always. He said the election of President Trump helped open a space for people like him, demonstrating that it is not the end of the world to be attacked as the bigot he surely is: “You can just say, ���Yeah, so?’ And move on.”

It was a weeknight at Applebee’s in Huber Heights, a suburb of Dayton, a few weeks before the wedding. The couple, who live in nearby New Carlisle, were shoulder to shoulder at a table, young and in love. He was in a plain T-shirt, she in a sleeveless jean jacket. She ordered the boneless wings. Her parents had met him, she said, and approved of the match. The wedding would be small. Some of her best friends were going to be there. “A lot of girls are not really into politics,” she said.

In Ohio, amid the row crops and rolling hills, the Olive Gardens and Steak ’n Shakes, Mr. Hovater’s presence can make hardly a ripple. He is the Nazi sympathizer next door, polite and low-key at a time the old boundaries of accepted political activity can seem alarmingly in flux. Most Americans would be disgusted and baffled by his casually approving remarks about Hitler, disdain for democracy and belief that the races are better off separate. But his tattoos are innocuous pop-culture references: a slice of cherry pie adorns one arm, a homage to the TV show “Twin Peaks.” He says he prefers to spread the gospel of white nationalism with satire. He is a big “Seinfeld” fan.

“I guess it seems weird when talking about these type of things,” he says. “You know, I’m coming at it in a mid-90s, Jewish, New York, observational-humor way.”

Mr. Hovater, 29, is a welder by trade. He is not a star among the resurgent radical American right so much as a committed foot soldier — an organizer, an occasional podcast guest on a website called Radio Aryan, and a self-described “social media villain,” although, in person, his Midwestern manners would please anyone’s mother. In 2015, he helped start the Traditionalist Worker Party, one of the extreme right-wing groups that marched in Charlottesville, Va., in August, and again at a “White Lives Matter” rally last month in Tennessee. The group’s stated mission is to “fight for the interests of White Americans.’’

Its leaders claim to oppose racism, though the Anti-Defamation League says the group “has participated in white supremacist events all over the country.” On its website, a swastika armband goes for $20.

If the Charlottesville rally came as a shock, with hundreds of white Americans marching in support of ideologies many have long considered too vile, dangerous or stupid to enter the political mainstream, it obscured the fact that some in the small, loosely defined alt-right movement are hoping to make those ideas seem less than shocking for the “normies,” or normal people, that its sympathizers have tended to mock online.

And to go from mocking to wooing, the movement will be looking to make use of people like the Hovaters and their trappings of normie life — their fondness for National Public Radio, their four cats, their bridal registry.

“We need to have more families. We need to be able to just be normal,” said Matthew Heimbach, the leader of the Traditionalist Worker Party, in a podcast conversation with Mr. Hovater. Why, he asked self-mockingly, were so many followers “abnormal”?

Mr. Hovater replied: “I mean honestly, it takes people with, like, sort of an odd view of life, at first, to come this way. Because most people are pacified really easy, you know. Like, here’s some money, here’s a nice TV, go watch your sports, you know?”

He added: “The fact that we’re seeing more and more normal people come is because things have gotten so bad. And if they keep getting worse, we’ll keep getting more, just, normal people.”

Flattening the Edges

Mr. Hovater’s face is narrow and punctuated with sharply peaked eyebrows, like a pair of air quotes, and he tends to deliver his favorite adjective, “edgy,” with a flat affect and maximum sarcastic intent. It is a sort of implicit running assertion that the edges of acceptable American political discourse — edges set by previous generations, like the one that fought the Nazis — are laughable.

“I don’t want you to think I’m some ‘edgy’ Republican,” he says, while flatly denouncing the concept of democracy.

“I don’t even think those things should be ‘edgy,’” he says, while defending his assertion that Jews run the worlds of finance and the media, and “appear to be working more in line with their own interests than everybody else’s.”

His political evolution — from vaguely leftist rock musician to ardent libertarian to fascist activist — was largely fueled by the kinds of frustrations that would not seem exotic to most American conservatives. He believes the federal government is too big, the news media is biased, and that affirmative action programs for minorities are fundamentally unfair.

Ask him how he moved so far right, and he declares that public discourse has become “so toxic that there’s no way to effectively lobby for interests that involve white people.” He name-drops Murray Rothbard and Hans-Hermann Hoppe, architects of “anarcho-capitalism,” with its idea that free markets serve as better societal regulators than the state. And he refers to the 2013 science-fiction movie “Pacific Rim,” in which society is attacked by massive monsters that emerge from beneath the Pacific Ocean.

“So the people, they don’t ask the monsters to stop,” he says. “They build a giant robot to try to stop them. And that’s essentially what fascism is. It’s like our version of centrally coming together to try to stop another already centralized force.”

Mr. Hovater grew up on integrated Army bases and attended a mostly white Ohio high school. He did not want for anything. He experienced no scarring racial episodes. His parents, he says, were the kinds of people who “always assume things aren’t going well. But they don’t necessarily know why.”

He is adamant that the races are probably better off separated, but he insists he is not racist. He is a white nationalist, he says, not a white supremacist. There were mixed-race couples at the wedding. Mr. Hovater said he was fine with it.

“That’s their thing, man,” he said.

Online it is uglier. On Facebook, Mr. Hovater posted a picture purporting to show what life would have looked like if Germany had won World War II: a streetscape full of happy white people, a bustling American-style diner and swastikas everywhere.

“What part is supposed to look unappealing?” he wrote.

In an essay lamenting libertarianism’s leftward drift, he wrote: “At this rate I’m sure the presidential candidate they’ll put up in a few cycles will be an overweight, black, crippled dyke with dyslexia.”

After he attended the Charlottesville rally, in which a white nationalist plowed his car into a group of left-wing protesters, killing one of them, Mr. Hovater wrote that he was proud of the comrades who joined him there: “We made history. Hail victory.”

In German, “Hail victory” is “Sieg heil.”

A Growing Movement

Before white nationalism, his world was heavy metal. He played drums in two bands, and his embrace of fascism, on the surface, shares some traits with the hipster’s cooler-than-thou quest for the most extreme of musical subgenres. Online, he and his allies can also give the impression that their movement is one big laugh — an enormous trolling event put on by self-mocking, politically incorrect kids playing around on the ash heap of history.

On the party’s website, the swastika armband is formally listed as a “NSDAP LARP Armband.” NSDAP was the abbreviation for Hitler’s Nazi Party. LARP stands for “Live-Action Role Playing,” a term originally meant to describe fantasy fans who dress up as wizards and warlocks.

But the movement is no joke. The party, Mr. Hovater said, is now approaching 1,000 people. He said that it has held food and school-supply drives in Appalachia. “These are people that the establishment doesn’t care about,” he said.

Marilyn Mayo, a senior research fellow at the Anti-Defamation League’s Center on Extremism, estimated that the Traditionalist Worker Party had a few hundred members at most, while Americans who identify as “alt-right” could number in the tens of thousands.

“It is small in the grand scheme of things, but it’s one of the segments of the white supremacist movement that’s grown over the last two years,” she said.

It was midday at a Panera Bread, and Mr. Hovater was describing his political awakening over a turkey sandwich. He mentioned books by Charles Murray and Pat Buchanan. He talked about his presence on 4chan, the online message board and alt-right breeding ground (“That’s where the scary memes come from,” he deadpanned). He spoke dispassionately about the injustice of affirmative action, about the “malice directed toward white people” in popular media, about how the cartoon comedy “King of the Hill” was the last TV show to portray “a straight white male patriarch” in a positive light.

He declared the widely accepted estimate that six million Jews died in the Holocaust “overblown.” He said that while the Nazi leader Heinrich Himmler wanted to exterminate groups like Slavs and homosexuals, Hitler “was a lot more kind of chill on those subjects.”

“I think he was a guy who really believed in his cause,” he said of Hitler. “He really believed he was fighting for his people and doing what he thought was right.”

He said he wanted to see the United States become “an actually fair, meritocratic society.” Absent that, he would settle for a white ethno-state “where things are fair, because there’s no competing demographics for government power or for resources.”

His fascist ideal, he said, would resemble the early days in the United States, when power was reserved for landowners “and, you know, normies didn’t really have a whole hell of a lot to say.”

His faith in mainstream solutions slipped as he toured the country with one of the metal bands. “I got to see people who were genuinely hurting,” he said. “We played coast to coast, but specifically places in Appalachia, and a lot of the Eastern Seaboard had really been hurt.”

Friendships Made and Lost

In 2012, Mr. Hovater was incensed by the media coverage of the Trayvon Martin shooting, believing the story had been distorted to make a villain of George Zimmerman, the white man who shot the black teenager. By that time, he and Ms. Hovater had been dating for a year or two. She was a small-town girl who had fallen away from the Catholic Church (“It was just really boring”), and once considered herself liberal.

But in the aftermath of the shooting, Ms. Hovater found herself on social media “questioning the official story,” taking Mr. Zimmerman’s side and finding herself blocked by some of her friends. Today, she says, she and Mr. Hovater are “pretty lined up” politically.

As they let their views be known, friends left and friends stayed.

“His views are horrible and repugnant and hate-filled,” said Ethan Reynolds, a Republican and city councilman in New Carlisle, Ohio, who said he had befriended Mr. Hovater without knowing his extremism. “He was an acquaintance I regret knowing.”

Jake Nolan, a guitarist in one of the bands Mr. Hovater played in, stuck with him. “There are people who literally go around Sieg Heiling,” he said. “Then you have the people who just want the right to be proud of their heritage” — people, he said, who are standing up against “what appears to be an increasingly anti-white America.”

Mr. Hovater befriended Mr. Heimbach in February 2015 at the Conservative Political Action Conference. Mr. Heimbach, who two years earlier had founded a White Student Union at Towson University in Maryland, was holding a protest outside the proceedings and praising Vladimir Putin. The pair founded the Traditionalist Worker Party in the spring.

Soon Mr. Hovater was telling people that he would be running for a council seat in his hometown, New Carlisle, population 5,600. The announcement caught the attention of the Southern Poverty Law Center and the heavy metal press. But he never filed papers.

On a recent weekday evening, Mr. Hovater was at home, sautéing minced garlic with chili flakes and waiting for his pasta to boil. The cats were wandering in and out of their tidy little rental house. Books about Mussolini and Hitler shared shelf space with a stack of Nintendo Wii games. A day earlier, a next-door neighbor, whom Mr. Hovater doesn’t know very well, had hung a Confederate flag in front of his house.

“This is kind of brackish territory here,” Mr. Hovater said. “A lot of people consider Cincinnati the most northern Southern city.”

The pasta was ready. Ms. Hovater talked about how frightening it was this summer to watch from home as the Charlottesville rally spun out of control. Mr. Hovater said he was glad the movement had grown.

They spoke about their future — about moving to a bigger place, about their honeymoon, about having kids.