#shes like HE SAID HE SERVED IN THE WAR IN 1941. HE LITERALLY SAID 'i cant explain'. HE STOLE A GUYS IDENTITY BC HE WAS A CON MAN

[doctorwhoisadhd]

oh you KNOW tosh showed up at the hub again and the SECOND she got ianto owen and gwen alone in a room without jack she was spilling the beans on everything that happened & that jack told her in 1941

[chrysaliseuro2019]

Lapping it All Up

It's Sunday morning and time to part company with Sue and Peter. It was a fun 5 days. We are heading to Helsinki and they will drive the car back to Riga where it all commenced. They are stopping the night at Parnau. Rainy day again as we said our farewells and they dropped us at the ferry terminal. Saw an amusing sign at the terminal which pointed to the very short term car park (15 mins). It said " Kiss and Sail" which was very apt. We had laughed our way through Latvia and Estonia with them and had covered a bit of ground in those 5 days. Despite it bucketing down Liz did a quick sortie after they left to take a photo of the sign. This led to one of those amusing moments. Something you very rarely see Liz do - "run". If I said a sort of Donald Duck style of running I might be close to the mark. Possibly even being flattering. There is a lot of action, arms flapping, feet akimbo, head rolling from side to side and forward momentum is not speedy. The ferry ride from Tallin to Helsinki takes about 2.5 hours. We had basic tickets so it was first in best dressed for seats. A number of bars and cafes on board and as soon as boarding started the regulars made for prime positions. We had to stow our luggage and were given a bit of a bum steer, in terms of where to store them, by one of the staff so a lot of seats had gone by the time we were free to look. Anyway we snagged a couple of uninspiring but fine seats in a a cafe and settled back for an uneventful trip. Despite the rain it was petty calm and we had a snack, read and blogged. Interestingly they had a couple of stages with musos performing. I might expect that on a cruise ship in the Bahamas but not somehow on a couple of hours ferry in the Baltics. One stage was on the upper deck where quite a raucous bar was in full swing. The wind and rain were coming down on the uncovered end though plenty of cover. Singer was flat as a tack and slaughtered Ed Sheerin's " A Girl Like You" (a bit of a holiday anthem as you hear it a lot in beach bars etc over here). The audience didn't care. They were all getting tanked. Another singer was close to us in a neighbouring area and he was playing the guitar and performing solo with some electronic instrumental help. Not too bad, middle of the road - Eric Clapton, Jonny Cash etc but more importantly his voice I was better. I strolled around looking at the duty free shop where the Finns on board were fairly determinedly stocking up on booze which is much cheaper in Estonia than Finland. This included people with several slabs of beer. Liz noticed that many of those slabs were being consumed on board. It was certainly a lively ship. Trip was easy and we worked out we could get a tram into the city and quite close to our hotel from the ferry terminal. A bit of a scramble getting off but we were in no rush so took our time. Slight problem though, it was raining quite steadily. We headed for the tram stop which was close by but in a master stroke of planning the ticket machine was exposed to the elements and quite a queue. This included the guy who had no idea what to do, did not appear to have the right money (possibly any money), whose credit card would not work and who consequently held us all up in the hissing rain for 5/6 minutes - could have been longer. This on top of the 7/8 mins we had already been waiting. In the end the couple behind paid for him. Liz was now huddled under the tram shelter while I stood out there in the pak-a-mac. No point in two of us getting wet(ter). By the time I got to the front of the queue the wind had set in and rain was horizontal so jeans and shoes pretty soaked. Guys behind (equally wet) who seemed local provided some guidance on the payment process but even they stuffed it up a bit so another minute or two of soaking. Anyway at last I had two tickets in my hand but the various delays meant we just missed a tram by about a minute so had a 6/7 minute wait for the next one. Still, under some shelter, though I was drenched. We duly trundled off for the 10 minute ride and I couldn't wait to get out of my jeans and shoes. I made the mistake of sitting down which was even more uncomfortable so quickly sprang up. Anyway the Hotel Helka was only about a 10 minute walk from the tram stop. Liz did a good job of getting us off at the closest stop and guiding us home. At last, out of that gear and into the shower. All was well and Hey! We were in Finland. Time to explore and we headed off into town. Basically heading for the main square and market square. First impressions were that it was more modern than Riga or Tallinn and a little less atmospheric. Plenty of shopping malls, cafes etc. and even the older buildings which were often quite attractive, of the the six storey terrace variety, did not seem that old. Made our way to market square where there were a number of stalls selling local "products". Very soft hats, wood carvings, paintings, the usual fridge magnet memorabilia stuff but also fox, wolf and reindeer pelts and extremely sharp hunting type knives in scabbards - not sure exactly what the purpose of them was. The market was starting to close but quite a few stalls selling food were in full flight. Now around 4.00pm and we had only snacked post breakfast so were hungry. The offerings were often local delicacies and we couldn't resist sharing a plate of fried Vendace (very similar to sardines) with garlic sauce. Just on a paper plate, pretty decent serve (30 or so smallish fish) you eat the lot, heads and all, and we wandered around happily chomping on them. Very delicious and sauce not too garlicky at all but tasty and needed. It was sun over the yard arm time and we looked for a decent pub/ venue to have a drink. Plenty of craft beer here though we had heard horror stories about the price of alcohol. We couldn't quite find what we were looking for in terms of character but settled on a cafe/bar and sat outside. Rain had stopped but not exactly balmy. After that we continued to wander through the back streets though being Sunday a lot of places closed. Did find a good looking Pho joint which was a possibility if all else failed. Liz loves her Pho. We headed back for the hotel. The Helka is a little boutique hotel and quite quirky. They had a little Swiss style bird house (no birds) that you could deposit your keys in when you left. The coffee mugs in the room had an inscription inside the rim which read " Stolen from Hotel Helka" Staff very friendly and a range of nice touches. We determined that dinner would be in their relaxed little bar/cafe area downstairs. Some good craft beer on tap and bottled and rose OK too. I had the salmon on bread with salad. Big chunks of salmon served cold - excellent. Liz had the coconut and sweet potato soup which was also very good. A local porter and IPA for me (both good especially the porter) rose for Liz. All very laid back and sat very happily not feeling we had to traipse about town. Not too late a night headed up around 10.30 for the usual blogging, reading and planning next phase. Greece definitely on. Thessaloniki as a kick off point looking the goods. Also need to ensure we have a flight out of there to London about a week after arriving in Greece as flying home from London. All pretty tortuous evaluating alternatives but in the end have to bite the bullet and its Turkish airlines to Thessaloniki and BA from there to London though the poms charging usuriously. Liz doing sterling work with bookins Next morning at 11.00 we were going on a free tour of Helsinki. After a great breakfast at the Helka (we expected nothing else given its form to date) we headed for the meeting point a 20 minute fast walk away, back at market square. Our guide was a young and vivacious lady who had spent time in Canada hence a slight North American accent. Super smart and despite a crowd of around 35-40 with a microphone headpiece and a resonant voice she was easy to hear. We covered a lot of ground both literally and metaphorically. Some aspects were: Lutheran religion is the main one for Finns. Apparently a not unusual fall away in those following a structured religious approach in Finland though you have to attend a religious camp for a week when in your late teens if you want to be married in church. A lot of the design of the buildings in the older parts of Helsinki was under the auspices of the German architect Engels in the 19th century. He had spent time in St Petersburg and hence there are similarities between the cities (though not the flamboyant stuff). Education is subsidised in fact you are paid to attend for your first 5 years at Uni. Food is also subsidised for uni students and is free at kindergarten. Start school at 7 pre that it's kindergarten where formal lessons are minimal. At junior school the first 5 years are pretty hands on - sewing, woodwork etc. no homework in that period. Health care free for all though dental must be paid for unless impacts health more generally. We were starting to understand why prices were so high with all those taxes. The guide (Maria I think) quipped that they all live a good life but it's hard to get rich. They were ruled for hundreds of years by the Swedes and then from early 19th century by the Russians. They gained independence in 1917 and in that period also had a bloody civil war. Fought against the Soviet Union in 1939 and collaborated with the Germans to fight against the Soviet Union 1941-44. They did not persecute minorities however. Then they also had to fight against the Germans to remove them from Finland as the tide turned at the end of the war. They are proud to have maintained their independence throughout despite some land losses to the Soviet Union. In winter the harbour freezes over so all boats must be lifted out and stored in dry dock including some pretty large fishing boats. Ice breakers were also visible in the harbour. It was a wide ranging, interesting tour with plenty of fun thrown in. Amazing coincidence of a couple from Melbourne, Meredith and David, being on the tour more especially because Meredith taught the preps at Camberwell primary around the time our kids went there. She didn't teach them as it turned out. Liz and Meredith swopped school and other local stories ++. David was an interesting character. He had worked for the CSIRO and was a resin expert. He had for the last umpteen years supported businesses making wood paneling and other resin involved products around the world. This included a 5 year stint for the whole family living in Italy while he worked there. He had most recently been working in China and had come straight to Finland from there. Yet again there's a lot of different stuff makes the world go around. Nice guy to chat to. Pommie origins though born in Australia and we had a good time dissecting Brexit. He has the same problem as us may lose his European passport. We were interested in the big issues! We did that nattering over a coffee and tea that stretched for about an hour and a half post the free tour. After that Liz and I headed for the market square again and needed something to eat. Beside the square was a pretty attractive and ornate indoor market building. Really it was a tasteful food hall with a range of tidbits you could buy to eat immediately or take away including exotics like reindeer jerky. We plumped for a couple of open sandwiches which we consumed at a little eating area outside by the docks. One was cured salmon and the other was prawns in a sweet chilli sauce. We shared the first two but so tasty we went again. Me for the prawns and Liz for the salmon. Just very nice sitting there with this scrumptious food. Back to the market square and as opposed to yesterday evening all stalls were in full swing so we had a good look around at the knick knacks but did not purchase. Time to go our own ways. We both went looking through shops though Liz also found a strange square which looked like a lunar landscape. People were skateboarding and sitting around the square and it all seemed a bit unexpected in what seems like quite a conservative city. I stumbled across the City Museum. This was a very quirky place which essentially probed some alternative aspects of Helsinki and Finland. One of the highlights was an exhibition by 5 Finnish artists. It was titled "Objection". Essentially it was about disagreement and the role that it plays in our society (particularly Finnish society). Each artist illustrated a different story. One was about Hjalmar Linder the wealthiest man in Finland who fled to Sweden during the 1918 civil war. On his return he found that members of the losing side were still being persecuted (killed) so he wrote a letter to the newspaper saying "enough of this bloodbath" which broke ranks with his peer group. He was then hounded out of the county and eventually died penniless, slashing his own wrists. Another was about left wing activism in the 1930s and 40s. It was being suppressed and so a password " Have you seen a running dog" was used to identify sympathisers. Essentially how people find a way to "object" Yet another was about a book "the Price of Our Freedom" still found in many Finnish homes. It contained a photograph and short description of each of 26000+ people who were killed in the Winter War 1939-1940. The artist had taken the photographs of key people in the book and turned them into ghost like portraits using hundreds of layers of pictures - "the Price of Freedom". Separately there were also general narratives about what Helsinki was like in the past. Pretty rough and ready in the 1920s apparently. Also a photograph gallery with some fantastic photos of Helsinki in the past including one which captured the docks area including market square. I couldn't see a date but perhaps 100+ years ago. All these photos were available for purchase. I kept wandering post the museum. Just walking lost really. Took in a few shops and generally soaked up the city. Liz did much the same. No acquisitions. Liz grabbed a bit of shuteye and we met up again around 7.00 in the hotel bar/restaurant. We decided not to move. The restaurant which the guy in "Radio" restaurant in Tallin recommended was closed ,being Monday night, and the informal dinner they served at the Helka had been pretty good the night before. We both had the open sandwich salmon. Thick chunks of salmon. Liz not the greatest salmon fan (she prefers her fish to be white) but enjoyed it, and I certainly did including polishing a few remnants of salmon from her plate. Of course a couple of craft beers also supped. Liz took it easy as a bit tired and slightly heady. It was relaxing and we headed up around 10.00. I took a quick stroll to walk off dinner but boy had it got cold. I think you can probably keep the Finnish summer. Here we were 12th August and it might have been about 16 degrees out but with a healthy wind that felt around 12-14. I was wishing I had a scarf. This reaffirmed our decision to head back to some warmth in Greece.

[buzzdixonwriter]

Stan Lee [1922 – 2018]

Stan the Man.

. . .

I tell people that after four guys with Liverpudlian accents, the greatest influencers of pop culture in America in the 1960s were four editors.

A lot of us looked on them as uncles -- and an aunt -- who served as inspirations / role models / guideposts / influencers during our lives, especially our impressionable preteen through early adult years.

Uncle Hugh was the worldly bon vivant:  Suave, sophisticated, erudite, hip.  He showed us what it meant to be a grown up even if our parents disapproved of his lifestyle.

Aunt Helen was kind of Uncle Hugh’s female opposite number, trash talked a bit because she was a female and “women just shouldn’t behave that way” but y’know what, every family needs an eccentric-bordering-crazy aunt and she was America’s.

Especially for tens of millions of young women and girls to whom she demonstrated  there wasn’t just one lifepath stretching before them but thousands.

Uncle Forry showed us it was okay to be obsessive and geeky about weird interests and, contrary to our parents’ advice, to seek community with others who shared those interests.  Okay, so maybe there was something a little odd, a little off about him, but he showed us how the magic was made, and thus steered thousands of us into creative careers.

And Uncle Stan?  Uncle Stan was the avuncular raconteur, the enthusiastic cheerleader crackling with energy, the slick yet charming salesman so good at his job it never seemed like he was selling anything even when he was most blatant about it.  He got us excited about what he was selling, and unlike our other uncles and aunt, he would drop by once a week with some new adventures to share with us.

He was our storyteller, our mythmaker, and in a very real sense, our prophet.

I’ll leave it for you to decide if he was a false one or not.

. . .

Luck matters.

Talent is tremendous, perseverance a plus, and skill a must, but it’s better to be lucky than good.

Stan Lee was born Stanley Martin Lieber in 1922, the son of a working class immigrant New York couple. He grew up in a manner very typical for New Yorkers and Americans of that era, struggling through the Great Depression, catching odd jobs where he could find them, finally landing a gig as a nepotist at a company owned by the husband of a cousin.

That cousin’s husband was Martin Goodman, and the company was Marvel (nee Timely) Comics.

If it had been a dress making factory we would have never heard of him.

. . .

Decades later, The Cannon Group -- that slapdash conglomeration of ruthless ambition and genuine love of cinema held together by the thinnest threads of artistic ability -- released their version of Captain America and erroneously attributed the character as “created by Stan Lee”.

To his honor, Stan was embarrassed by this gaffe and when asked would be quick to cite Jack Kirby and Joe Simon as the actual creators.

Stan entered the then nascent Marvel Universe early in 1941 with issue three of the Captain America comic book, penning a two page text story:  Captain America Foils The Traitor's Revenge

And credit where credit is due:  From the very beginning of his creative association with Marvel, he was adding innovative ideas (in this case, the first instance of Cappy using his shield as a frisbee to attack bad guys).

But that was far from the most important thing young Stanley Lieber created in that story.

The bigger, more important, far more influential invention?

Stan Lee

. . .

Take a moment to understand how important writers were in American culture between the two world wars.

Hemingway kicked over the anthill.

F. Scott Fitzgerald and Sinclair Lewis probed deep down through the upper crust into the American psyche, John Steinbeck and Upton Sinclair did the same in the opposite direction with their stories of working class people.

Dashiell Hammett and Raymond Chandler looked at the underbelly of American cities while William Faulkner dug deep in the old south.

Anita Loos and Dorothy Parker and Robert Benchley and James Thurber and even irascible Alexander Woollcott brought sunshine and laughter.

These people were not just celebrities, they were looked upon as key influencers and trend setters, seeing where the culture was going and commenting on it, illuminating the way forward for the rest of us.

And that’s not counting the hundreds of other authors who wrote popular books and magazines, who filled the best seller lists with novels that became hit movies.

The American people read and they read a lot.  Every week The Saturday Evening Post would deliver a half dozen top flight stories and articles to your home.  Liberty and Collier’s and McCall’s and The Ladies’ Home Journal and Redbook would also bring dozens of well written stories to you, and that’s not counting the vast pulp market or publications like Reader’s Digest and The Saturday Review and The New Yorker which offered literary criticism not for a high brow elite coastal urban audience but for Americans all across the country.

We read more, and thanks to pre-TV radio we listened more, not sitting passively as images washed over us.

Being a writer was a big deal back in those days, even if it wasn’t the most reputable of professions.

My father wanted to be a writer, but after the Korean War he put that aside and started working in a dress factory.

You’ve never heard of him.

. . .

Like many young people between the two world wars, Stanley Martin Lieber harbored literary ambitions.

He’d written for his school newspaper, did some small scale copywriting for neighborhood advertisers, and briefly worked with the W.P.A. Theater Project as well as a couple of other entry level jobs typical then and now for teens after school or on weekends.

His initial employment at Timely Comics was pure schlub work:  Sharpen the pencils, refill the ink wells, erase the pencil lines once the inkers were done.

I can easily imagine him pestering Joe Simon, co-creator and editor of Captain America, until Simon finally said, “Sure, kid, write a two page story for me” just to get him out of his hair.

(Sidebar:  Back in the early days of comics, there was some question whether they qualified for the cheaper second class periodical mailing rates.  The formula of two text pages per comic took root as the minimum number needed for a publication to get that postal designation, so that’s why there are literally tens of thousands of crappy short-short stories in old comic books; they just had to be text, they didn’t have to be good.)

When Stanley Martin Lieber turned in Captain America Foils The Traitor's Revenge, he didn’t put his name on it.

He was saving that for his big / important / serious work.

Rather, he put his pen name on it:  “Stan Lee”

. . .

In all fairness, young Stanley Martin Lieber proved a fast study.

Within a year he was writing then creating back-up features for the various comic titles Timely published.

When the powerhouse creative team of Joe Simon and Jack Kirby left Timely towards the end of 1941, Martin Goodman installed Stanley Martin Lieber as the company’s new editor.

He was 19 at the time.

Now, while that is a laudable accomplishment, it’s also not as impressive as it sounds.

Low rent entertainment companies operate like assembly line factories:  The creative talent throws their work into the hopper at one end, the distributor hauls the finished product out at the other.

If the basic structure is sound, it doesn’t need a lot of attention to function smoothly.

Proof of this is that almost no sooner had Stanley Martin Lieber been promoted to editor than he was drafted, and from early 1942 to mid-1945, while he was in uniform, Timely Comics chugged along quite nicely in his absence.

At the end of the war and his military service, Stanley Martin Lieber made a fateful decision: He went back to work for his cousin’s husband.

. . .

To understand much of Stan’s career and later years, you have to look at his mid-1940s mind set.

Stan had never really worked for a living.

As noted, all his earlier jobs had been teenage entry level work.

While he was happy to have the income and helped with his family’s finances, he never had to support himself, much less a family of his own.  

Compare this to Simon and Kirby, who had hit the streets and hit ‘em hard during the Depression, scrambling for every odd job they could find, building their portfolio and reputation while supporting themselves.

There sat in the hearts and minds of the freelance writers and artists he employed a certain tough confidence that Stan never enjoyed.

His freelancers and co-workers who, like Simon and Kirby, would and could take principled stands were forever citizens of another country, another land that Stan could only gaze upon wistfully but never enter himself.

Draw your own Moses parallel.

. . .

If returning to Martin Goodman’s employ was a fateful decision for Stan, it was certainly a financially sound one.

Like many vets, he married soon after the war ended, in this case to Joan Clayton Boocock, a British hat model working in New York.

Of the many improbable things in Stan’s life, few are as improbable as this odd romance.  The couple enjoyed a very happy and long, long life together.

Seventy years married.

We should all be so lucky

But the blessing of this marriage was clouded by Stan’s anxiety over providing for his family.

He worked hard to support his wife and daughter.

But he never had the courage or confidence to look elsewhere.

When he married Joan, for all intents and purposes Stan married Marvel as well.

. . .

While comics publishing in general and superheroes in particular did well during World War Two, the market changed drastically afterwards.

Superheroes faded fast, replaced by true crime and horror comics.

Even super patriot Captain America went the horror root with the last two issues of his book being retitled Captain America's Weird Tales before being retired in 1949.

The true crime and horror craze was soon scuttled due to Dr. Frederic Wertham and the subsequent Comics Code.  

Timely renamed itself Atlas, and for the 1950s Stan busied himself on a variety of titles: Westerns, funny animals, teen, nurse (yes, there was a market for nurse comics), romance, teen nurse romance, and monster (a highly sanitized kid friendly version of the now banned horror comics).

He also got to know and work with an astonishing array of freelance talent:  Jack Kirby (now bouncing from project to project), Steve Ditko, John Romita Sr., Marie Severin, Gil Kane, and Wally Wood among others.

He enhanced his income with an odd assortment of side projects, including a comic strip based on a radio show and a pamphlet on how to write comic books.

Stan joked that he was just Goodman’s interim editor, that he would leave Timely-now-Atlas the moment a better gig showed up.

Stan didn’t look for a better gig.

The better gig came looking for him.

. . .

There are numerous versions of how Marvel Comics came about.

They all start with the Justice League over at DC.

As noted, after World War Two superhero comics faded and faded fast.

All the superhero titles vanished except for Action Comics (featuring Superman), Detective Comics (featuring Batman and Robin), and the occasional Wonder Woman cover story published by DC.

And the reason those three titles stayed in print was that if DC failed to publish them, they would either lose the license (in the case of Wonder Woman) or open themselves to the possibility of their creators reclaiming them.

And greedy scum that they are -- hey, these are comic books we’re talking about, a.k.a. the sleaziest industry on earth -- DC wasn’t about to let those properties go.

Despite efforts by other companies to relaunch superheroes (including a failed attempt by Stan and Atlas with Captain America in 1954), the kids just weren’t buying.

But in 1959 DC comics reintroduced Aquaman and Green Lantern, added their revamped but lackluster Flash, plucked the Martian Manhunter from the sci-fi bin, and added them to their big three (or 3.5 if you count Robin) as the Justice League of America in a one shot story.

To their delight, they captured lightning in a bottle (or at least on the pages of a badly printed comic).

Now, there are three primary variants in the Marvel rebirth story.

The first is that while Martin Goodman was golfing with Jack Liebowitz of DC, Liebowitz couldn’t help bragging on the Justice League’s success and Goodman went back to the office and told Stan to come up with something similar.

The second is that Stan had noticed the success of Justice League and suggested it to Goodman when they were brainstorming ideas for Atlas.

The third is that Goodman was on the verge of shutting Atlas down, the offices were already being packed up, Stan was in a dither, and Jack Kirby told him to relax, they’d figure out a way of staying in business before Goodman lowered the boom for good.

What really happened?

Who knows…

Kirby’s version certainly sounds more in character for the men involved, but the paper trail points somewhere between the Goodman and Stan versions.

Maybe (probably?) some combination of all three, with each participant remembering only the part that seemed most important to them.

Whatever the true impetus, a decade and a half writing, drawing, and editing romance / soap opera and goofy monster comics served Stan and Kirby well.

The unique gestalt of The Fantastic Four flew right in the face of DC’s “super friends” approach: This was a team of superheroes who had their own personal problems, who didn’t like each other all that much, and who had to spend as much time fighting their own personal discord as they did the supervillains that threatened them.

DC caught lightning in a bottle.

Marvel (formerly Atlas, and before that Timely) caught…a spark.

The popular history (and we’ll get into how that was shaped in a moment) is that The Fantastic Four and all the other Marvel titles were huge hits from the git-go, steam rolling over all opposition to dominate the industry.

Ehhh…not quite.

Insofar as they sold well and kept the doors open and attracted a good audience response and an appreciable amount of ancillary merchandising, yeah, that they did.

But DC outsold Marvel for most of the decade, including the roll out years when all their big characters / teams / franchises were introduced.

There’s a phrase I use: The jazz musician’s jazz musician.

I use it not to just specifically reference jazz but to point out the innovators who are doing highly influential cutting edge stuff that mainstream audiences just don’t get.

Those in the know -- other jazz musicians, or in the case of Marvel, other artists and writers and editors -- grasp what’s happening immediately, but it isn’t until they begin reinterpreting it and filtering it through more audience familiar styles that the innovators’ true impact is felt.

And then, if they’re lucky, the innovators finally come into their own much later as the mainstream catches up to where they once were decades earlier.

Marvel didn’t exactly struggle, but they had to work hard to remain competitive during the 1960s -- and there was a lot of competition out there.

But the pay off came in the mid-1970s, when the young fans (and we’ll get to them, too) grew up and started entering the business.

I state this without equivocation:  All American comics from 1975 to the start of the manga boom in 2000 -- every single one of ‘em -- were direct or indirect responses to what Marvel had been doing from 1961 to 1967.

What part did Stan play in all this?

. . .

There are almost as many ways to create a comic book as there are comic book creators, but the two chief styles are DC full scripts and Marvel outlines.

At DC, writers handed in scripts broken down panel by panel, dialog included; the artist followed the script as closely as possible and made no major changes without editorial permission.

At Marvel, Stan would discuss a story idea with a writer or sometimes directly with the artist.  At most this would result in a short outline (three pages max for a full length comic) that laid out the basic idea of the story, described the characters and conflict, and gave some idea how things should wrap up.  The artist then broke down and laid out the story by themselves; the editor would either add dialog themselves or send a Xerox copy to the writer for them to come up with dialog.

If you have a proficient hard working art crew, the Marvel method lets you produce a lot of comics very fast, and relatively cheaper since the editor and artist can knock out a story idea over coffee, thus sidestepping the writer for at least the first half of the process.

Stan and his artists had been working this way for a decade and a half.

They knew each other’s strengths and weaknesses, how to play into the former and avoid the latter.

Any competent bullpen can produce comics this way.

The Marvel bullpen had a lot of good, talented artists.

But it also had

J*A*C*K FREAKIN’ K*I*R*B*Y

The most interesting, the most innovative work in any art form gets done around the edges where the gatekeepers are loath to visit.

“Yeah, sure, whatever, knock yourself out, just have it done by Thursday…”

Low budget filmmakers, late night TV, garage bands, cruddy comedy clubs, fanzines, these are venues where the cutting edge bleeds, where most of the stuff is crap because nobody cares but because somebody cares part of it is dynamite.

Jack Kirby cared, and cared a lot about comics.

So did Steve Ditko.

So did Jim Steranko.

Stan was smart enough to see that and get out of the way.

. . .

So what part of Marvel’s success can be attributed to Stan?

Based on what I’ve seen, what I’ve heard, and what I know, I’d say anywhere from as little as 20% to as much as 33 1/3% of any specific title reflects Stan’s input.

Stan was no dummy, Stan had talent, Stan had skill, Stan had good ideas.

But Stan also had little time and even less help.

He’d throw the idea at the artists and the artists would throw their execution back.

Stan, to varying degrees, would refine the story in the dialog stage so that it fit in consistently with the rest of the titles they were publishing.

But the success of Marvel as an entity?

That’s 80% Stan’s doing.

. . .

I said Kirby and Ditko and Steranko loved comics.

Stan did, too, but he loved Stan even more.

He’d spent half his life laboring in relative anonymity.  

His dreams of a serious literary career had come to naught.

His resume’ consisted solely of working for his cousin’s husband’s middling successful comic book company.

He lacked the courage and confidence that the artists in his bullpen possessed, courage and confidence they’d acquired by knocking on doors and chasing after jobs.

In 1961 he stood on the edge of middle age, with nothing significant to show for himself.

And while The Fantastic Four and Thor and The Incredible Hulk and Spider-Man may not have equaled the successes at DC, they sure were more than anything he’d experienced before.

And by promoting them, he also promoted himself.

The Marvel method made lengthy continuities and crossovers easier to execute than DC’s formally scripted method.  His lack of time led to multi-part stories and to setting those stories not in mythical Metropolis or Gotham City in real life New York so he wouldn’t have to provide artists with references.

These lengthy continuities and crossovers, as opposed to DC’s standalone stories, got Marvel readers to pick up more and more titles, and to become more and more deeply involved in the Marvel Universe.

Stan interacted with these fans of Marvel comics (and they were enthusiastic, if not numerous).  His column, Stan’s Bullpen, came out every week, whenever a new Marvel Comic hit the stands.  He handed out No-Prizes to sharp eyed fans who spotted errors, getting those fans to read even more Marvel Comics.

“Face front, true believer! Excelsior!”

. . .

For all his delight in leading the fans in The Merry Marvel Marching Society, Stan didn’t lead his bullpen with the same enthusiasm.

Something transpired between him and Ditko.  Ditko famously came in with the finished art for Spider-Man #38, dropped the pages on the desk of Stan’s secretary, said, “That’s that!” and walked out, never to darken Marvel’s doors again.

A few years later, as Marvel characters began booming in popularity and raking in licensing deals, Kirby approached Stan and suggested they present a unified front to Marvel’s owners to demand a slice of the pie they were generating for the company.

Stan asked for some time to mull the prospect over…

…and immediately raced to Martin Goodman and signed a long term contract stating that all the work and characters he and Kirby had created for Marvel were done under a work-for-hire contract, and that the company owed no shares or royalties to either of them.

Kirby left Marvel and, ever the jazz musician’s jazz musician, went over to DC and created new comic book series for them.

Marvel’s onerous work-for-hire contract (essentially by endorsing one’s paycheck one signed away all rights to work one had done) came under legal scrutiny, and when changes in US copyright law created the potential for the Kirby estate to sue to recover the copyright on the characters he had co-created, Marvel sued the estate to prevent them from going to court.

The Kirby estate was blocked again and again in their effort to regain their right to sue, but when the US Supreme Court agreed to hear the case Marvel capitulated rather than run the risk they might win the right to sue and might prevail.

When Stan would go on vacation, Marvel employees would tremble.

Stan hated personal confrontations, and rather than fire someone face-to-face, when he would go on vacation it would befall some other member of Marvel management to discharge the employee.

(Stan would feign ignorance when he came back, and would promise to “see what I can do” to help the discharged employee, but of course that never happened.)

. . .

Stan’s hard work promoting Marvel as a brand paid off, and by the mid-1970s he and the company were dominating comics sales.

Ancillary merchandising and marketing varied from year to year as audience interest ebbed and flowed, but Stan was always quick to make sure his name got mentioned in every press release, his cameo in every live action movie and TV show.

And to be truthful, it was hard not to like Stan.

He bubbled over with energy and enthusiasm, he tirelessly promoted Marvel (and himself), and constantly engaged with fans.

For me, one of the highlights of my professional career was to pass Stan in the hallway of Marvel Productions in the early 1980s and to have him recognize me and call me by name.

I felt I had arrived.

Stan’s daily involvement with Marvel diminished over the years, first because he moved to California to make deals for Marvel movies and TV shows (not that many at that time), later because he no longer connected with the story telling style Marvel evolved into.

He formally split off from Marvel in the late 1990s (though retaining a healthy retainer from them) and got involved in a number of questionable ventures.

Our orbits intersected again during the short lived existence of Stan Lee Media (SLM), ostensibly his effort to create a new brand of superheroes for a new century, in reality a stock manipulation scheme that saw people sentenced to lengthy prison terms and the mastermind behind it fleeing to Brazil.

Stan, it should be pointed out, was as much a victim as Merrill Lynch in all this, but it also reflects a key shortcoming in his character.

I had, thanks to the intercession of Mark Evanier, been briefly employed as Stan’s vice-president of creative affairs for SLM.

From the beginning of our employment, I and most of Stan’s other staff wondered how SLM was supposed to make money, and couldn’t follow the business strategy of Peter Paul, the former lawyer turned convicted drug smuggler who had insinuated himself in Stan’s life.

Something was rotten in the state of California, and the more one questioned the wisdom of Paul’s strategy, the more likely one was to be shown the door.

When it became apparent my neck was next on the chopping block, advice from Steve Gerber and several other former Marvel employees helped me secure a nice severance deal. The advice they gave was to approach Stan first before he had to bring the matter up, point out the fit didn’t seem to be working, and allow Stan to fall over himself in his eagerness to settle the matter without any negative confrontation.  Which I did, and which he did, and we both came away happier for it.

Shortly after that, the company imploded as the stock manipulation became apparent, and Paul’s secondary scheme was revealed to use the same copyright provision Marvel and Stan fought against re the Kirby estate to lay claim to Marvel characters.

Stan moved on from there to POW! Entertainment, another effort to capitalize on Stan’s celebrity status, and while that company was legit, it did not generate the response they anticipated.

During that period, however, thousands of missing pages of Marvel artwork was discovered in a storage unit Stan rented.

The official story was that these pages had been accidentally scooped up when Stan left Marvel’s New York office, but that doesn’t pass the smell test.  Those pages were supposed to be returned to the original artists; selling them as collectibles was an ancillary form of income and one that comics publishers allowed (the art having been transferred to either print film or digital files by that point).

Another thing that didn’t pass the smell test was the “lost” original outline for the first Fantastic Four story, a one and a half page document that had been displayed under glass at SLM office.  The story of how it was “found” seems awfully suspect, and more than a few of us think it was a =ahem!= “recreation” typed up at a much later date.

POW! tried promoting him as a still viable, still vital creator, but anyone who had a meeting with him knew how much of his success rested on the talents of his co-creators. They tried promoting him as still current in pop culture, but he was too old and frail to sell that idea.

They actually tried circulating a “fake Stan Lee™”, an actor hired to go and do a Stan Lee impersonation at local conventions, but that idea quickly died an embarrassing death.

Eventually POW! and Stan dissolved their formal relationship, and POW! sold out to foreign investors, leaving Stan to his own devices. 

The man who always feared not having somebody to work for was finally on his own.

In his latter years, Stan appeared in the news again and again, this time as an elderly man abused by at least some of his caregivers.

Stan sure could pick ‘em, huh?

That’s not the sort of publicity anyone deserves to have, much less endure.  The abuse included dragging him around the country to conventions to promote…something.

Footage of him in a very disoriented state, being told how to sign his own name for autograph hounds who had just paid a hefty fee for same, outraged his fans, even those of us who recognized his complicity in his own misfortune. 

. . .

Uncle Hugh did not age well. For a man so worldly and debonair, he never recognized when it was time for him to leave the party.  After a while his hanging on became an embarrassment, like the old geezer trying to teach the young kids all the hot new dances such as the foxtrot and the twist.

Aunt Helen was more savvy in that respect, and she found that by stepping back a bit, she could wait for the occasional question to be directed at her, and for her answer to be taken seriously instead of with an eyeroll.

Uncle Forry was indeed a bit “off”, downright creepy in fact, and while much of his influence on others was for the good, a significant portion was not.  We look back and say “we shoulda known, we shoulda known” but the truth was he validated our interests when no one else would, and for that we were willing to overlook a multitude of sins.

And Uncle Stan?  He lived long enough to become a cautionary tale…

. . .

It’s impossible for me to dislike Stan.

Roz Kirby, Jack’s wife, hated him with an unholy passion, but she earned that right.

Steve Ditko clearly had an axe or three to grind, but he’s maintained his silence.

Steve Gerber had his friction points with Stan, but in the end bore him no animosity.

Another comics pro, when news broke of the discovery of the missing Marvel artwork, shook his head and said with a rueful smile, “Stan never fails to disappoint, doesn’t he?”

Stan the Man.

The man who was Marvel.

The mythmaker of modern superhero culture.

We want him to be as heroic, as noble as the heroes he wrote.

But he wasn’t.

He was all too typical of too many people.

Too anxious.

Too easily swayed.

Too eager to succeed.

Too quick to take short cuts.

He loved his wife.

He loved his daughter.

He was charming and gracious in person, and there are few meals I’ve shared that were more delightful than those SLM business lunches.

There was good in him, but not enough strength.

We want our heroes to be strong.

Stan the Man.

Stan the human.

R.I.P.

  © Buzz Dixon

[enchantedzuyorker]

Sam Gold - Looking Back On His Life, Tha Hundred Year War and the Gold Family History

The catalyst of the Hundred Year War began in 1871. Let's take it back to them days when the US Treasury went ass up and so it decided to seek help from global financiers and capitalists such as the Illuminati's Finest: Rothschilds and Rockefellers -- and the Global Bankers was giddy as hell, ready to buy off the USA. The Act Of 1871 was passed by the 41st Congress, and America was transformed into a business. A corporation. As a result, we was to deal with the fallout of this. Because of the incorporation of the United States, the state of Zuron was undergoing it's relegation to being the hoe-down bottom bianc to the newly-incorporated United States. Nearly a quarter of the Zuroni population was up in arms, and later began a series of raids, violent protesting, and angry confrontations with the US police that occupied Zuron. By the year 1872-1873, these raids would later escalate into a full scale war when one of the rioters who was a pyrokenetic, lit a boulder on fire and slung it at the US occupied Zuroni Royal Palace. By 1874, police began killin' women and children in their own homes, as part of Zuroni government policy, and planting bullets and arsenic in their dresser drawers.  

My family history started in like, 1875 when my great grandfather was taken to task as a newfound revolutionary. The secret society, named the Zuronists, and the Order Of The Sacred Vibes, had planned and orchestrated the 100 year war, which was a series of wars. In 1876-1877, Zuroni Prime Minister Ariel Farrisau wanted to take this civil war to another level, by increaseing casualties within the civilian populace, considering dat 25% of the Zuroni population has been radicalized, they assume the same of the entire middle-class and poorer populations. He would later suggest raping the women and stomping on the heads of the infant kids, taking the Jesuit Oath way too srsly (and way too literally -- ain't surprising since he a Jesuit himself).

In 1881, my great-grandfather decided to become an anarchist and he fought in the War Of Zuron, which brewed into 1878-1879. The War Of Zuron made way for the Civil War of 1882, which went on from 1884. By 1885 to 1887, the Zuroni state decided to attack other countries such as Britain, France, Argentina, Russia (all of which are corporate charters themselves), etc so it can begin its hegemony. Alfred Perchenson started hanging with The Casanova family, who are a hidden Black Nobility that oversee Switzerland and are also members of Spanish Nobility, as well as with Illuminati financier and boss, Grand Duke Henri of Luxembourg. By the 1890s decade (1890-1899), since the USA's transformation into a corporation, it was easily conquered from within by Zuron after the Illuminati had engineered psyops within Zuron: (around 1890-91, they dropped bombs on the Highland Parkside, there was war over that; in 1892-93, there was a mass musket ball assault on the Peppy Store here in Detronas; 1894-95 was the founding of Zuronism, and the subsequent bombings; 1896-97 was the Zuroni government trying to implement the earliest form of Martial Law on the Yupaku islanders; and 1898-99 was around the era where the islanders rebelled against the Illuminist-Zuronist mafia and won).

At this point around 1905, every time a new government was established in Yupaku Islands, it was straight burnt to the fucking ground. Zuron was the last province to abide by the UCC Maritime Admiralty Law like every other country. By 1925, my great grandfather had already rebelled against the Jesuits by this point in order to take his country back, but he, as well as the rebels fighting against this UCC Law was all killed. In 1926-27, Zuron was also affected by the coming economic depression after the elites pulled the plug on the economy, and we was already penniless by the time 1928 and 1929. The President of Zuron, afraid of being killed by his Zuronist masters, didn't even bother to get the economy back on track, so he decided to flee for Argentina, leaving us high and dry. We wound up rebelling and destroying cop cars and shit starting in '30 or '31. By the time the Illuminati puppet came back in 1932-33, he was shanked to death out on the street. Serves his ass right. In 1933, the remaining cabinet of Zuron decided to cut a deal with The Federal Reserve, and they began putting the fractional reserve principle into practice. Banks don’t create creating money by making new loans to spend on this whole Hundred Year War.

In 1935 to 39, and all throughout the forties decade, the military niggas was dropping napalm in the city, killing thousands of rebelling citizens in the process. In 1941, Pearl Schuster crashed into the Zuroni Municipal building (it took 'em 30 years to build that shit back up), and in 1942-43, one of the Zuronists, Hans K. Paris, stepped outside of the shadows of the secret societies, and decided to run for Prime Minister of Zuron. He was close associates with The House of Savoy which have strong ties with Genova Italy ruled in Geneva Switzerland beginning with Count Amadeus V of Savoy. That same time frame, the Gothel Family was put further into the mainstream with this TV show, Anything With A Penis Is A Rape Machine -- this was around 1944-45. The show's creator, Gorthos Gothel, is a member of the British Crown's East India Company which controls the opium trade. My grandfather was also associated with the East India Company, met Duchess Rainia. The first half of they marriage was rocky as fuck, bordering on abusive -- especially the honeymoon stages. Eventually she would be able to relinquish the Duchess title and just be Rainia, gramma, and so she calmed down for the latter half of the marriage.

Needless to say, he too was drafted back into the East India Company's poppy fields in 1946-47, and he was stationed back at the Farnese Villa Caprarola, where he and the remaining soldiers would be under the watchful eye of the Jesuit Order as well as the Bourbon-Parma branch. Almost all of our motion picture films was published by Universal Film Manufacturing Company around this time, mostly because our own film company, Motion Sounds, signed a deal with them. By 1948-49, Joe Gothel and my great uncle, Karland Gold, were British Knights of the Order of the Bath and served the Windsor family. My grandparents would later take their marriage to new heights in 1950-51, after their friends invited them to the house of Windsor and shit. They would get involved into the Ninth Circle Cult in 1952-53, and by 1954-55 they partied at the Skull and Bones secret society at Yale. My grandparents decided to make the stupid decision to procreate, and my pops was born in 1955 -- and Bonesmen attended the day of my pop's birth. Needless to say, my family sold their fucking souls to the Illuminati umbrella. Unlike my grandparents, my pops lived a relatively "normal" childhood. And I say RELATIVELY NORMAL -- and I say that because he's had to live in fear of Bonesmen knocking on his bed room door, which made sense -- did you see my grandfather's connect with the various secret societies and royal bloodlines? Especially around 1956-57, when my grandfather and them Shriner niggas would yap for 6 hours about stupid shit.

In the beginning of the '60's, mainly 1960-61, my pops wound up becoming interested in the Shriners (mainly because my gramps put him up to it), as well as the Freemasons -- however my gramma decided against him even joining them secret societies, especially with the intensity of the Hundred Year War ramping up the intensity. In 1962-63 was when the bombs began dropping again, which haven't happened since the 30's. In 1964-65 was where the Zuroni elite would start with creating man-made viruses and shit and weaponizing them, and the government would spread that shit around and killing niggas with it. By 1966-67 was when the Hundred Year War would reach peak intensity when niggas started firing bunker missiles at each other. Pops eventually got fucking tired of this shit and rebelled at the age of 11 and decided to leave for Yukapu Islands, where he would eventually meet my moms. By the time they returned to Zuron City (which was 1968-69), my parents would meet up with then-15 year old Stasia, who was a tramp in training.

Come time around the 1970-1971. Rolestasia Esmeralda Gothel, better known as Stasia, Natika's mother, got her political career in lieu of a blood sacrafice for the Illuminati, and was therefore accepted in the Illuminati fold. She looked beautiful with her very voluptous figure, and a face of a temptress. When the then 17-year-old Stasia met the happy but struggling couple, she seemed very polite and charasmatic, very happy about her political career, but the mask would come off as soon as she moved in.

As the years passed, Stasia would come stay over at the Gold residence for weeks on end. But rather than greet them with kindness and respect, this time she greets them with indifference, and it later devolves into temper tantrums... and finally it devolved into beatings and bullying.. it did not take long for her to develop her tyrannical rule over the Gold household. She would boss my pops to go buy her beers, take up the whole house, and force my moms to cook her meals. If either of them said no, they were BOTH ripe for a beating. Or even a raping. She would talk to her political constituents about my parents being unfit parents, calling them "stupid" and "worthless".

It would be revealed that it was Sinbad who would order Stasia to call the police on the Golds and orchestrate the monthly raiding of their house. Regardless of whether or not they paid the bills on time. It was also STASIA's momma, Gorthos that would KILL my grandmother personally, after failing to get Harold or the rookie Pole Eyes Off Eye Seer to kill the elderly woman. Gorthos unloaded a shotgun round that would kill my paternal grandmother. my grandfather, Marshall Gold, came out of his nap and rushed to find his wife with a shotgun round in her stomach, lying on the floor, dead.

The killer, then 49 year old Gorthos, and her mother Anghella (under orders from Sinbad) had long since fled the scene. Marshall would later try to investigate the murder of his wife. And so the detectives find a young black kid ordering a pack of Skittles. The detectives arrest him after finding a pistol in his bookbag (Stasia planted it there). The boy was acquitted of all charges after not only finding out the boy did not use the gun to kill the elderly woman, but found out the pistol wasn't the murder weapon.

The deputy that would reveal himself to be involved would take all the credit (and the fall), and that was his gun in the first place. As soon as they believed that was the deputy that shot SG's grandmother, that was it. They locked the case down. It had went cold. The deputy would be jumped in the streets. Meanwhile, my gram ma's REAL killer (Stasia) is in the throes of World Politics, goes to G20 Summits, and is even the Vice Prime Minister of Zuron City. Gorthos Gothel, Stasia's moms, orchestrated the raid that would kill my gramma. The motive? A spat over a purse that apparently Mrs. Gold forgot to give to the Gothels, as well as failure to show up to the Gothel sacrifice ritual.

My pops got a job as a schoolteacher in 1972, before Sam Gold was born, and my moms was a former high class prostitute until she quit in 1973. She left the family in 1974 when Gold was young as she was to regret having to bring a kid into the world. She would return to the family a year later. 1975 came along, as his grandfather still wouldn’t give up the investigation on who shot my gramma.  even after having the investigation was shut down by authorities.

I was born on November 7, 1975. By the time the end of '76 and into '77 rollin' around, my pops did everything he could to care for me and my family. It was a full house. My grandfather lived in the same house, my aunts lived here. My uncles lived here, My moms lived here. I lived here. Right here. Apartment 7735, in 7th Street -- right here in Detronas Project Housing. Around this time, the Hundred Year War had long been over -- it ended around March 1975.

My pops was always working hard to support the whole family, wetehr it be hard work in jobs or dealing dope the streets. However most of the time he was being unappreciated by my family, because we won't getting pleased enough. We were unsatisfied... we didn't think of him as a hardworking daddy or a human being, we saw him as a bank account. We just wanted fat stacks and gifts, we didn't give a fuck if he was sick or not. I hated him for leaving at first, but then I sat back and reflected on how we treated him. I asked the question -- was it any wonder he left us? With my poppy gone, the rest of my family didn't have the cap space to take care of me, so they sent me over to boarding schools and summer camps, where I would get mercilessly tormented, sent in time-out for no real reason.

Hell, when I was 5 (around '80 or '81), I was repeatedly beaten to an inch of my life. Tortured even. He didn't trust these child care programs for a reason -- he knew the Illuminati controlled these child behavioral programs. He's seen my transition from child drug dealer, teenage truther, to twenty something revolutionary. He's seen my shit life, and how I chose to turn it around. He's been seen me go through the same treatment during my relationship with Natika, hell he knows her own fatherless background.

The main 5 care takers/supervisors (Cassandra Coleman, Deanne Rush, Felecia House, Juanita Cruz, and Vanessa Brianna Beasley), all told my family that I was a demon baby who was under satanic possession, and when I wanted to go outside and play, the "care takers" would say I was outta control, because of the demons inside me, and they would beat me to an inch out of my life.

The days of torture began in '83, by the time I was 7, I wasn't even allowed to play with the other kids, they locked me in a small attic closet. I couldn't stretch out my legs or stand, but I could sit in it -- it was cold in wintertime, hot in summertime, but it was always roach infested. I was not allowed no sugar, no protein, no potassium. NOTHIN'. The only food I would be able to eat was apple sauce that one of the kids would sneak through the crack in the door. When I was allowed to eat, the care takers, especially Juanita Cruz (that fucking bitch), would tell me that every bite I would eat would ruin my figure. It wasn't even worth eating afterwards. I was in the hospital a lot growing up and I got a lot of treatments. Almost all the kids would get beaten, and every breath was controlled, much like every thought. We would all wake up tied to cots and get sodomized.

Me and Natika would get taken to modification facilities when Juanita would grow bored of us. Both of us would get tied to beds for days. Me and Natika would get multiple electric shock treatments. Me and Natika both met when I was 7 and she was like, 4 or 5. She was the main kid who would stand up to the "care takers" or so-called. As a result, she would get locked inside of the small attic closet with me. She would help me sneak food into the cupboard when the rest of the kids would be asleep. When we was caught, Natti would step in and take all the blame, after a while she would be used to getting her ass whooped. Shit got worse every two years. By the year '83, them ass-beatings would continue. At this point the whole dwamned demographic getting whooped and kicked down stairs, whether for a complaint, or for simply asking questions on which activity we would partake in. After a while me and Natika would bond for our love of video games. It was her and J-Mack who had introduced me to my 6 part circle of life: emceeing, DJing, breakdancing, b-ball, gaming, and graffiti art. I took up all 5 of them and I excelled at all 5 of them. Cruz caught me reading and writing and she took me into the bathroom and beat me into a coma.

For a month, By the year 1983, around the time I was 7, I had finally awakened from my coma and had to relearn all of his basic movements and logical synopses. For this, video gaming turned from becoming a simple basic hobby into something I took seriously, wether it would be home console games, card games, or arcade games. My gramps and me would escape the Zuron City Care Centre and would later travel to Japan, where he would later train my brain into the art of Wing Chun and arcade gaming. He had since picked up on a lot of Asian culture, especially Japanese culture and how seriously they took gaming, and began to adopt said philosophies. I would later return home and re-study the subjects he had neglected around the time of my coma -- The Occult, Symbolism, Conspirituality, Secret Societies, and Astrotheology. At this point I would later get addicted to traveling, and would later be able to build a plane based on the knowledge he took in Japan.

I would later travel to Afghanistan, Algeria, Angola, Antigua and Barbuda, Armenia, Albania, Argentina, Australia, Botswana, Belarus, Barbados, Belize, Bhutan, Britain, Brazil, Chile, Colombia, Cuba, Canada, Congo, Cameroon, Chad, China, Dominica, Eswatin, Ethiopia, Ecuador, Egypt, France, Fiji, Guyana, Germany, Gabon, Guatemala, Greece, Guinea, Haiti, India, Iceland, Israel, Indonesia, Iran, Iraq, Italy, Japan, Jamaica, Kazakhstan, Kuwait, Libya, Lebanon, Luxembourg, Liberia, Latvia, Kenya, Korea, Malaysia, Mexico, Mali, Malta, Moldova, Monaco, Mozambique, Malawi, Maldives, Madagascar, Morocco, Nigeria, Nauru, Netherlands, New Zealand, Oman, Pakistan, Palau, Palestine, Peru, Paraguay, Poland, Portugal, Romania, Russia, Rwanda, South Africa, Spain, Sri Lanka, Sudan, Switzerland, Sweden, Samoa, Somalia, Suriname, Senegal, Serbia, Saudi Arabia, Syria, Taiwan, Togo, Trinidad and Tobago, Turkmenistan, Tunisia, Tanzania, Tanzania, Thailand, Turkey, Tuvalu, Uganda, United Arab Emirates, Uruguay, Vatican City, Vanuatu, Yemen, Yugoslavia, Zimbabwe, and later Zambia… and all so I can get familiar with the customs and the environments in said places. I would go back to Zuron for a remaining week to go see my moms and her fam in the hotel and stay with them.

By the time I was forced to return to the Care Centre, I would see Cruz sucking dick in the daycare kitchen, when they was watching. We would get our asses beaten the next day. The man she was with caught wind of this and left her ass. The breakup would only worsen Cruz's temper, and pretty much made it more unpredictable at this point. Her favorite punishment, for any kid who would cross her, or call her out on her bullshit -- or she sees some young nicca doing some she she just plain finds distasteful, she would mix into a trash bin some NaOCl + 2NH3 --> 2NaONH3 + Cl2, which is scientific formula code for ammonia and bleach concoction, and would throw a kid, whether it be me, Natika, Tayla, J-Mack, or anyone, in the janitor closet -- with the concoction, until we lose consciousness. Natika wound up warning the parents about the daycare center, but there wasn't shit they could do. As a result, me, J-Mack, Natika, Alex Hutch, Chris Dolmeth, Tony-D, Cita, and Tayla -- all made escape attempts, and all of them failed, and we would all get locked in the same room, sometimes resulting in me, Natika, and J-Mack getting sent to modification facilities.

By '85, I went to church -- as enforced to -- every Sunday. However I made the mistake of thinking I could trust a pastor named James Willis. He had me training immensely and wearing black belt by the time I was 9 to 10 years old. At this point he had me studying the Bible and shit, I dunno. There was a lot of shit that took place. Our friend, Tayla, who was there for our first escape attempt -- was bludgeoned to death by Cruz and the other care takers at the age of 9 (RIP, 1975.09.03 - 1985.03.03). Shortly after this I was visiting my Pastor/Communist Soldier. He started to notice I was growing into myself a little. He would take me to his king-size bedroom, lays me down on his bed. He started feeling on me and shit -- I instantly screamed like a bitch and he put his hands over my mouth, threatening to beat my ass should I make a sound. I never made a sound after that, not after he ripped my pants and underwear off and started thrusting his dick into my asshole.

Getting raped became an everyday thing. He would attempt to murder me around the times I have struggled and cried. So I just let it happen the next times he's done it. My mind became split in half. Getting raped in the bootyhole became an everyday thang afterwards. The worst part of this all is this is the closest I have came to being "loved" -- because getting bootyraped in church, despite how horrifying it was, but it beat being locked in the janitor closet with ammonia and bleach mixture and dealing with Cruz's temper at the Zuron City Care Centre. At least the 'passa wouldn't kill me, as for Cruz, I was never sure that she wouldn't kill me. So my childhood was like this: go to the daycare to get locked in a attic closet eating apple sauce on the weekdays, and at 3, go to the passa's house so he can do me up the booty -- and I have no say in it. That was my childhood. At this point, Natika was ordered to leave Zuron for Hollywood so her grand momma Gorthos was planning to mold her in 2 a promising child actress. Ambassadors of the Society Of Jesus, i.e The Jesuits, would visit Gorthos on a very frequent basis to encourage Gorthos to shame her daughter on her suicidal attempt, in which she complies… and she complied well.

In the year '87, by the time I became an prepubescent, the Zuron City Day Care Centre was shuttin' its doors, so we wound up being thrown into the wild and we went to school full time. It was horrible and the teachers was totalitarian, almost like Nazi Germany, or Mao Tse­ Tung’s “Great Leap Forward” in China (widely recognized as the greatest disaster in an attempt to construct a centralized economy). Them mothafuckas would bully us, whether we did wrong or not, and when we did chew gum in class or disrupt, the punishments and retributions the Zuron City High School would dish out would be disproportionate. After the said disproportionate retribution was meted out, they would continuously harass and bully the student for said slight. The deans and principals fit it, causing more destruction than the teachers. Me and other students would question what we was reading in the school books and we would get our asses beat. It got to the point where I started drinking 40 oz at the school (I had been drinking alcohol since I was 9), and I was addicted to drugs, wether they had been narcotics or pharmaceuticals). I was sick almost all the time, and by the time me and Natika slept together -- Natika had night terrors from getting raped in Hollywood Town in Zuron City, in Disney, where she was getting her first gig back in '88, at the age of 9. Both of us was coughing up bl00d at the time. Our bodies was paralyzed because of the abuse, damaged ribs, muscle structure and nervous system getting caught between 'em, dead nerves in the abdomen (which is where my Anarchy tattoo is located) and a torn diaphragm.

At this point I'd had enough, I wound up getting into fights in school, fights with the teachers, fights with the dean, fights with the security officers. That shit was what got me expelled from that school. And finally, got into a fight with Cruz when she was informed of what I did and won. She wound up snitching on me to the po-pos and I wound up facing a year and 1/2 in men's prison -- in REAL man's jail, nigga. Once again I got into fights with the correctional officer faggot muhfuckas. I found out that J-Mack, Chris Dolmeth, Alex Hutch, Tony-D, Purrpy McVay, Iverson, Lil' Dak-Dak, Kapo, and Zarius Kid -- were all in the same prison, and later on in the second half of my prison sentence, we would all be shacked in the same cell. It turns out we was all facing assault charges and got into hella fights, sprayed murals on libraries and shit -- and this is where I REALLY started writing raps. We would be released from jail around January '89, and at this point I started taking the "Sam Gold Circle Of Life" seriously, especially the first 3 elements of hip-hop. However they wound up taking me into modification once more, and I suffered amnesia after the last electroshock treatment. I didn't even know who my abuser was, who the other kids was, who my family was, my pets neither. I didn't even know what this town was. I found out that Cruz fled Zuron to live in Cali and some other shit. By the time I showed my face in West Detronas again, a lot of shit had changed.

At this point I wound up joining the Church Of Zuronism, an ideology that espouses Satanism, Dark Luciferianism, the Black Sun Cult belief systems, Illuminism, Dark Atonism, and other forms of Dark Knowledge. However, I would also study philosophical anarchism, conspiracies, the occult, secret societies, symbolism, magick, mysticism, consciousness, mind control, natural law, demonology, forager societies, etc, around this time -- and I would rebel against their orders immediately, them niggas started not to like me. By the year 1991, I amassed a shit-ton of knowledge by the time at the age of 15, and around this point I would begin my career professionally.

At this point in '91, I wound up ripping up my birth certificate and become free. I was 15 at this time -- my rapist killed himself. He blew his head off, niggas had to scrape his brains off the wall. I went to the nigga's funeral and tell niggas how great he was, but I couldn't cry. I just fucking screamed into the rooftops and shouted curses for the neighborhood to her. Didn't know why I did it, I just did. I was numb, dawg, especially after that treatment. I found out this Passa/Marine was rapin' lil' boys, done it for 20 consecutive years, and I was his fuck toy for like 5 of them years. After a series of events, my niggas, especially J-Mack, got me out of that NWO infested environment and moved me to East Detronas, the hood of the hoods. I learned to hustle, sell crack, get involved in the drug game and make that dough. I got involved in the street life, the nightclub life, living the rapper's hood lifestyle -- all the while in the daytime, I was a rebel nigga tagging up walls and street tunnels, getting involved in riots, playing street basketball, and writing and recording rhymes. However inspire of the drug game granting success, none of that shit mattered. I would still experience night terrors, I would still remember the abuse within that fucking Day Care center, I would still remember getting ass raped by that pastor in church. I would still remember the teachers bullying and harassing me. However my homies invited me into the G40 circle, the Zuron City rap scene. I accepted the invitation.

That's what pretty much jumpstarted my career, that time in my life. spending my whole childhood dabblin’ in the shit. Almost all the songs I made, I made like damned near 100,000 songs over the course of teh decade, and around 50% of them went Gold. Only like, 0.78125% of my shit went Platinum (and only 3 of 'em became singles). Near the 4th quarter of '92 and into '93 I released “It’s A Gold Thang”, and that shit went #25 on the Billboard Charts, and it went Platinum. I then petered out after the realization that I was in the Illuminati – and finding out that this whole agricultural society, including the music industry, was run by Luciferians, Dark Occultists, and a Black Sun Priest Class. To find out that your world was a lie, and at 17 years old at that, it’s traumatizing. At that point it took me 2 years to get me out of that contract.  I eventually did, but the beef between me and the Illuminati had begun. Because of this, and the fact that I couldn't smoke a fucking pound of w33d, I left the Church Of Zuronism -- that shit was wildin'. I don't fuck with them niggas, so you been t0ld. However, me and Natika would resume our relationship after I left the cult.

Near the end of '94 and into '95, I released “Mid-Coast Vibes”, when the rap group Midcoastsidaz was a thang. Me being 19 years old at that time, I found myself back into the street life, dealing all sorts of drugs and eventually gun-running. That and I found out Natika was a computer hacker and a tech freak, at that point we got closer. Meanwhile the Midcoastsidaz was poppin back in 1995. In the year 1995, at the age of 19, I decided to pass the time recording new tracks, performing in major hip hop clubs, and helping my homeboys (Jimmy Mack, Tony D, Alex Hutch, Chris Dolmeth, Dave Coast, Lynch Dawg, Tray Lu, Zarius, and Purrp McVay) on they hip hop projectz, as well as getting them out of their Illuminazione production deal. Chris Dolmeth also was attemping to promote his R&B boy band Ideation at this time too. On August 1995, Ialso released my second (or third) Gold single, "Gold World", and I became an underground sensational favorite at the age of 19. Even after that success, I was making jack shit off of this rap shit -- like, $312,500 -- and I split it with Natika -- who blew almost all her cash on gaming, techie shit, nail polish and dildo practice. It got so bad that I gave up my remaining $156,250 away and slept in the dumpster hunting for food. Aside from Jimmy Mack, Tony D, Chris Dolmeth, Alex Hutch and Dave Coast sleeping in the dumpster with me. I wound up finding my Natti Cake in the actual trash pile outta her mind. This nigga billionaire crime lord and rap mogul Mister Preme (born Derek Owen) wound up signing J-Mac, Tony, Hutch, Dave and Chris to a deal with Universal-owned Zuron based Detronillac Recording Corporation, and he took them outta the dumpster and primed them up for the big time. Preme was gonna sign me before Natti mouthed off to him. They all got on the bus and they left me and my girl in the dumpster.  

By the 4th quarter of 1996, me, Tony D, Chris Dolmeth, Alex Hutch, XVI2, Zarius, Purrpy McVay, Dave Ivy, Jimmy Mack, and Big Kapo was recording the “Detronas City Anthem”, but we didn’t finish the song until the middle of '97, because around that time I was rollin’ with this street gang called Venom Lordz, all the while Kapo, Ivy, J-Mac and Tony was fightin each other over the single. I was 21 at this point in my life. Kapo would later ink a deal with Uptown Records, and would record his album there, but as soon as it was primed for release, MCA began crumbling and the unreleased album got lost in the shuffle. We decided to release the single in June of '97. The shit was my first Platinum single, like EVER. And it rose my profile significantly – and it put Detronas on a national mic, tbh. Not to mention, in 1997, Kapo would later establish his AMP label. AT this point my relationship with Natika took a dark turn for the worst, she and I faded each other all the time, and over stupid shit too. I was even further depressed after reading even further into the fact that the industry I was taking part in was Satanist infested, what with the 666's, the devil horns, and satanic imagery. That and I realized the dream I was chasing, the "American Dream" was all a fucking con job created by them same Luciferians I worked with back in my teen years. I went in my fucking room, shut the computer off, curled myself into a corner and cried for most of the night -- and at this point my music became more depressive and emotive. I spent the rest of '97 going through the motions and ignoring the gun in the r00m.

Nearing the end of '98 and going into '99, I recorded “Zu-Pimp”, put that single out, and that went Platinum in within a few weeks into 1999. Kapo would sign all of us to his AMP label, and then he would upstream his AMP label to the legendary Detronillac label, which was under the Universal Records and Universal Music & Video Distribution umbrella. However, my m00d darkened when my protege Daliib was shot dead when me and him was runnin' from snipers in April of'99 (he was 19) -- I grieved heavily after that, and believe me that was a LOOONNGGG ass grieving process trust me. My m00d darkened even further when Natika told me she was pregnant. The arguments between me and Natika got worse after whether or not we were to spare Tamberine the horrors of existence. I would drink myself into a depression, because considering my tortured past, I was remorseful, thinking I would put her through this bullshit later on in life -- and it'd fuck her up just as bad as it did me -- I turned to antinatalism, efilism and negative utilitarian thought around this time frame. Even though Natika did wound up understanding what I was trying to say -- she still decided to keep the baby. It was at this point where the relationship fizzled away, and I stayed at The Zelter House more, where Jimmy Mack, Tony-D, Chris Dolmeth, Alex Hutch, Lynch Dawg, Tray Lu, Zarius, Purrpy McVay, and Dave Coast resided. By September 9, 1999 --  my daughter Tamberine would be born in the midst of my massive success at that time.

At this point I went through all the emotions of learning about Big Brother, Natural Law, Mass Media Mind Control, Agenda 21, Georgia Guidestones, Codex Alimentarius, Chemtrails, Flouride and Aspartame, Cannibis Oil, Freemasons, NWO, Illuminati, Project Avalon, MK Ultra, Monarch Programming, Club Of Rome, Monsanto, Jesuit Order, Kaballah, Fake UFOs, The Saturnalian/Zoroastrian Bloodlines, Fake Jews, Vaccines, Transhumanism, Child Trafficking, Adrenochrome, Satanic Rituals, Pizzagate, False Flags, Gun Control, Esoteric Science, Sephirot Death Cult, Baal/Bull/Bill, The Occult, Secret Societies, Symbolism, Demonology, Black Magick, Mysticism, World War III, Armageddon, Martial Law, The White Dragon Society, Ancient Egyptian Trinity, The Pharoahs, DUMBS, RFID chips, AI, Journalism, Unlocking Theological Anomalies, Esoterica, EMPCOE, etc.

By 1999, I stopped giving a fuck about what niggas thought. At the age of 23, I would give up on labels and decide to push forward, performing in clubs and battle rapping just to get known. I would later dye my hair red and wear a black hoodie (or wear a black 4XL shirt) – and 5 tattoos (an Erisem tattoo on my right bicep, a Tamberine Emelyn tattoo on my right arm, a Sam Gold on my left bicep, a 78125 tattoo on my left arm, and an Anarchy symbol on my abdomenal area; I would wear a G-Shock sportswatch on my right wrist, and a diamond wristband on my left wrist, with a pair of baseball gloves), and a pair of black Lugz Boots, completing my Sick Touch look for the 9-9 and onwards. All three of my singles sold like 1,000,000,000 copies to date, and at this point, This was more than enough clout to just leave the major-label brand -- and then go to sign a distribution deal with Universal Music & Video Distribution around 1999. I would later work on my EP, named Thermilliation, around the 3rd quarter of '99.

In 2000, I then met numerous rap, punk rock, heavy metal/screamo, country, and R&B singers in the Zuroni mainstream. I held my tongue, for I was a puppet of the mainstream labels myself.  In 2000, I decided to adjust my color scheme, and stayed in my ghetto neighborhood in the Detronas Projects, while Tamberine was at my pop's house at the moment. My crew lived in the same projects, and they even lived in the same apartment room.

Near the beginning of the 2K1, I entered the 2001 Epic Bowl Battle Rap Championship, where the grand prize was a replica of the Vince Lombardi Trophy, and $1,000,000,000 in prize money. I took on all of my opponents and finished them all ruthlessly. I str8 up ATE 'em. Wowed the crowd in the process. I got to the championship and faced Jim Beam, who won 3 consecutive championships -- and dethroned that nigga. Thanks to me becoming the new Epic Bowl Champion, relish wasn't hard to come by no more. That $1,000,000,000 prize money was MINES. To celebrate, I finished recording Thermilliation into 2001, and in 2001 was when I founded my Sick Touch label, while still on the Universal umbrella. After I won that Epic Bowl Battle Rap Championship, I toured in Argentina, Australia, Brazil, Britain, Colombia, Cuba, Canada, Dominica, France, Fiji, Germany, Greece, India, Iceland, Indonesia, Iran, Iraq, Italia, Japan, Jamaica, Korea, Libya, Lebanon, Malaysia, Malawi, Mexico, Malta, Maldives, Netherlands, New York City, Palestine, Peru, Russia, Saudi Arabia, Spain, Syria, South Africa, Tanzania, Thailand, Turkey, Uganda, and Yemen in Q1 2001. After that tour, I released my debut EP, Thermilliation, in June 7th, 2001, and that shit sold like, 1,000,000 copies in it’s first week. Eventually, on September 7th, 2001, them sales multiplied by 128x that. I would sell 1 BILLION, baby. I would go Diamond off that EP alone. The shit had 25 tracks on it, it felt more like an album. However I had 75 more tracks made around that span -- and made that shit into a compilation. BOOM. Released that shit months later in September 7th 2001. DIAMOND CERTIFIED. I still make mills off this EP to this day.

Everything was totally NEW by the year 2002, and I decided to record my debut album. Inspired by me listening to the Slim Shady LP, I decided to add "LP" to my album title to give it some oomph. My skills attract Zuroni teen rap sensation Kamaal, who has since released his debut album around the same time as me, and became just as popular as his idol (he became a fan of Samethyst through his material from 1997, saying his favorite album was Welcome To Thundaground, so he was a fan before his massive fame. 2002 was also a great year for the Zuroni hip hop scene, for it began to gain a massive following since Thermilliation was released a year prior to it (2001). Rapper Rawn's Kassassination was released in February 2002, Massa Kaine's Life Unto Part was released in 2002, LCN's Confrontayshuns Of A Homeless Gangsta was re-released in the year 2002 (though it was originally released in 2000). In September 2002, I decided to have his own summit with the Thundaground crew, for he discussed a lot of music, red pill and activism related subjects. Soon after this, me and my crew released our second album, Epic Bowl Championz, on September 10, 2002 on Full Circle Music, which was bought out by my Sick Touch label.

At this point it was ALBUM TIME. In '03, I put out The Sam Gold LP, on February 6, 2003, to worldwide critical acclaim. I would become the first autistic hip hop recording artist to go Platinum. The album’s subject matter ranges in between conspiracies and occult related topics, suicida ideation, arson, mental illness, and antinatalism. My album would become a bestseller in Zuron, and would go Gold worldwide. Know what I'm sizzlin', "Detronas City Anthem (The Finale)" was on there! I made a song about my drink, niggaroni, it's called Dross Juice, that's on the album! "Lugz And Gasmask" is on there, nigga who wouldn't wanna go to a war with some baggy ass sweats, Lugz Chargerz and a fuckin' GASMASK! WILD as fuck. Tha SMASH HIT SINGLE, "I Don't Wanna Live", that's on the album . Sold like, 1,000,000 copies to date. The whole world went nutz. I got arrested not long after this album. Got tried at the World Court. Around the time I was in jail, I heard word that Natika wound up building orphanages and homeless shelters for struggling Middle Easterners, with my proceeds. She even fought alongside her Palestinian brothers and sisters against the Israeli occupiers that her moms supported. Two years have passed and she is respected amongst the Middle East. But she feels as though its time for her to leave. Shit was heartwarming as fuck, she finally found her purpose, it seemed.

Shit was gon change by the time 2004 rolled in. I would fade random people, or just flat out assault political and religious figures on a whim. Me and my homeboyz would raid other mainstream rapper's club parties. I would get into riots a lot more frequent basis. I would snort coke off the crotches of sexy female models if given the chance to go to these house parties. In many cases, I would fuck Cita in the VIP Room (and a couple of other video models). In April 6th of '04, I was arrested for disturbance of the peace, riot inciting, but it was also a ruse for an even more serious crime: a domestic violence case. Simbad had crafted up a made up story of how I beat Natika back in 1997 (even though those injuries were the result of a bad fight, and the injuries Natika sustained back in '01 are from Gorthos Gothel savagely beating her and throwing her around like a ragdoll). By ‘04, I got myself in some major beef with them Illuminati sellouts named Leadaz Of The Free Nation, but me and my crew wound up squashing it after Tony brought a gun into the situation. I would hold the record of getting arrested the most times in a year -- smoking weed in the back of a po-po car would piss off any po-po officer. That and call them servants of Luciferian Occultists. Which they is. Had to say it, yo! I even beefed hella with Gamian Ritter, Sean Gotti, and J. Willis. I stopped fucking with Don Bling, them niggaz backstabbed us in AMP. Me and Emerald Shields kept it cool, we still talk every once in a while. But me and Bling ain't got no words. December of '04 was when I was drinkin' hella Caribull Vodka (Red Bull, Vodka, Sprite, Orange Juice, Grenadine), OD'd on the shit too, as far as I can remember.

2 years later, I had an Anghellic moment, I was now 29 years of age, and I would follow this up with the more aggressive same-day dual release: Rebel/Revolt which were released 2 months later on May 03, 2005. I wanted to go back to my Midcoastsidaz roots, and it had been 10 years after that shit was released, with a pint of darkness -- and that shit sold like 1,000,000 copies apiece. We wound up releasing The Rogue Demonz Show by Hemdula, Criminal Tendencies by J.J. Moneybagz, The Shit List by Liquid Se7en, World Renowned by Gang Green Crew (their debut), DJ Spill's Destructiv  death metal band Triumpf's Livin' Legends, Horrur's album Absolute Largess, Joey J's Rise Up, Chris' Dolmethland, Blak Bloc's Chaos VS Order: 1312, and Zuron City Clique's Zuron City All Stars. However, there was a lot of violence, even within them times -- some niggas within the Illuminati that started a shootout with Big Kapo because he refused to pay they ass. Me, being a real nigga, decided to pull my TEC-9 and fired at them. The Illluminati hit men shot and killed Platinum-selling artists Jabrielle McClain, Remy Byrd, Ori "Orion" Pierre, Da'kuan Muhammad, and Zohn Dorsey, all artists that got killed in the midst of the action. My homegirl Cita was shot and wounded in that crossfire as well -- and it would take a while until we started fully hanging out near the end of the year.  

I also heard that Natika's altruism lead to her gettin' ostracized by her family. Her ring to the middle east and finding a purpose hurt her family's precious little fee-feez, and oh boy my nigga, riots were abound and lots of butthurt had come to the surface. When she would go to Gothel Family Reunions, she would get nasty looks from all of her family members. It was at this point that Natika would realize that she had become a pariah among her fam. One of them even threatened to kill her "COME PROVE YOUR A MUSLIM TERRORIST YOU TRAITOROUS SAND NIGGER SPIC, WE WILL KILL YOU", and she had to come defend herself and Tamberine. This ended in a battle against her family members. Not only that, the whole City of Gothelia wanted to off her -- and on April 4, 2006 (4.4.06), they got their wish. While Natika, me, Jimmy Mack and K-Vall was taking joyrides around Gothelia, one Gothelian was armed with a crossbow -- and he/she shot the laser crossbow thru the driver's seat of the car, the bow went square in her head, killing her instantly. She was 27 at the time. I couldn't even help but cry my ass off son. I heard the next day, everyone in Gothelia celebrated her death. On top of this, my moms gets diagnosed with panchreatitis on Natika's 28th birthday (August 4th, 2006).

Even worse, on March 7th, 2007, I become subject to an Illuminati Blood Sacrifice, just know that the Anarchist message will help these kids bring that spark to expose this New World Order. I got something on my pager and say "GET READY TO DIE", and I kinda complied. I wasn't afraid of my own coming death. I do worry however, is that kids all over the world won't get to see my message because it goes against the Illuminati. Wether it would be that the Illuminati that wipes out my message and preventing my message, whether it be the parents of these kids who prevent them from listening to my message and taking action upon learning what I learned. I don't know. That fast life during my early years of fame got me even more suicidal -- I wanted to die nigga -- so I decided to go kamikaze and crash my car into the Illuminati people's van - face first! I wound up in the hospital in a comatose state for about a month or two, before eventually surviving. I eventually survived that shit. In the midst of this, the damage done to Detronillac was already done, and so it closed it's doors in April of '07, and AMP Entertainment shut down after co-Gamian blew most of Kapo's masters and publishing on a casino, alongside our label earnings as a way to pay the Illuminati. I wound up leaving AMP, Detronillac and UMG and I took my albums, and my Sick Touch label -- with me.

2 years after AMPs dissolution, I signed a distribution deal with Tropicala Distribution, another distribution arm of Universal. It was at THAT point where I would later release this fourth album, Counterfeit Dreams, on September 3, 2009, which was my darkest album, YET. I let the darkness and destruction consume my ass throughout the entire album, I talked moreso about darkness, death, gore, the occult, went even further on the arson and shit, etc. However, this shit sold 1,000,000,000 copies to date -- it didn't reach Thermilliation numbers, but it was close. THIS album was the one that opened a LOT of doors. And I re-relelased The Sam Gold LP, and Rebel/Revolt on Sick Touch as well. Now you get the full package, and the rest, as they say, is history.

[eddiejpoplar]

First Drive: Mopar 2017 Dodge Challenger

The Mopar 2017 Dodge Challenger was dropped off at noon, and it sparkled in my driveway as if the ripe blue beneath the character line was flecked with asteroid dust. But the glaring rays robbed the black roof and hood of their sheen. It would have been better to greet this 80th-anniversary car when sunset seems to liquefy the lacquers, revealing their true names: Contusion Blue and Pitch Black.

This is the seventh Mopar special since 2010. It rolled off the assembly line in Brampton, Ontario, as an all-blue Challenger R/T Scat Pack and then went to the Mopar Custom Shop in Windsor, across the river from Detroit. There, the trim came off, lots of sanding and hand-masking took place, the black was applied, and the “392” emblem was painted by hand. (The numeral “3” is the Mopar “M” turned sideways.) Other special pieces such as the Shaker hood, shock-tower braces, and Hellcat exhaust tips were installed. The car departed with an owner’s kit: a leather case containing a “birth certificate” engraved on a metal plate, a signed artist’s rendering, a brochure filled with breathless congratulations, a handsome acrylic display piece, and jewelry including a key chain, anniversary badge, and valve-stem caps. The Mopar ’17 Challenger is also offered in Billet Silver and Pitch Black—just 80 examples of each paint scheme. No matter what color, the buyer gets a big brawler with a face that says, “Outta the way!” Goodyear Eagle F1 tires on 20-inch wheels bulge like massive biceps. Indeed, the car has a few poses that make it one of the nicest-looking retro statements on the street.

No matter the color choice, the Mopar 2017 Challenger buyer gets a big brawler with a face that says, “Outta the way!”

I opened its huge door and sat on a lovely, suede-trimmed bucket seat with the Mopar logo embossed on the headrest. The 6.4-liter (392-cubic-inch) V-8 came to life with classic Detroit verve. It was immediately clear how much the oversquare engine likes to rev. Even on local roads where prudence should be exercised, there was no resisting. I might as well have been walking across rangeland with a shotgun and bag of shells. Smacking the power peak of 485 horsepower at 6,100 rpm in second gear brings the voice of a Roman god and a marrow-sapping rush of speed. Third brings a belly laugh, but fourth brings the fear of being fitted for an orange jumpsuit. The 180-mph speedometer is there for a reason. (Fifth and sixth gears are overdrive ratios.) But for all the commotion, all the flapping of dewlaps, this is a refined car with exceptional chassis and suspension development and strategic updates in interior feature content.

“To the credit of Mopar, they continue to do tremendous things with that product,” said Eric Noble, president of automotive consultancy firm The Car Lab, when I called him for some perspective. Noble pointed out that the LX platform, which serves as the Challenger’s basis, is more than 10 years old. “That’s an example of the power of the Mopar brand and also the clever continual evolution of it by passionate people inside. Mopar’s basically the fountain of youth for every model it touches.”

The Mopar “M” gets sideways for the handpainted “392” emblem. The Shaker hood always seems on the verge of making a big announcement

The Mopar 2017 Challenger is tagged at $57,885. “I bet every unit goes out the door at that plus dealer markup,” Noble said. “It’s a way for [Fiat Chrysler Automobiles] to continue to reap profit out of a very old platform. The vehicle-line executive on the main model line is happy, the dealers are happy, and Mopar continues to maintain or build brand equity. It’s hard to say a bad thing about Mopar. They’re just damn good at what they do.”

In fact, Noble suggests Mopar is FCA’s third-most valuable division after Jeep and Ram. This value is the result of gradual development of today’s portfolio of limited-edition vehicles, 500,000 products, 1,750 Mopar Express Lane oil-change centers around the world, mechanic training programs at community colleges, 50 parts warehouses, 11 Mopar Custom Shops in various countries, and 1,500 employees at home base in Detroit’s suburb of Center Line.

It all started rather humbly in the same year the American auto industry gave us the Blue Flame inline-six and the sit-down strike. It was initiated August 1, 1937, after Chrysler Motor Parts Corporation had already been operating for eight years, when Mopar offered “Chrysler Engineered” antifreeze (part number 1316 209) as its first product for the corporation’s Plymouth, Dodge, DeSoto, Chrysler, and Imperial brands. Matter of fact all the way, Mopar said what it did: motor parts.

The Mopar Challenger’s speedometer goes to 180 mph for a reason. It taps the available 485 hp at 6,100 rpm and can hightail it out of anywhere.

If the name was prosaic, the earliest marketing idea—put together for a Shriners’ parade in Detroit—was kooky. The effort entailed creation of a parade float bearing a 10-foot-tall camel made of auto parts. Wearing Mr. Mopar labels, this creation was led on the float by a small mechanical man, a real nut job named Accy—for “accessories.” In the annals of pitchmen, Mr. Mopar and Accy fall somewhere between Mr. Clean, whose sudden appearance in a commercial was unnerving but effective, and that inefficacious prevaricator, Joe Isuzu.

MoPar, as it was then written, with horizontal rules above the “o” and “ar,” offered radios in 1941, just in time to hear FDR proclaim December 7 as a date which will live in infamy. The sets were “custom built to specifications developed by Chrysler Corporation Engineers.” There was the Universal, the Model 600, and the mighty Model 800, an eight-tube wonder with great reception and a color-changing display that matched the broadcast.

A postwar ad presented car care products such as MoPar Automobile Polish. “Excellent for furniture, too!” claimed the copy in what was perhaps an industry first: allowing people to shine up their Plymouths and parquetry from the same can. The full-color cover of a Replacement Parts and Service Guide from the 1950s showed mufflers, brake hoses and fluid, fan belts, and spark plugs. It was still pretty ho-hum.

By now, MoPar had lost the horizontal rules, and if the early attempt at a mascot was corny, the graphic design was equally misbegotten. “Mopar’s branding since 1937 looks like design ideas run through a blender at max speed,” said my friend, Angela Riechers, who teaches typography at New York’s School of Visual Arts and writes a weekly column on typefaces for Eye on Design, the American Institute of Graphic Artists’ blog. I’d asked Riechers to look over the images Mopar released for its anniversary. She found “a mishmash of colors, typefaces, attempts at logotypes, and varying notions about how much info to include. They never really found a groove or an engaging logo.”

Considering the bulging “Omega M” created by marketing manager George Robinson in the mid-1960s, she said: “It looks logo-ish, to be sure, but it’s visually divorced from its automotive context. A first read evokes the image of bunny ears—or Neptune’s trident.”

Besides the introduction of the enduring logo, the 1960s were big for the brand. “Mopar’s gone independent!” announced a 1963 ad for the new wire and cable line. But the parts we remain excited about to this day are the intake manifolds, valvetrain pieces, and headers that made Dodges and Plymouths so predatory on street and strip, establishing Mopar as synonymous with Chrysler performance. These were lightweight cars with outrageous V-8s. In 1962, an unhandsome little Dart stopped gagging on its 413-cubic-inch Ram Charger motor long enough to record a 167.3-mph flying mile at Bonneville.

“They had it going all the way,” said Bob Beck, a Southern California racetrack announcer for decades who has always enjoyed telling audiences Mopar stands for “Move Over, Plymouths Are Racing.” Besides the huge engines, Beck attributes much Mopar success to Plymouth’s and Dodge’s early adoption of unibody construction. “You wanted to win on the dragstrip,” he said, “you came along a Hemi or Max Wedge, and you knew that was going to be tough business.”

From the seatbacks to the special Mopar owner’s kit, the Challenger does not lack for logos. And no matter the age of the chassis, this car delivers pleasure on the open road

Those who didn’t buy their own factory dragster with an aluminum front end could go to the dealership for some Mopar magic. “They even had kits where you could build yourself a race car,” Beck said. The phenomenon was known as package cars. “It was a part number. You could get everything you needed right from the dealership.” The performance-parts trade led to creation of the Direct Connection, which grew into today’s Mopar Performance Parts.

It’s hard to imagine the NHRA without Mopar, which sponsors the newest star, Leah Pritchett, for whom 2017 has been a breakout year.

From dominating the Stock and Super Stock categories at local strips, Mopar grew with the National Hot Rod Association, which left behind its original competition sites on World War II airfields and moved to purpose-built stadiums and today’s 24-date national tour. The front-engine rail and slingshot dragsters grew into rear-engine Top Fuel cars with enclosed driver compartments. And the Funny Cars deriving from Jack Chrisman’s Mercury Comet had flip-up fiberglass bodies of ever more radical design and supercharged, nitro-fueled engines. The second-generation Hemi V-8 introduced in 1964 was the foundation for Mopar teams. “The engine was so strong and very amenable to the use of nitromethane and blowers,” Beck said. Don Garlits (see page 117) relied on Mopar power while becoming the sport’s foremost legend. It’s hard to imagine the NHRA today without Mopar, which sponsors the newest star, Leah Pritchett, for whom 2017 has been a breakout year.

The cutout in the hood leaves some wiggle room for the mighty Hemi. The big V-8 dispels misguided notions of turbo V-6 superiority.

The Challenger, introduced in 1970, almost missed the fun, coming to market much later than its ponycar precursors and just in time for the federalization era. I was 15 years old in 1970 and had a better-late-than-never attitude about the Challenger. Its simple lines, shapely waist, and overall stance drew me. (By then, the Mustang and Camaro were getting a little busy.) The 1971 car-chase movie, “Vanishing Point,” enhanced the appeal. I happened to work at a drive-in theater that summer and saw it a dozen times. Even the teenaged me recognized the story as a total crock, but I was paid $1.35 per hour to watch Kowalski, the Challenger R/T’s amphetamine-popping driver, outrun motorcycle cops, force a Jaguar E-type into a river, and meet a naked hippie girl who rode a Honda Scrambler without burning her leg on the side pipes. Jennifer Lawrence might have an Oscar, but could she ever do that?

“Vanishing Point” stayed in my mind while I sampled the Mopar ’17 Challenger. Granted, there are even more potent Challenger derivatives—the Demon and Hellcat—but the Mopar Challenger is still a beast. With the ferocious V-8 and taut driveline, smooth shifting requires a real knack. Rather than fully automated, multimode supercars, this is a simple recipe for deliciousness. Mopar’s head of design, Joe Dehner, had spoken about the reaction of enthusiasts in a preview showing. “I think these people eat spark plugs for breakfast,” he said.

If he’s right, green smoothies might be overrated in making it to 80.

Mopar 2017 Dodge Challenger Specifications

ON SALE Now PRICE $57,885/$57,885 (base/as tested) ENGINE 6.4L OHV 16-valve V-8/485 hp @ 6,100 rpm, 475 lb-ft @ 4,100 rpm TRANSMISSION 6-speed manual LAYOUT 2-door, 5-passenger, front-engine, RWD coupe EPA MILEAGE 14/23 mpg (city/hwy) L x W x H 75.7 x 55.9 in WHEELBASE 116.2 in WEIGHT 4,232 lb 0-60 MPH 4.5 sec (est) TOP SPEED 179 mph

The post First Drive: Mopar 2017 Dodge Challenger appeared first on Automobile Magazine.

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[jonathanbelloblog]

First Drive: Mopar 2017 Dodge Challenger

The Mopar 2017 Dodge Challenger was dropped off at noon, and it sparkled in my driveway as if the ripe blue beneath the character line was flecked with asteroid dust. But the glaring rays robbed the black roof and hood of their sheen. It would have been better to greet this 80th-anniversary car when sunset seems to liquefy the lacquers, revealing their true names: Contusion Blue and Pitch Black.

This is the seventh Mopar special since 2010. It rolled off the assembly line in Brampton, Ontario, as an all-blue Challenger R/T Scat Pack and then went to the Mopar Custom Shop in Windsor, across the river from Detroit. There, the trim came off, lots of sanding and hand-masking took place, the black was applied, and the “392” emblem was painted by hand. (The numeral “3” is the Mopar “M” turned sideways.) Other special pieces such as the Shaker hood, shock-tower braces, and Hellcat exhaust tips were installed. The car departed with an owner’s kit: a leather case containing a “birth certificate” engraved on a metal plate, a signed artist’s rendering, a brochure filled with breathless congratulations, a handsome acrylic display piece, and jewelry including a key chain, anniversary badge, and valve-stem caps. The Mopar ’17 Challenger is also offered in Billet Silver and Pitch Black—just 80 examples of each paint scheme. No matter what color, the buyer gets a big brawler with a face that says, “Outta the way!” Goodyear Eagle F1 tires on 20-inch wheels bulge like massive biceps. Indeed, the car has a few poses that make it one of the nicest-looking retro statements on the street.

No matter the color choice, the Mopar 2017 Challenger buyer gets a big brawler with a face that says, “Outta the way!”

I opened its huge door and sat on a lovely, suede-trimmed bucket seat with the Mopar logo embossed on the headrest. The 6.4-liter (392-cubic-inch) V-8 came to life with classic Detroit verve. It was immediately clear how much the oversquare engine likes to rev. Even on local roads where prudence should be exercised, there was no resisting. I might as well have been walking across rangeland with a shotgun and bag of shells. Smacking the power peak of 485 horsepower at 6,100 rpm in second gear brings the voice of a Roman god and a marrow-sapping rush of speed. Third brings a belly laugh, but fourth brings the fear of being fitted for an orange jumpsuit. The 180-mph speedometer is there for a reason. (Fifth and sixth gears are overdrive ratios.) But for all the commotion, all the flapping of dewlaps, this is a refined car with exceptional chassis and suspension development and strategic updates in interior feature content.

“To the credit of Mopar, they continue to do tremendous things with that product,” said Eric Noble, president of automotive consultancy firm The Car Lab, when I called him for some perspective. Noble pointed out that the LX platform, which serves as the Challenger’s basis, is more than 10 years old. “That’s an example of the power of the Mopar brand and also the clever continual evolution of it by passionate people inside. Mopar’s basically the fountain of youth for every model it touches.”

The Mopar “M” gets sideways for the handpainted “392” emblem. The Shaker hood always seems on the verge of making a big announcement

The Mopar 2017 Challenger is tagged at $57,885. “I bet every unit goes out the door at that plus dealer markup,” Noble said. “It’s a way for [Fiat Chrysler Automobiles] to continue to reap profit out of a very old platform. The vehicle-line executive on the main model line is happy, the dealers are happy, and Mopar continues to maintain or build brand equity. It’s hard to say a bad thing about Mopar. They’re just damn good at what they do.”

In fact, Noble suggests Mopar is FCA’s third-most valuable division after Jeep and Ram. This value is the result of gradual development of today’s portfolio of limited-edition vehicles, 500,000 products, 1,750 Mopar Express Lane oil-change centers around the world, mechanic training programs at community colleges, 50 parts warehouses, 11 Mopar Custom Shops in various countries, and 1,500 employees at home base in Detroit’s suburb of Center Line.

It all started rather humbly in the same year the American auto industry gave us the Blue Flame inline-six and the sit-down strike. It was initiated August 1, 1937, after Chrysler Motor Parts Corporation had already been operating for eight years, when Mopar offered “Chrysler Engineered” antifreeze (part number 1316 209) as its first product for the corporation’s Plymouth, Dodge, DeSoto, Chrysler, and Imperial brands. Matter of fact all the way, Mopar said what it did: motor parts.

The Mopar Challenger’s speedometer goes to 180 mph for a reason. It taps the available 485 hp at 6,100 rpm and can hightail it out of anywhere.

If the name was prosaic, the earliest marketing idea—put together for a Shriners’ parade in Detroit—was kooky. The effort entailed creation of a parade float bearing a 10-foot-tall camel made of auto parts. Wearing Mr. Mopar labels, this creation was led on the float by a small mechanical man, a real nut job named Accy—for “accessories.” In the annals of pitchmen, Mr. Mopar and Accy fall somewhere between Mr. Clean, whose sudden appearance in a commercial was unnerving but effective, and that inefficacious prevaricator, Joe Isuzu.

MoPar, as it was then written, with horizontal rules above the “o” and “ar,” offered radios in 1941, just in time to hear FDR proclaim December 7 as a date which will live in infamy. The sets were “custom built to specifications developed by Chrysler Corporation Engineers.” There was the Universal, the Model 600, and the mighty Model 800, an eight-tube wonder with great reception and a color-changing display that matched the broadcast.

A postwar ad presented car care products such as MoPar Automobile Polish. “Excellent for furniture, too!” claimed the copy in what was perhaps an industry first: allowing people to shine up their Plymouths and parquetry from the same can. The full-color cover of a Replacement Parts and Service Guide from the 1950s showed mufflers, brake hoses and fluid, fan belts, and spark plugs. It was still pretty ho-hum.

By now, MoPar had lost the horizontal rules, and if the early attempt at a mascot was corny, the graphic design was equally misbegotten. “Mopar’s branding since 1937 looks like design ideas run through a blender at max speed,” said my friend, Angela Riechers, who teaches typography at New York’s School of Visual Arts and writes a weekly column on typefaces for Eye on Design, the American Institute of Graphic Artists’ blog. I’d asked Riechers to look over the images Mopar released for its anniversary. She found “a mishmash of colors, typefaces, attempts at logotypes, and varying notions about how much info to include. They never really found a groove or an engaging logo.”

Considering the bulging “Omega M” created by marketing manager George Robinson in the mid-1960s, she said: “It looks logo-ish, to be sure, but it’s visually divorced from its automotive context. A first read evokes the image of bunny ears—or Neptune’s trident.”

Besides the introduction of the enduring logo, the 1960s were big for the brand. “Mopar’s gone independent!” announced a 1963 ad for the new wire and cable line. But the parts we remain excited about to this day are the intake manifolds, valvetrain pieces, and headers that made Dodges and Plymouths so predatory on street and strip, establishing Mopar as synonymous with Chrysler performance. These were lightweight cars with outrageous V-8s. In 1962, an unhandsome little Dart stopped gagging on its 413-cubic-inch Ram Charger motor long enough to record a 167.3-mph flying mile at Bonneville.

“They had it going all the way,” said Bob Beck, a Southern California racetrack announcer for decades who has always enjoyed telling audiences Mopar stands for “Move Over, Plymouths Are Racing.” Besides the huge engines, Beck attributes much Mopar success to Plymouth’s and Dodge’s early adoption of unibody construction. “You wanted to win on the dragstrip,” he said, “you came along a Hemi or Max Wedge, and you knew that was going to be tough business.”

From the seatbacks to the special Mopar owner’s kit, the Challenger does not lack for logos. And no matter the age of the chassis, this car delivers pleasure on the open road

Those who didn’t buy their own factory dragster with an aluminum front end could go to the dealership for some Mopar magic. “They even had kits where you could build yourself a race car,” Beck said. The phenomenon was known as package cars. “It was a part number. You could get everything you needed right from the dealership.” The performance-parts trade led to creation of the Direct Connection, which grew into today’s Mopar Performance Parts.

It’s hard to imagine the NHRA without Mopar, which sponsors the newest star, Leah Pritchett, for whom 2017 has been a breakout year.

From dominating the Stock and Super Stock categories at local strips, Mopar grew with the National Hot Rod Association, which left behind its original competition sites on World War II airfields and moved to purpose-built stadiums and today’s 24-date national tour. The front-engine rail and slingshot dragsters grew into rear-engine Top Fuel cars with enclosed driver compartments. And the Funny Cars deriving from Jack Chrisman’s Mercury Comet had flip-up fiberglass bodies of ever more radical design and supercharged, nitro-fueled engines. The second-generation Hemi V-8 introduced in 1964 was the foundation for Mopar teams. “The engine was so strong and very amenable to the use of nitromethane and blowers,” Beck said. Don Garlits (see page 117) relied on Mopar power while becoming the sport’s foremost legend. It’s hard to imagine the NHRA today without Mopar, which sponsors the newest star, Leah Pritchett, for whom 2017 has been a breakout year.

The cutout in the hood leaves some wiggle room for the mighty Hemi. The big V-8 dispels misguided notions of turbo V-6 superiority.

The Challenger, introduced in 1970, almost missed the fun, coming to market much later than its ponycar precursors and just in time for the federalization era. I was 15 years old in 1970 and had a better-late-than-never attitude about the Challenger. Its simple lines, shapely waist, and overall stance drew me. (By then, the Mustang and Camaro were getting a little busy.) The 1971 car-chase movie, “Vanishing Point,” enhanced the appeal. I happened to work at a drive-in theater that summer and saw it a dozen times. Even the teenaged me recognized the story as a total crock, but I was paid $1.35 per hour to watch Kowalski, the Challenger R/T’s amphetamine-popping driver, outrun motorcycle cops, force a Jaguar E-type into a river, and meet a naked hippie girl who rode a Honda Scrambler without burning her leg on the side pipes. Jennifer Lawrence might have an Oscar, but could she ever do that?

“Vanishing Point” stayed in my mind while I sampled the Mopar ’17 Challenger. Granted, there are even more potent Challenger derivatives—the Demon and Hellcat—but the Mopar Challenger is still a beast. With the ferocious V-8 and taut driveline, smooth shifting requires a real knack. Rather than fully automated, multimode supercars, this is a simple recipe for deliciousness. Mopar’s head of design, Joe Dehner, had spoken about the reaction of enthusiasts in a preview showing. “I think these people eat spark plugs for breakfast,” he said.

If he’s right, green smoothies might be overrated in making it to 80.

Mopar 2017 Dodge Challenger Specifications

ON SALE Now PRICE $57,885/$57,885 (base/as tested) ENGINE 6.4L OHV 16-valve V-8/485 hp @ 6,100 rpm, 475 lb-ft @ 4,100 rpm TRANSMISSION 6-speed manual LAYOUT 2-door, 5-passenger, front-engine, RWD coupe EPA MILEAGE 14/23 mpg (city/hwy) L x W x H 75.7 x 55.9 in WHEELBASE 116.2 in WEIGHT 4,232 lb 0-60 MPH 4.5 sec (est) TOP SPEED 179 mph

The post First Drive: Mopar 2017 Dodge Challenger appeared first on Automobile Magazine.

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[jesusvasser]

First Drive: Mopar 2017 Dodge Challenger

The Mopar 2017 Dodge Challenger was dropped off at noon, and it sparkled in my driveway as if the ripe blue beneath the character line was flecked with asteroid dust. But the glaring rays robbed the black roof and hood of their sheen. It would have been better to greet this 80th-anniversary car when sunset seems to liquefy the lacquers, revealing their true names: Contusion Blue and Pitch Black.

This is the seventh Mopar special since 2010. It rolled off the assembly line in Brampton, Ontario, as an all-blue Challenger R/T Scat Pack and then went to the Mopar Custom Shop in Windsor, across the river from Detroit. There, the trim came off, lots of sanding and hand-masking took place, the black was applied, and the “392” emblem was painted by hand. (The numeral “3” is the Mopar “M” turned sideways.) Other special pieces such as the Shaker hood, shock-tower braces, and Hellcat exhaust tips were installed. The car departed with an owner’s kit: a leather case containing a “birth certificate” engraved on a metal plate, a signed artist’s rendering, a brochure filled with breathless congratulations, a handsome acrylic display piece, and jewelry including a key chain, anniversary badge, and valve-stem caps. The Mopar ’17 Challenger is also offered in Billet Silver and Pitch Black—just 80 examples of each paint scheme. No matter what color, the buyer gets a big brawler with a face that says, “Outta the way!” Goodyear Eagle F1 tires on 20-inch wheels bulge like massive biceps. Indeed, the car has a few poses that make it one of the nicest-looking retro statements on the street.

No matter the color choice, the Mopar 2017 Challenger buyer gets a big brawler with a face that says, “Outta the way!”

I opened its huge door and sat on a lovely, suede-trimmed bucket seat with the Mopar logo embossed on the headrest. The 6.4-liter (392-cubic-inch) V-8 came to life with classic Detroit verve. It was immediately clear how much the oversquare engine likes to rev. Even on local roads where prudence should be exercised, there was no resisting. I might as well have been walking across rangeland with a shotgun and bag of shells. Smacking the power peak of 485 horsepower at 6,100 rpm in second gear brings the voice of a Roman god and a marrow-sapping rush of speed. Third brings a belly laugh, but fourth brings the fear of being fitted for an orange jumpsuit. The 180-mph speedometer is there for a reason. (Fifth and sixth gears are overdrive ratios.) But for all the commotion, all the flapping of dewlaps, this is a refined car with exceptional chassis and suspension development and strategic updates in interior feature content.

“To the credit of Mopar, they continue to do tremendous things with that product,” said Eric Noble, president of automotive consultancy firm The Car Lab, when I called him for some perspective. Noble pointed out that the LX platform, which serves as the Challenger’s basis, is more than 10 years old. “That’s an example of the power of the Mopar brand and also the clever continual evolution of it by passionate people inside. Mopar’s basically the fountain of youth for every model it touches.”

The Mopar “M” gets sideways for the handpainted “392” emblem. The Shaker hood always seems on the verge of making a big announcement

The Mopar 2017 Challenger is tagged at $57,885. “I bet every unit goes out the door at that plus dealer markup,” Noble said. “It’s a way for [Fiat Chrysler Automobiles] to continue to reap profit out of a very old platform. The vehicle-line executive on the main model line is happy, the dealers are happy, and Mopar continues to maintain or build brand equity. It’s hard to say a bad thing about Mopar. They’re just damn good at what they do.”

In fact, Noble suggests Mopar is FCA’s third-most valuable division after Jeep and Ram. This value is the result of gradual development of today’s portfolio of limited-edition vehicles, 500,000 products, 1,750 Mopar Express Lane oil-change centers around the world, mechanic training programs at community colleges, 50 parts warehouses, 11 Mopar Custom Shops in various countries, and 1,500 employees at home base in Detroit’s suburb of Center Line.

It all started rather humbly in the same year the American auto industry gave us the Blue Flame inline-six and the sit-down strike. It was initiated August 1, 1937, after Chrysler Motor Parts Corporation had already been operating for eight years, when Mopar offered “Chrysler Engineered” antifreeze (part number 1316 209) as its first product for the corporation’s Plymouth, Dodge, DeSoto, Chrysler, and Imperial brands. Matter of fact all the way, Mopar said what it did: motor parts.

The Mopar Challenger’s speedometer goes to 180 mph for a reason. It taps the available 485 hp at 6,100 rpm and can hightail it out of anywhere.

If the name was prosaic, the earliest marketing idea—put together for a Shriners’ parade in Detroit—was kooky. The effort entailed creation of a parade float bearing a 10-foot-tall camel made of auto parts. Wearing Mr. Mopar labels, this creation was led on the float by a small mechanical man, a real nut job named Accy—for “accessories.” In the annals of pitchmen, Mr. Mopar and Accy fall somewhere between Mr. Clean, whose sudden appearance in a commercial was unnerving but effective, and that inefficacious prevaricator, Joe Isuzu.

MoPar, as it was then written, with horizontal rules above the “o” and “ar,” offered radios in 1941, just in time to hear FDR proclaim December 7 as a date which will live in infamy. The sets were “custom built to specifications developed by Chrysler Corporation Engineers.” There was the Universal, the Model 600, and the mighty Model 800, an eight-tube wonder with great reception and a color-changing display that matched the broadcast.

A postwar ad presented car care products such as MoPar Automobile Polish. “Excellent for furniture, too!” claimed the copy in what was perhaps an industry first: allowing people to shine up their Plymouths and parquetry from the same can. The full-color cover of a Replacement Parts and Service Guide from the 1950s showed mufflers, brake hoses and fluid, fan belts, and spark plugs. It was still pretty ho-hum.

By now, MoPar had lost the horizontal rules, and if the early attempt at a mascot was corny, the graphic design was equally misbegotten. “Mopar’s branding since 1937 looks like design ideas run through a blender at max speed,” said my friend, Angela Riechers, who teaches typography at New York’s School of Visual Arts and writes a weekly column on typefaces for Eye on Design, the American Institute of Graphic Artists’ blog. I’d asked Riechers to look over the images Mopar released for its anniversary. She found “a mishmash of colors, typefaces, attempts at logotypes, and varying notions about how much info to include. They never really found a groove or an engaging logo.”

Considering the bulging “Omega M” created by marketing manager George Robinson in the mid-1960s, she said: “It looks logo-ish, to be sure, but it’s visually divorced from its automotive context. A first read evokes the image of bunny ears—or Neptune’s trident.”

Besides the introduction of the enduring logo, the 1960s were big for the brand. “Mopar’s gone independent!” announced a 1963 ad for the new wire and cable line. But the parts we remain excited about to this day are the intake manifolds, valvetrain pieces, and headers that made Dodges and Plymouths so predatory on street and strip, establishing Mopar as synonymous with Chrysler performance. These were lightweight cars with outrageous V-8s. In 1962, an unhandsome little Dart stopped gagging on its 413-cubic-inch Ram Charger motor long enough to record a 167.3-mph flying mile at Bonneville.

“They had it going all the way,” said Bob Beck, a Southern California racetrack announcer for decades who has always enjoyed telling audiences Mopar stands for “Move Over, Plymouths Are Racing.” Besides the huge engines, Beck attributes much Mopar success to Plymouth’s and Dodge’s early adoption of unibody construction. “You wanted to win on the dragstrip,” he said, “you came along a Hemi or Max Wedge, and you knew that was going to be tough business.”

From the seatbacks to the special Mopar owner’s kit, the Challenger does not lack for logos. And no matter the age of the chassis, this car delivers pleasure on the open road

Those who didn’t buy their own factory dragster with an aluminum front end could go to the dealership for some Mopar magic. “They even had kits where you could build yourself a race car,” Beck said. The phenomenon was known as package cars. “It was a part number. You could get everything you needed right from the dealership.” The performance-parts trade led to creation of the Direct Connection, which grew into today’s Mopar Performance Parts.

It’s hard to imagine the NHRA without Mopar, which sponsors the newest star, Leah Pritchett, for whom 2017 has been a breakout year.

From dominating the Stock and Super Stock categories at local strips, Mopar grew with the National Hot Rod Association, which left behind its original competition sites on World War II airfields and moved to purpose-built stadiums and today’s 24-date national tour. The front-engine rail and slingshot dragsters grew into rear-engine Top Fuel cars with enclosed driver compartments. And the Funny Cars deriving from Jack Chrisman’s Mercury Comet had flip-up fiberglass bodies of ever more radical design and supercharged, nitro-fueled engines. The second-generation Hemi V-8 introduced in 1964 was the foundation for Mopar teams. “The engine was so strong and very amenable to the use of nitromethane and blowers,” Beck said. Don Garlits (see page 117) relied on Mopar power while becoming the sport’s foremost legend. It’s hard to imagine the NHRA today without Mopar, which sponsors the newest star, Leah Pritchett, for whom 2017 has been a breakout year.

The cutout in the hood leaves some wiggle room for the mighty Hemi. The big V-8 dispels misguided notions of turbo V-6 superiority.

The Challenger, introduced in 1970, almost missed the fun, coming to market much later than its ponycar precursors and just in time for the federalization era. I was 15 years old in 1970 and had a better-late-than-never attitude about the Challenger. Its simple lines, shapely waist, and overall stance drew me. (By then, the Mustang and Camaro were getting a little busy.) The 1971 car-chase movie, “Vanishing Point,” enhanced the appeal. I happened to work at a drive-in theater that summer and saw it a dozen times. Even the teenaged me recognized the story as a total crock, but I was paid $1.35 per hour to watch Kowalski, the Challenger R/T’s amphetamine-popping driver, outrun motorcycle cops, force a Jaguar E-type into a river, and meet a naked hippie girl who rode a Honda Scrambler without burning her leg on the side pipes. Jennifer Lawrence might have an Oscar, but could she ever do that?

“Vanishing Point” stayed in my mind while I sampled the Mopar ’17 Challenger. Granted, there are even more potent Challenger derivatives—the Demon and Hellcat—but the Mopar Challenger is still a beast. With the ferocious V-8 and taut driveline, smooth shifting requires a real knack. Rather than fully automated, multimode supercars, this is a simple recipe for deliciousness. Mopar’s head of design, Joe Dehner, had spoken about the reaction of enthusiasts in a preview showing. “I think these people eat spark plugs for breakfast,” he said.

If he’s right, green smoothies might be overrated in making it to 80.

Mopar 2017 Dodge Challenger Specifications

ON SALE Now PRICE $57,885/$57,885 (base/as tested) ENGINE 6.4L OHV 16-valve V-8/485 hp @ 6,100 rpm, 475 lb-ft @ 4,100 rpm TRANSMISSION 6-speed manual LAYOUT 2-door, 5-passenger, front-engine, RWD coupe EPA MILEAGE 14/23 mpg (city/hwy) L x W x H 75.7 x 55.9 in WHEELBASE 116.2 in WEIGHT 4,232 lb 0-60 MPH 4.5 sec (est) TOP SPEED 179 mph

The post First Drive: Mopar 2017 Dodge Challenger appeared first on Automobile Magazine.

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[thefarlefchronicles]

Farlef Chronicles Episode 4 - The Farlefhymenning

This chapter is dedicated to Spotify and its creation of the exclusive Farlef Chronicles Playlist.

https://open.spotify.com/user/227f24h5jhnr6y6v6zhnfudsy/playlist/22y0Yqx1Ruj22k9TdJItbF

Previously on The Farlef Chronicles, HOLY FUCK WHAT THE FUCK, FUCK ME SIDEWAYS HOLY SHIT FUCK BALLS FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK EVERYONE'S DEAD FUCK ME. FIRE.

Current - December 25, 2016 2:21 A.M. at Farlef and John's Apartment in Spokane         

      After riding all night along US-395 N southbound they finally made it to Spokane, the upper echelon of Deer Park,Washington. As Farlef, his wheelchair bound dad, his brother John and his brother's girlfriend Sarah rode in silence wondering what they just witnessed and why it happened, they were all waiting for Farlef's Dad to finally get out of his own personal flashback after he declared it all started in 1941. In his blank daze all they could do was now stare at their Christopher Reeve acting father and wonder what images danced in his head. It couldn't of been of sugar plums dancing in his head cause he called them the fruit of the faggot and banished him from his home every Christmas. No what was going on through Farlef's Dad's head was much more barbaric and erotic.

  As John was driving towards his apartment in his Bitchin Brubaker Box he decided to address everyone in the car.

  "Farlef, this seems like the type of shit you and dad deal with, I never in the past wanted to know what you two did, I figured I let Bigones be bygones

 but now that Sarah is involved I am too. Whatever you two need, you can count on me."  

     "John I really don't give a shit, don't involve me in this" Sarah declared as she wondered what was on tv to watch.

     Farlef was shocked that his brother was willing to join them in whatever came next. He had heard tales of John's time down in the Congo as a member of the Peace Corps and how it turned bad. No one heard from his group for 4 months then one day on a small raft made of human bodies, not corpses, actual living bodies sewed together to make a raft he reappeared. He said nothing of the experience and no one asked any questions.

    "Glad to count on you bro, I have no idea what is about to happen but if they willing to burn down our town, try to kill us and somehow involve Justine in all this it seems like a bigger conspiracy then either of us could of imagined."     

John pulled his Bitchin Brubaker Box into the parking lot that was outside his apartment.

       "When Dad wakes up from his stupor, our lives will probably change. Not for the better, its never for the better when he goes on his rants but either way we are in this together. Now get Dad off the roof and I will see you inside" John said as he ran inside to avoid the rain.

     As Farlef was dragging his father up the stairs the back of his wheelchair popped open revealing a  secret compartment in his wheelchair. The back had a false backing and inside was many moose tranquilizers, moose pheromones, a selfie with a bear and a scroll that was thousands of years old written in menstrual deer blood on human skin named  'Ponere cervis auritosque Mailman et nuntiavit autem custos arrhabonem'. As he tried to say the words a loud his father woke from his stupor 

     "THE STAG, THE MAILMAN AND THE KEEPER OF THE PAWN" Farlef's died cried out startling Farlef.

    "Dad are you ok, you been passed out for over 3 hours since we fled Deer Park" Farlef exclaimed.

      “What are you going on about, got too much gay in your ears, this entire time I was explaining the deep rooted history of the war with the moose, how it happened, why it happened, fuck don't you two cock mongrels listen to anything. Always on your fancy pocket porn doohickeys and jerking off to Asian Bestiality Necrophilia porn. Fucking weirdos, back in my day we sneak into the forest during mating season and watch bears fuck to get our jolly's off. Sure it was risky, a bear in heat will fuck anything. If I had known that once that bear penetrated me and snapped my spin in two that I would never walk again I would have had the decency to go to the Deer Park Sperm Bank and made a deposit and hope to one day spread my seed again in hopes of getting a masculine son that was straight cause at the moment I can't feel any pain except the pain of knowing my sons are homosexuals." He bellowed out as Farlef brought him into John's apartment while Sarah came out of their bathroom and went to the bedroom she and john shared heterosexually pretending she heard nothing as usual.        

      "Dad you literally were about to explain what happened, said it all started in 1941, then went into some weird coma so we tied you to the roof of John's bitchin Brubaker Box and got the fuck out of Dodge”

     "Why where we in Dodge? We were in Deer Park, our precious holy land, burned to the ground"

         "Getting out of Dodge is just an expression and it turns out Deer Park was not burned down. The Moose used CGI to fake everything except our house burning down, that was real. They are sophisticated mother fuckers"       "You mean my antique collection of pharaoh pubic hairs are gone. I don't have a reason to live" Exclaimed Farlef's father. 

  Unbeknownst to Farlef and his brother, while their father had his 47th life crisis, they where going through his things and found charts and maps explaining the centuries long feud between Deer and Moose.

 "I’ll be right back I need to Back the bus out of the garage " Farlef said.

   "What?" John replied.

   "I need to Balance The Budget"

    "?"

    "I need to bomb the porcelain sea"

   "Seriously what are you going on about"

" I need to chop some butt wood, go colon bowlin', Dispense some soft serve, Drop Anchor, Fertilize the Ferns, Give back that Corn, Got to put one on the Radar, Ignite a Rectal Rocket, Log into the toilet and make a huge download,  Pinch a Stink Pickle, Release the Chocolate Hostages, ya know Montezuma's Revenge"

  "Farlef I have no idea what the fuck your rambling about"”

   "I NEED TO SHIT JOHN, I WAS TRYING TO BE DISCRETE"

 "Oh why didn't you say something, you could of just said you needed to get a Stranglehold on a Darkie"

"Hot peppers have killed all that I love And what I loved was an asshole that didn't burn like the great fire of chicago" Farlef declared as he left the bathroom.

He felt like Johnny Cash cause his asshole was a Burning Ring of Fire. After thoroughly destroying yet another bathroom, a record 13 he walked into a sight he had no words to describe.

"I was gone for 15 minutes reading a nice article bout bay window decor in Good Housekeeping and this is what I return to. First off Dad, what in the fuck are you doing"

   "I AIN'T GOT A REASON TO LIVE BOY, I COULD ONLY DEAL WITH YOU NANCY BOYS WITH MY VINTAGE PHARAOH PUBIC HAIRS. PAPI MADE THE PAWN OF A LIFETIME FOR THEM. I GOT NOTHING" he yelled as he swung there, his neck too fat to choke himself.

And John, what the fuck is happening here"

    "ITS ALL CONNECTED FARLEF, IT ALL MAKES SENSE. DAD IS A RAVING HOMOPHOBIC, RACIST, PARAPLEGIC, CAN'T FEEL ANYTHING IN HIS LEGS BUT THE FEELING OF KNOWING HIS SON IS A HOMOSEXUAL NO MATTER HOW MUCH HE TRIES EVEN THROWING HIMSELF DOWN A FLIGHT OF STAIRS TO ELICIT A REACTION OF PAIN BUT THE ONLY PAIN HE FEELS IS KNOWING HIS SON IS A HOMOSEXUAL OF A MAN BUT HE IS RIGHT. ITS ALL ABOUT THE MOOSE. ONE SPECIFIC MOOSE, PEPE SILVIA" he exclaimed as he took another drag of his cigarette.

 "In the name of the Mailman, The Papi and the Holy Stag" Farlef prayed to himself. 

   His brother was right, so was his RAVING HOMOPHOBIC, RACIST, PARAPLEGIC, CAN'T FEEL ANYTHING IN HIS LEGS BUT THE FEELING OF KNOWING HIS SON IS A HOMOSEXUAL NO MATTER HOW MUCH HE TRIES EVEN THROWING HIMSELF DOWN A FLIGHT OF STAIRS TO ELICIT A REACTION OF PAIN BUT THE ONLY PAIN HE FEELS IS KNOWING HIS SON IS A HOMOSEXUAL OF A MAN SO HE STABS HIMSELF IN THE LEG WITH A KNIFE TO FEEL ANY PAIN BUT THE ONLY PAIN HE FEELS IS KNOWING HIS SON IS A HOMOSEXUAL NOW HE HAS A KNIFE STICKING OUT OF HIS LEG THAT HE DOESN'T FEEL ANY PAIN IN EXCEPT THE PAIN OF KNOWING HIS SON IS A HOMOSEXUAL SO HE TAKES ANOTHER KNIFE TO JIMMY THE FIRST KNIFE OUT OF HIS LEG BUT YET HE STILL FEELS NO PAIN EXCEPT THE PAIN OF KNOWING HIS SON IS A HOMOSEXUAL, NOW WITH TWO KNIVES STUCK IN HIS LEGS HE CAN'T FEEL father. The moose where behind everything. 

"Dad you need to tell us everything, how this began, why its happening, we need answers"

 "I TOLD YOU ON THE RIDE UP HERE, CLEAN YOUR EARS OUT AND STOP THINKING BOUT CHANNING TATUM FOR 2 GOD DAMNED MINUTES." He yelled still swaying from the ceiling. 

  As both brothers stood their in a daze thinking bout Channing Tatum and his luscious body, his father went on to tell the tale of the greatest story never told except when he is drinking and on the drive up and to a young girl the one year he played Santa Claus at Reindeer Festival in '98 where they sawed reindeer horns shorter so they looked like regular deer.

  "Do you unorganized grabastic pieces of amphibian shit want to know the full story or just the cliff notes cause I don't got all fucking day. Now you slimy little communist shit twinkle toed cock-suckers cut me down, I gotta restock the pond with brown trout"   Not even 2 minutes after cutting their father down and watching him struggle to roll to the bathroom they heard a loud crash.

   “Fucking weak fucking ceiling can't even hold a fucking grown man's weight and his fucking wheelchair, good for nothing spic labor, Trump was right, build the fucking wall and make them pay for it. Sad part is they probably make it as shitty as your ceiling and first breeze rolls in the wetbacks would watch it fall over and then just get across" Farlef's dad muttered from the floor.

  "Ok queerbait and friend, story time, gather round the campfire" Farlef's dad said as he started a campfire in John's living room.

  "You want the whole story or the short version for your ADHD riddled minds" he asked.

"The beginning dad" they both said.

   "Ok I remember emerging from darkness, light blinding me. I was scared. I had emerged from nothing into this new world. A man in white was holding me and your grandmother and grandfather were there. I was naked and covered in blood"

"What the fuck you going on about" John yelled.

"You said from the beginning, I am starting with my birth, where was I? Ah yes I was crying for deer life, not knowing where I was or whence I came but every sight, sound, smell was new and exotic"

"Jesus fucking christ Dad tell us about the war, oh my God" Farlef said with disgust and mild intrigue.

"Fine for fucks sake, I asked if you wanted the long or short version ok, here we go……. We went on vacation to Moose Lake, Wisconsin, fucked shit up and now they hate us" Farlef's dad said as he took a puff of his deer shape pipe.

"OH MY GOD YOU HANDICAPPED OLD FUCK, ALL YOUR STORIES ARE LIKE THIS, EITHER WAY TO DETAILED OR YOU JUST MUTTER OFF A SENTENCE. FUCK. JUST TELL US THE STORY OF WHAT YOU DID AND WITH WHO TO PISS OFF THE MOOSE THAT AFTER ALL THESE YEARS THEY WANT YOU DEAD."

"Fine" he said as his eyes started glassing over, getting ready for another flashback.

    It was the summer of 1969. I was a young man, strong, smart, handsome, single with the legs of a Kenyan sprinter. Beautiful Adonis like legs, sculpted from marble. Hips that could crack a cinderblock between them and thighs that when they rubbed together started forest fires. If I wore shorts, panties hit the floor so hard it cracked concrete. My legs were so magnificent that it caused young men to hit puberty and women to ovulate. The population of Deer Park skyrocketed that summer when I came around.     

   Next was my brother from another Italian gangster mother, Sam. God Sam was a beautiful man. He was part James Dean, part Burt Reynolds and all sex. His nipples were the size of quarters, perfect. His ass was two handfuls of glory and his crotch was so astounding that he had to have custom cloths made to accommodate his Italian Stallion. I still remember when I could still walk we would go skinny dipping together and he would arise from the water, shinning in the moonlight, with a giant catfish on his crotch and he laugh it off saying he caught us dinner.

   Last but not least the third member of our rat pack, our Deer Drove. Papi. This is the sickest mother fucker I ever met. I met him one day while perusing a local mom and pop shop for some pop and a milkshake. As I was about to pay a brown hand stopped me. I was about to undo my pants and show him my legs, that usually did the trick when anyone fucked with me, but I looked into his eyes and saw myself. The past, present and future. I saw all possibilities and no possibilities. Time and space stood still in this man's eyes and I realized we were now imprinted for life. He then proceeded to throw a Molotov cocktail at the waitress and we fled with a free coke and a shake. We been best friends ever since.

The three of us where hanging out, getting ready for the Bi-Annual Running of the Farlef. It was a hot August 9th and it was an especially important year, it was the Bi-centennial of the founding of Deer Park. It was a momentous occasion, after Derby Deer Races, Deer BBQ, the tormenting of the Moose and the popular Running of the Farlef, the great Deer Shaman was going to come down from the mountains and bestow his wisdom on the town.

It was nighttime when the mighty shaman came and told his tale, the true meaning of Deer Park.

"Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent, a new nation, conceived in moose blood, and dedicated to the proposition that all deer are created equal.Now we emerged victorious in a great civil war, testing whether that deer or moose are the horniest and so dedicated, can long endure. We met on a great battle-field of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion of that field, as a final resting place for those who here gave their antlers so that Deer Park might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this and of course fuck with the shitty moose.    But, in a larger sense, we can not dedicate -- we can not consecrate -- we can not hallow -- this ground. The brave Deer, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract. The world will little note, nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here. It is for us the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us -- that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion -- that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain -- that this Deer Park, under Farlef, shall have a new birth of freedom -- and that Deer Park of the deer, by the deer, for the deer, shall not perish from the earth. Amen."

       Grown men brought to tears at the great Shaman's speech. Women were so distraught they could not be consoled. Sam, Papi and I though swelled with great pride listening to this one of a kind speech from the elder Deer Shaman. A great pride in being a Deer Parkian and an even greater pride in being heterosexual apex predators of the Cervinae Animal Kingdom. It was that majestic moonlit night we decided to take a pilgrimage of 1,383 miles to the town of Moose Lake, Missouri, bypassing 18 construction zones to do what our forefathers had done for a millennia, FUCK WITH MOOSEKIND.       

After 21 hours, 13 bathroom stops, 2 glory holes and pawn of a lifetime in North Dakota, we made it to Moose Lake. In our time in the car we thought up the most vile, fucked up things to do to this town.

 First we found the first Moose we could and dragged it into their lake and poured liquid nitrogen on it freezing it in place. 

Then we found another Moose in that same lake trying to swim away and we decided to surf him. 

Once we put back on our clothes and dried each other off it was time to raze some hell in the name of Deer Park in their town.

   Papi and Sam decided to fuck with the local economy by firebombing their local pawn shop and Post Office respectively. I decided to defile their prized moose statue in the middle of town.

  I think it was some of my best work yet. Once we finished razing the town we decided to pollute their great lake, not realizing what we were doing would upset the peace treaty between our great families. To fuck with each others town was one thing but in the holy treaty it is stated "The Park and The Lake are off limits." Our ancestors were men of few words.  Once we arrived back at the lake we unleashed our secret weapon. BEAVERS. Three thousand angry beavers. They ravaged the local fauna, cutting down every tree and making a giant dam ruining Moose Lake for years to come. 

  By Papi's best estimate, in 31 years, with their main water supply cut off from the river that feeds into Moosehead Lake, the town would wither and die. Papi was into the long con and it suited me and Sam just fine. Once we were finished we got the hell out of Moose Lake and returned to a simpler life.

  "Little did we know that by cutting off the supply to Moosehead lake we awoke their shaman, a mighty beast by the name of Pete Silvia. He was the one who once awoken, to gather his strength created the APSAA to take down Papi, he rose through the ranks of the Post Office to become Postmaster General and made Sam never able to retire, made his routes longer and switched his mail order bride with a moose spy that poisoned him once they realized old age wouldn't kill him. And of course you know what they did to me. They brainwashed my young son during a wrestling match and turned him gay. They where behind all of it boys. Tonight was their final assault, they want to end this once and for all. So now I ask, are you with me, ready to take up arms against these Moose Mother Fuckers, defend our town and our rights to arm bears and drive these fucks back to their shitty lake or will you turn your back on your heritage, your history, your own livelihoods and sit their on your asses browsing Deer Parkr for some Antler. SO WHO IS WITH ME" Farlef's dad let out with a mighty roar, showing signs of a young Buck in heat once again.     

   Farlef and John were too busy watching the latest episode of My Hero Academia to notice what their dad was rambling about. When he was about to tell his story of what happened his eyes fogged over and he went comatose again so they turned on the tv.

  "GOD DAMN CARTOON WATCHING FUCKBOIS, I JUST TOLD YOU THE STORIED HISTORY OF WHAT HAPPENED, WHY OUR HOME IS GONE, SAM OUR BELOVED MAILMAN IS DEAD AND PAPI HAS BEEN CAPTURED AND TORTURED FOR THESE PAST 7 YEARS AND ALL YOU CAN DO IS WATCH SOME FAIRY SHOW BOUT GOOKS WITH SUPERPOWERS?"     All Farlef heard was Papi was still alive. He owed everything to that man and no new episode of his favorite hit anime My Hero Academia or Boku no Hero Academia  ,for our Japanese readers out there, was going to stop him.

"Dad as usual I have no idea what is going on or what you just said but I am in" Farlef replied, steel determination in his eyes.

"I'm in too dad, I swore I would never raise a hand in violence again after my time in the Congo but this reckoning is a long time coming" John said.

"Get the fuck out" Sarah replied as she turned the tv volume louder.

"All boys, its us Evans men against the world. Just the way we like it"

As the three of them got into John's bitching Brubaker Box one thing was known for certain.

HOUSE EVANS WAS ON THE WARPATH.

[kevinthescoutblogger]

Kevin V. Hunt

Scouting Historian, Author and Speaker, Scouting Veteran, Camp Director

For almost fifty years I have heard of the lore of the great Philmont Scout Ranch.    I have known of the Philmont Tradition and have had a lifetime dream to go there.  I have yearned and hoped that through some miracle I might someday attend a training course there but have never had the opportunity to do so.   I guess I be truthful and say that I have actually had many opportunities to attend training courses at Philmont but never had the money or resources to do so.  With a large family, it just wasn’t possible for me.  And so, that dream has been looming out there forever.  I have said on many occasions that I have done almost everything in Scouting but the illusive Philmont has been one thing that I have never – and probably would not ever get to do.  I had given up on the dream becoming a reality.

Then I received a call from my brother, Darcy – who lives in Pueblo, Colorado.  My brother knew of my Philmont dream and so he decided to make it possible for me.  What a great brother!  Amazing!  Pueblo is within the geographic area of the Rocky Mountain Council, BSA – which covers southern Colorado and even down to the area around Philmont in New Mexico.  And I guess for fifty five years or so, the Council has had a tradition of having a Philmont weekend experience.  This seemed to be a great tradition and activity.  So, we were pleased to join their “Philmont Fellowship 2016 – Creating Connections”.

It was April 30th in 2016.  Again my journal records many of the details of that great day. The day began normally for me – at my usual 4:10 AM – as I arose to get ready to drive a school bus all day.  I drove my kids to their schools in the morning but took off through the afternoon so that I could go to Colorado and New Mexico.

Later that afternoon, a daughter came over and took Lou, my wife, and me to the home of another daughter.  Our son-in-law, Michael then took us to the Phoenix airport for our flight to Denver.  We checked in for the flight.  We will fly home on Allegiant and they will only allow us to take a backpack sized bag – without paying big bucks.  So, even though we flew Southwest Airlines today – and they don’t charge for bags, we had to be compliant with the Allegiant guidelines.  I could not get the internet to work at the airport so I just sat and visited with Lou as we waited.  She probably welcomed the technical breakdown.

We boarded the plane and headed off to Denver.  Darcy drove the almost three hours north from his Pueblo, Colorado home to get us at the Denver Airport.  He willingly made this trek – even with the threat of very bad weather.   We got our luggage and then he was there to greet us.  We then took the train to the terminal parking.

We drove south in Interstate 25.  We drove past Darcy’s home town and continued south toward New Mexico.  It was cold – only about 32 degrees – so literally freezing.  Though snowing, the roads remained clear.  This came as a major answer to Lou’s prayers.  We had a good visit with Darcy along the way.

We stopped at one rest area.  There was a lot of snow on the ground.  We turned off I-25 and headed onto another highway toward Cimarron, New Mexico.  We arrived at Philmont about 2:00 AM.  Laura and Ali had already set up tents for us – so this was wonderful.  In the summers, there are giant tent cities all over Philmont and literally thousands of Scouts pass through the place.  They come all days of the week.  They come in on one day and spend that night in the spacious wall tents (two people to a tent) and then head off on their trek adventure.  They stay out on the trail for ten days or so and then return to base for a final night.

In addition to the trek groups, Philmont is also home to the National BSA Training Center.  And in this training capacity, it offers a multitude of interesting and wonderful training sessions to Scouting volunteers who come from all over the country.  For almost fifty years I have always wanted to attend a training course here but have never had the opportunity.   I should say that I have actually had many opportunities to attend training courses at Philmont but never had the money or resources to do so.  With a large family, it just wasn’t possible for me.  And so, that dream has been looming out there forever.  I have said on many occasions that I have done almost everything in Scouting but the illusive Philmont has been one thing that I have never – and probably would not get to do.  I had given up on the dream becoming a reality.  So, with that in mind, it was so exciting to actually be on my way there.  (My brother knew of my Philmont dream and so he decided to make it possible for me.  What a great brother!  Amazing!)

Just a bit of History of Philmont from the official website:

“Once inhabited by Jicarilla Apache and Moache Ute Indians, Philmont Scout Ranch was later the site of one of the first pioneer settlements in northeastern New Mexico. The present Ranch is part of the original Beaubien and Miranda Land Grant that the Mexican government granted to Carlos Beaubien and Guadalupe Miranda in 1841.  One of those interested in the New Mexico tracts was an Oklahoma oilman, Waite Phillips, who had become interested in developing a ranch out of the old land grant in 1922. He eventually amassed more than 300,000 acres of mountains and plains in a ranch he named Philmont (derived from his name and the Spanish word for mountain, “monte”).

“The Philmont Ranch became a showplace. Immense herds of Hereford cows and Corriedale sheep grazed its pastures. Phillips built a large Spanish Mediterranean home for his family at the headquarters and named it the Villa Philmonte. He developed horse and hiking trails throughout the scenic backcountry, along with elaborate fishing and hunting cabins for his family and friends.

“Waite Phillips believed in sharing his wealth with people outside his family. In this spirit, he offered 35,857 acres of his ranch to the Boy Scouts of America in 1938 to serve as a national wilderness camping area. The area was named Philturn Rockymountain Scoutcamp (after Phillips’ name and the Scout slogan “Do a Good Turn Daily”). Fees for the first summer were set at $1 per week per camper, and 189 Scouts from Texas, Kansas, Louisiana, and Oklahoma arrived for the first experience at a national backcountry Scout camp.

“After observing the enthusiastic response of the first Scout campers, Phillips augmented his original gift in 1941 with an addition that included his best camping land, the Villa Philmonte and the headquarters of the farming and ranching operation. The second gift was made so that “many, rather than few” could enjoy his rich and beautiful land. Phillips was quoted in the Tulsa Daily World saying: “That ranch represents an ideal of my youth … and has meant a lot to my son and his pals. Now I want to make it available to other boys. … I’d be selfish to hold it for my individual use.” The property, now totaling 127,395 acres, was renamed Philmont Scout Ranch.

“Phillips realized that the cost for maintaining and developing the property could not and should not be derived entirely from camper fees. As an endowment he included in the gift his 23-story Philtower Building in Tulsa, Oklahoma.

“The first season of Philmont Scout Ranch in 1942 welcomed only 275 Scouts, and attendance remained low during the war years. However, in 1946, Scouts from all 12 regions of the country attended Philmont Scout Ranch. Programs and backcountry camps were continually being developed and, in 1949, workers began rebuilding Kit Carson’s adobe home at Rayado – a project that Phillips had urged the Boy Scouts of America to undertake.

“By 1950, Scouts were attending Philmont from almost every BSA Council; attendance was more than 1,700. However, in 1951, it jumped to more than 5,200 and passed 7,000 in 1954. During the 1950s, adult and family attendance increased, with the establishment of the Philmont Training Center.

“In 1963, through the generosity of Norton Clapp, vice president of the National Council of the Boy Scouts of America, another piece of the Maxwell Land Grant was purchased and added to Philmont. This area was the Baldy Mountain mining region that consisted of 10,098 acres. Today, the ranch’s total area is approximately 214 square miles!”

Anyway, back to my own narrative:

Tonight upon our arrival at Philmont, we found no snow at the tents but it was VERY COLD and wet.  Our own tent was set up atop of the large wooden platform.  It was interesting that each tent platform also has a “current bush” with it.  Lou was quick to plug in her phone!  We “camped” on tent platform #62.  Darcy provided sleeping bags for us and I slept in one that was supposed to keep one warm down to 0 degrees.  In the bag, I felt like the pea in “The Princess and the Pea”!   I was quite worn out by this time – having got up at 4:10 AM back in Mesa to do my bus run.  So, I was anxious to get into my own bag.

APRIL 20TH – SATURDAY

I awoke this morning at the national BSA Philmont Scout Ranch.  It has been my life-long goal to get to Philmont and so a dream at least partially came true today.  It was clear skies when we went to bed but we awoke this morning to clouds and weather that was a bit warmer.  We greeted Laura and Ali – who were asleep upon our arrival last night.

Darcy and Ali Hunt at Philmont

I went in and took a nice warm shower in one of the many individual indoor restrooms.  These rooms had a toilet, a sink and a shower –and were very nice.  (A bit beyond the usual outdoor two-holers that are found at almost all Scout camps – or at least the ones where I have been.)

Our first item on the schedule of the day was a flag ceremony.  We gathered out in the parking lot with about 50 folks – which included adult Scouters and their families.   Everyone was bundled up tight in their winter gear for the cold morning.  The gathering was rather informal.  Two teen Scouts were invited to raise the colors for the group.

As I looked around I noted that there were deer everywhere.  They were grazing like cows in the meadows around the Philmont ranch houses.

We all headed to one of the dining halls associated with the Training Center.  En route, we marveled at the fabulous buildings of the Philmont ranch.  In typical Spanish architecture, each with red tile on the roof.  The whole place was landscaped beautifully – and even in the winter – when there was no green, it was obvious that this was a very beautiful place.

Philmont Scout Ranch

As we made this trek to the dining hall, my wife began to have memories come back to her.   The Villa and a giant gazebo seemed to spark those memories.  She had made a trek to Philmont when she was just age 12 or so.  Her father was in an LDS Stake Presidency and he came to Philmont to receive training for his position.  And as is the Philmont custom and opportunity, he was able to bring his whole family with him.  All of the children who were at home were able to make the trip with the folks.  They took the train to Cimarron from Salt Lake City.  I am not sure how they got from the train depot on to Philmont.  Anyway, she has always told me that this was the greatest vacation that her family had ever taken.  She has talked with fondness of the Philmont experience through these many years.  Philmont and the Philmont Spirit left a lasting impression upon her mind and spirit.

We meandered through the gardens to the chow hall.  Upon entry, we were struck with the large wall murals which depicted the ranch and the many wild and domestic animals that inhabit it with the Scouts.  The murals gave a great aura to the place.  And as I entered the dining hall, I felt at home.  It was much like any other Scout Camp dining hall operation – and I had seen a few of those in my years of Scouting (20 summers, in eight camps and six states).

Laura and Darcy Hunt – in Philmont Dining Hall 1 – with murals in background

We held on to our coats for a few minutes – until our bodies caught up with the warmth of the place.  We laid claim to a dining table and got in line for food.   We soon found that we had a lot of options for food.  There was something for everyone.  I thanked each of the workers who had worked hard to make this meal for us.  It appeared that many of the workers were local folks from Cimarron and other nearby communities and that was great.  With a tray of food, we headed back to our seats.  It was then that I had time to take a look around at the Rocky Mountain Scouters and camp workers who had gathered there.  It was a pleasure to meet the Philmont Camp Director, Mark Anderson.

After breakfast I checked out the rest of the dining hall building – and particularly the large training room.  There were program options that we could do but Lou and I opted to take the tour of the historic ranch Villa – The Villa Phillmonte and museum.  Of course we took a lot of photos throughout the tour experience.  The tour – and our guide – were fabulous.  It was obvious that our guide had been at Philmont for many years – and she had genuine and a very enthusiastic love for the place.  She knew well the ranch history, of the Waite family, and many other interesting details.  In a word, she was Fabulous!

We normally could have gone on one or more day hikes in the nearby mountains but on this day, most of those options were cancelled because of the rain, snow and cold.  The trails were too wet to trek on.   My wife decided that she wanted a nap.   I used the morning to go visit the Camp trading post and so took a walk over there.  There was a threat of bad weather but it held off and let me make my walk.   I enjoyed watching the Rocky Mountain council’s Camp Isabel’s camp director – also a Kevin – as he did “branding” – putting the famous Philmont brand on belts, mugs, etc.

Camp San Isabel Camp Director – Kevin O’Keefe doing Philmont branding

With my wife and Darcy and family, we took our own little tour around the training center and took many photos.  And through all of this, I wished that I was at Philmont during the summer or for a training course – so that I could have really felt the Philmont Spirit and basked in it.  But, there was evidence of those great gatherings – and I took these all in.

After lunch we – Lou and I and Darcy, Laura and Ali – all went to check out an old adobe fort located a couple of miles east of Philmont.  This place was closed and was undergoing major remodeling so we didn’t get to go in.  We then went to the Historic St. James Hotel.

We talked to the hostess and spent quite a bit of time checking out all of the interesting photos and information around  on all the walls of the halls.  I loved the gorgeous wood work throughout the place.  We learned that many famous people had slept – or died there. There were also a multitude of shoot-outs – evidenced even today with the bullet holes – from all of that activity – still visible in the walls.  Wow! What a place.  I loved it!

After all of the above excitement it now began to rain quite hard.  I resorted to my tent and took my own nap for an hour and a half! Wow!  I never do such a thing!

With the rain, the evening flag ceremony was cancelled.  We just went on into the dining hall for dinner.  It was great to be in there once again.  I loved the spirit of the place.  And there was plenty of food – and I took advantage of that – and ate a whole lot more than I needed.

After dinner, the Council group all gathered into the large training room auditorium.

We there held a great indoor campfire program.  This proved to be a lot of fun – and held in the best of the grand campfire tradition of any Scout Camp.   The program was directed by Council Executive – Phillip Eborn.  I have known Phillip and his legendary professional Scouting brothers in other associations and have found them to be great men.  It was fun to visit with him at the program and before.  I had my laptop computer with me in camp – and pulled up some journal records of former days.  I told Philip about the entry which I wrote for May 19, 2012 when I attended a National Camp School that he was conducting:

May 19th – 2012

“I today went up to Camp Geronimo (near Payson, Arizona) to participate in a full week of National Camp School.  I will attend this school to learn to be a Camp Commissioner.  This school is held several times a year and the location rotates around the region.  This year the camp school is conveniently held at Camp Geronimo.  So, this worked out well for me.  I will attend the Commissioner section of the Camp School.  At the dining hall, I met Phillip Eborn, the director of the Camp School.  He seems like a really great guy – and I later learned that he is also a former director of Camp Bartlett where I also was the director several years ago.”

So, this evening I was excited when this Phillip led the group in one of my old camp favorite songs – “Fleas, Flies, and Mosquitoes”.  He did it with great energy befitting a Camp Director.

As we were gathering for indoor campfire program, folks had given us a paper on which we were asked to write “something unique about ourselves”.  Then through the evening they read several of these papers on some of the program participants.  Then as a person’s unique statement was read, the person was invited to stand to tell more about themselves or their uniqueness.   I wrote about my daily journal writing habit of over forty years – and later got called upon to talk about it.  I mentioned the journal entry that I had found earlier which mentioned their Executive, Phillip.

Many of the Scouters who were there were given opportunity to do a campfire skit.  So, we signed up for our combined “Hunt Bunch” to perform.   We performed a mostly impromptu rendition of an original song about Wade Phillips and Philmont.   This was to the tune of “The Yellow Rose of Texas”.  Actually, we had known all day about the assignment and we had worked on it together through our local meanderings.  We had fun performing together.

I enjoyed hearing of one the oldest of “red-coat Scouters” in the group as he talked of how he first came to Philmont with his hometown troop – clear back in 1968 l- and he said that he has been coming back ever since.  What a great Philmont legacy radiated from this long-time Scouter.

Camp Director, Kevin O’Keefe, led his favorite camp song.  And he was fabulous – a credit to the camp and council with his energy and enthusiasm.

One highlight of the program came at the end as we all gathered in a circle and sang together the Philmont Hymn – which I realized is the ranch’s official song  and later learned was written by John Benton Westfall (1928-May 9, 2009) in 1947 when he was 19.).  Anyway, we formed our circle and sang together:

Silver on the sage, Starlit skys above, Aspen-covered hills, Country that I love. Philmont, here’s to thee, Scouting paradise, Out in God’s country, Tonight. Wind in whispering pines, Eagle soaring high, Purple mountains rise, Against an azure sky. Philmont, here’s to thee, Scouting paradise, Out in God’s country, Tonight.

That was my first time to sing the Philmont Hymn but it quickly became a “tear-jerker” for me.  I felt a little bit of why Philmont has been such a special place to so many Scouters through the past century.  Wow!  It was amazing and hit me hard in my heart and spirit.  Philmont, here’s to thee!

We joined the group for one of the best cracker barrels ever.  Phillip really took care of us.

We had planned to remain at Philmont until Sunday morning but as the program ended Saturday night we looked out the giant windows to the south and noted with some horror the heavy snow that was then falling.  We talked of the situation and the mountain passes that we would have to ascend on the route back to Pueblo, Colorado.  We decided that the road would only get worse as snow and ice accumulated.  So, we made the decision to head home right away.  We packed all of our stuff in a hurry – in a momentary break in the snowy weather and took off.

We encountered good roads most of the way home and got ice and snow on the road only on one mountain pass.  So, we were protected through our travels – and we were grateful for that blessing.  So, in all, it was a very fun day.  And I greatly enjoyed my fun trip to Philmont – and was so happy that I got to make that trek.  And having been there once, I still have two more Philmont dreams that I would still like to accomplish sometime.  One would be to attend a training course there – and the other would be to be on staff at a training course – to help train and motivate others.  Maybe someday I’ll still get to do those!  I hope so! Sometimes dreams do come true …

We arrived back in Pueblo right at midnight – grateful for our safe return trip.  And I was grateful for the chance that I had to be at Philmont – even if for only under twenty four hours.  I felt enough of the Philmont Spirit to make me want to go there again.

Best wishes along your Scouting Trails …  Kevin

See this link for an introduction to Kevin the Scouting Trails Blogger

Blogging articles have excerpts taken from Kevin’s many personal journals and Scouting Trails books including “MR. Scoutmaster!”, “Keys to Scouting Leadership,” “Gnubie to Eagle Scout”,  and others at his Scoutingtrails website.  Connect with Kevin and read his articles on Scouting blogsites such as The Boy Scout, The Scouting Trail and the Voice of Scouting.  Feel free to comment on anything you read! Find Kevin on Facebook at: Scouting Trails Books and Blogs

To explore or buy Kevin’s books on Amazon, go to: amazon.com/author/kevinhunt

Contact Kevin directly via email: kevin@scoutingtrails.com

  The Philmont Tradition and my Lifetime Dream to go There Kevin V. Hunt Scouting Historian, Author and Speaker, Scouting Veteran, Camp Director For almost fifty years I have heard of the lore of the great Philmont Scout Ranch.    

[enchantedzuyorker]

Sam Gold - Looking Back On His Life, Tha Hundred Year War and the Gold Family History

The catalyst of the Hundred Year War began in 1871. Let's take it back to them days when the US Treasury went ass up and so it decided to seek help from global financiers and capitalists such as the Illuminati's Finest: Rothschilds and Rockefellers -- and the Global Bankers was giddy as hell, ready to buy off the USA. The Act Of 1871 was passed by the 41st Congress, and America was transformed into a business. A corporation. As a result, we was to deal with the fallout of this. Because of the incorporation of the United States, the state of Zuron was undergoing it's relegation to being the hoe-down bottom bianc to the newly-incorporated United States. Nearly a quarter of the Zuroni population was up in arms, and later began a series of raids, violent protesting, and angry confrontations with the US police that occupied Zuron. By the year 1872-1873, these raids would later escalate into a full scale war when one of the rioters who was a pyrokenetic, lit a boulder on fire and slung it at the US occupied Zuroni Royal Palace. By 1874, police began killin' women and children in their own homes, as part of Zuroni government policy, and planting bullets and arsenic in their dresser drawers.  

My family history started in like, 1875 when my great grandfather was taken to task as a newfound revolutionary. The secret society, named the Zuronists, and the Order Of The Sacred Vibes, had planned and orchestrated the 100 year war, which was a series of wars. In 1876-1877, Zuroni Prime Minister Ariel Farrisau wanted to take this civil war to another level, by increaseing casualties within the civilian populace, considering dat 25% of the Zuroni population has been radicalized, they assume the same of the entire middle-class and poorer populations. He would later suggest raping the women and stomping on the heads of the infant kids, taking the Jesuit Oath way too srsly (and way too literally -- ain't surprising since he a Jesuit himself).

In 1881, my great-grandfather decided to become an anarchist and he fought in the War Of Zuron, which brewed into 1878-1879. The War Of Zuron made way for the Civil War of 1882, which went on from 1884. By 1885 to 1887, the Zuroni state decided to attack other countries such as Britain, France, Argentina, Russia (all of which are corporate charters themselves), etc so it can begin its hegemony. Alfred Perchenson started hanging with The Casanova family, who are a hidden Black Nobility that oversee Switzerland and are also members of Spanish Nobility, as well as with Illuminati financier and boss, Grand Duke Henri of Luxembourg. By the 1890s decade (1890-1899), since the USA's transformation into a corporation, it was easily conquered from within by Zuron after the Illuminati had engineered psyops within Zuron: (around 1890-91, they dropped bombs on the Highland Parkside, there was war over that; in 1892-93, there was a mass musket ball assault on the Peppy Store here in Detronas; 1894-95 was the founding of Zuronism, and the subsequent bombings; 1896-97 was the Zuroni government trying to implement the earliest form of Martial Law on the Yupaku islanders; and 1898-99 was around the era where the islanders rebelled against the Illuminist-Zuronist mafia and won).

At this point around 1905, every time a new government was established in Yupaku Islands, it was straight burnt to the fucking ground. Zuron was the last province to abide by the UCC Maritime Admiralty Law like every other country. By 1925, my great grandfather had already rebelled against the Jesuits by this point in order to take his country back, but he, as well as the rebels fighting against this UCC Law was all killed. In 1926-27, Zuron was also affected by the coming economic depression after the elites pulled the plug on the economy, and we was already penniless by the time 1928 and 1929. The President of Zuron, afraid of being killed by his Zuronist masters, didn't even bother to get the economy back on track, so he decided to flee for Argentina, leaving us high and dry. We wound up rebelling and destroying cop cars and shit starting in '30 or '31. By the time the Illuminati puppet came back in 1932-33, he was shanked to death out on the street. Serves his ass right. In 1933, the remaining cabinet of Zuron decided to cut a deal with The Federal Reserve, and they began putting the fractional reserve principle into practice. Banks don’t create creating money by making new loans to spend on this whole Hundred Year War.

In 1935 to 39, and all throughout the forties decade, the military niggas was dropping napalm in the city, killing thousands of rebelling citizens in the process. In 1941, Pearl Schuster crashed into the Zuroni Municipal building (it took 'em 30 years to build that shit back up), and in 1942-43, one of the Zuronists, Hans K. Paris, stepped outside of the shadows of the secret societies, and decided to run for Prime Minister of Zuron. He was close associates with The House of Savoy which have strong ties with Genova Italy ruled in Geneva Switzerland beginning with Count Amadeus V of Savoy. That same time frame, the Gothel Family was put further into the mainstream with this TV show, Anything With A Penis Is A Rape Machine -- this was around 1944-45. The show's creator, Gorthos Gothel, is a member of the British Crown's East India Company which controls the opium trade. My grandfather was also associated with the East India Company, met Duchess Rainia. The first half of they marriage was rocky as fuck, bordering on abusive -- especially the honeymoon stages. Eventually she would be able to relinquish the Duchess title and just be Rainia, gramma, and so she calmed down for the latter half of the marriage.

Needless to say, he too was drafted back into the East India Company's poppy fields in 1946-47, and he was stationed back at the Farnese Villa Caprarola, where he and the remaining soldiers would be under the watchful eye of the Jesuit Order as well as the Bourbon-Parma branch. Almost all of our motion picture films was published by Universal Film Manufacturing Company around this time, mostly because our own film company, Motion Sounds, signed a deal with them. By 1948-49, Joe Gothel and my great uncle, Karland Gold, were British Knights of the Order of the Bath and served the Windsor family. My grandparents would later take their marriage to new heights in 1950-51, after their friends invited them to the house of Windsor and shit. They would get involved into the Ninth Circle Cult in 1952-53, and by 1954-55 they partied at the Skull and Bones secret society at Yale. My grandparents decided to make the stupid decision to procreate, and my pops was born in 1955 -- and Bonesmen attended the day of my pop's birth. Needless to say, my family sold their fucking souls to the Illuminati umbrella. Unlike my grandparents, my pops lived a relatively "normal" childhood. And I say RELATIVELY NORMAL -- and I say that because he's had to live in fear of Bonesmen knocking on his bed room door, which made sense -- did you see my grandfather's connect with the various secret societies and royal bloodlines? Especially around 1956-57, when my grandfather and them Shriner niggas would yap for 6 hours about stupid shit.

In the beginning of the '60's, mainly 1960-61, my pops wound up becoming interested in the Shriners (mainly because my gramps put him up to it), as well as the Freemasons -- however my gramma decided against him even joining them secret societies, especially with the intensity of the Hundred Year War ramping up the intensity. In 1962-63 was when the bombs began dropping again, which haven't happened since the 30's. In 1964-65 was where the Zuroni elite would start with creating man-made viruses and shit and weaponizing them, and the government would spread that shit around and killing niggas with it. By 1966-67 was when the Hundred Year War would reach peak intensity when niggas started firing bunker missiles at each other. Pops eventually got fucking tired of this shit and rebelled at the age of 11 and decided to leave for Yukapu Islands, where he would eventually meet my moms. By the time they returned to Zuron City (which was 1968-69), my parents would meet up with then-15 year old Stasia, who was a tramp in training.

Come time around the 1970-1971. Rolestasia Esmeralda Gothel, better known as Stasia, Natika's mother, got her political career in lieu of a blood sacrafice for the Illuminati, and was therefore accepted in the Illuminati fold. She looked beautiful with her very voluptous figure, and a face of a temptress. When the then 17-year-old Stasia met the happy but struggling couple, she seemed very polite and charasmatic, very happy about her political career, but the mask would come off as soon as she moved in.

As the years passed, Stasia would come stay over at the Gold residence for weeks on end. But rather than greet them with kindness and respect, this time she greets them with indifference, and it later devolves into temper tantrums... and finally it devolved into beatings and bullying.. it did not take long for her to develop her tyrannical rule over the Gold household. She would boss my pops to go buy her beers, take up the whole house, and force my moms to cook her meals. If either of them said no, they were BOTH ripe for a beating. Or even a raping. She would talk to her political constituents about my parents being unfit parents, calling them "stupid" and "worthless".

It would be revealed that it was Sinbad who would order Stasia to call the police on the Golds and orchestrate the monthly raiding of their house. Regardless of whether or not they paid the bills on time. It was also STASIA's momma, Gorthos that would KILL my grandmother personally, after failing to get Harold or the rookie Pole Eyes Off Eye Seer to kill the elderly woman. Gorthos unloaded a shotgun round that would kill my paternal grandmother. my grandfather, Marshall Gold, came out of his nap and rushed to find his wife with a shotgun round in her stomach, lying on the floor, dead.

The killer, then 49 year old Gorthos, and her mother Anghella (under orders from Sinbad) had long since fled the scene. Marshall would later try to investigate the murder of his wife. And so the detectives find a young black kid ordering a pack of Skittles. The detectives arrest him after finding a pistol in his bookbag (Stasia planted it there). The boy was acquitted of all charges after not only finding out the boy did not use the gun to kill the elderly woman, but found out the pistol wasn't the murder weapon.

The deputy that would reveal himself to be involved would take all the credit (and the fall), and that was his gun in the first place. As soon as they believed that was the deputy that shot SG's grandmother, that was it. They locked the case down. It had went cold. The deputy would be jumped in the streets. Meanwhile, my gram ma's REAL killer (Stasia) is in the throes of World Politics, goes to G20 Summits, and is even the Vice Prime Minister of Zuron City. Gorthos Gothel, Stasia's moms, orchestrated the raid that would kill my gramma. The motive? A spat over a purse that apparently Mrs. Gold forgot to give to the Gothels, as well as failure to show up to the Gothel sacrifice ritual.

My pops got a job as a schoolteacher in 1972, before Sam Gold was born, and my moms was a former high class prostitute until she quit in 1973. She left the family in 1974 when Gold was young as she was to regret having to bring a kid into the world. She would return to the family a year later. 1975 came along, as his grandfather still wouldn’t give up the investigation on who shot my gramma.  even after having the investigation was shut down by authorities.

I was born on November 7, 1975. By the time the end of '76 and into '77 rollin' around, my pops did everything he could to care for me and my family. It was a full house. My grandfather lived in the same house, my aunts lived here. My uncles lived here, My moms lived here. I lived here. Right here. Apartment 7735, in 7th Street -- right here in Detronas Project Housing. Around this time, the Hundred Year War had long been over -- it ended around March 1975.

My pops was always working hard to support the whole family, wetehr it be hard work in jobs or dealing dope the streets. However most of the time he was being unappreciated by my family, because we won't getting pleased enough. We were unsatisfied... we didn't think of him as a hardworking daddy or a human being, we saw him as a bank account. We just wanted fat stacks and gifts, we didn't give a fuck if he was sick or not. I hated him for leaving at first, but then I sat back and reflected on how we treated him. I asked the question -- was it any wonder he left us? With my poppy gone, the rest of my family didn't have the cap space to take care of me, so they sent me over to boarding schools and summer camps, where I would get mercilessly tormented, sent in time-out for no real reason.

Hell, when I was 5 (around '80 or '81), I was repeatedly beaten to an inch of my life. Tortured even. He didn't trust these child care programs for a reason -- he knew the Illuminati controlled these child behavioral programs. He's seen my transition from child drug dealer, teenage truther, to twenty something revolutionary. He's seen my shit life, and how I chose to turn it around. He's been seen me go through the same treatment during my relationship with Natika, hell he knows her own fatherless background.

The main 5 care takers/supervisors (Cassandra Coleman, Deanne Rush, Felecia House, Juanita Cruz, and Vanessa Brianna Beasley), all told my family that I was a demon baby who was under satanic possession, and when I wanted to go outside and play, the "care takers" would say I was outta control, because of the demons inside me, and they would beat me to an inch out of my life.

The days of torture began in '83, by the time I was 7, I wasn't even allowed to play with the other kids, they locked me in a small attic closet. I couldn't stretch out my legs or stand, but I could sit in it -- it was cold in wintertime, hot in summertime, but it was always roach infested. I was not allowed no sugar, no protein, no potassium. NOTHIN'. The only food I would be able to eat was apple sauce that one of the kids would sneak through the crack in the door. When I was allowed to eat, the care takers, especially Juanita Cruz (that fucking bitch), would tell me that every bite I would eat would ruin my figure. It wasn't even worth eating afterwards. I was in the hospital a lot growing up and I got a lot of treatments. Almost all the kids would get beaten, and every breath was controlled, much like every thought. We would all wake up tied to cots and get sodomized.

Me and Natika would get taken to modification facilities when Juanita would grow bored of us. Both of us would get tied to beds for days. Me and Natika would get multiple electric shock treatments. Me and Natika both met when I was 7 and she was like, 4 or 5. She was the main kid who would stand up to the "care takers" or so-called. As a result, she would get locked inside of the small attic closet with me. She would help me sneak food into the cupboard when the rest of the kids would be asleep. When we was caught, Natti would step in and take all the blame, after a while she would be used to getting her ass whooped. Shit got worse every two years. By the year '83, them ass-beatings would continue. At this point the whole dwamned demographic getting whooped and kicked down stairs, whether for a complaint, or for simply asking questions on which activity we would partake in. After a while me and Natika would bond for our love of video games. It was her and J-Mack who had introduced me to my 6 part circle of life: emceeing, DJing, breakdancing, b-ball, gaming, and graffiti art. I took up all 5 of them and I excelled at all 5 of them. Cruz caught me reading and writing and she took me into the bathroom and beat me into a coma.

For a month, By the year 1983, around the time I was 7, I had finally awakened from my coma and had to relearn all of his basic movements and logical synopses. For this, video gaming turned from becoming a simple basic hobby into something I took seriously, wether it would be home console games, card games, or arcade games. My gramps and me would escape the Zuron City Care Centre and would later travel to Japan, where he would later train my brain into the art of Wing Chun and arcade gaming. He had since picked up on a lot of Asian culture, especially Japanese culture and how seriously they took gaming, and began to adopt said philosophies. I would later return home and re-study the subjects he had neglected around the time of my coma -- The Occult, Symbolism, Conspirituality, Secret Societies, and Astrotheology. At this point I would later get addicted to traveling, and would later be able to build a plane based on the knowledge he took in Japan.

I would later travel to Afghanistan, Algeria, Angola, Antigua and Barbuda, Armenia, Albania, Argentina, Australia, Botswana, Belarus, Barbados, Belize, Bhutan, Britain, Brazil, Chile, Colombia, Cuba, Canada, Congo, Cameroon, Chad, China, Dominica, Eswatin, Ethiopia, Ecuador, Egypt, France, Fiji, Guyana, Germany, Gabon, Guatemala, Greece, Guinea, Haiti, India, Iceland, Israel, Indonesia, Iran, Iraq, Italy, Japan, Jamaica, Kazakhstan, Kuwait, Libya, Lebanon, Luxembourg, Liberia, Latvia, Kenya, Korea, Malaysia, Mexico, Mali, Malta, Moldova, Monaco, Mozambique, Malawi, Maldives, Madagascar, Morocco, Nigeria, Nauru, Netherlands, New Zealand, Oman, Pakistan, Palau, Palestine, Peru, Paraguay, Poland, Portugal, Romania, Russia, Rwanda, South Africa, Spain, Sri Lanka, Sudan, Switzerland, Sweden, Samoa, Somalia, Suriname, Senegal, Serbia, Saudi Arabia, Syria, Taiwan, Togo, Trinidad and Tobago, Turkmenistan, Tunisia, Tanzania, Tanzania, Thailand, Turkey, Tuvalu, Uganda, United Arab Emirates, Uruguay, Vatican City, Vanuatu, Yemen, Yugoslavia, Zimbabwe, and later Zambia… and all so I can get familiar with the customs and the environments in said places. I would go back to Zuron for a remaining week to go see my moms and her fam in the hotel and stay with them.

By the time I was forced to return to the Care Centre, I would see Cruz sucking dick in the daycare kitchen, when they was watching. We would get our asses beaten the next day. The man she was with caught wind of this and left her ass. The breakup would only worsen Cruz's temper, and pretty much made it more unpredictable at this point. Her favorite punishment, for any kid who would cross her, or call her out on her bullshit -- or she sees some young nicca doing some she she just plain finds distasteful, she would mix into a trash bin some NaOCl + 2NH3 --> 2NaONH3 + Cl2, which is scientific formula code for ammonia and bleach concoction, and would throw a kid, whether it be me, Natika, Tayla, J-Mack, or anyone, in the janitor closet -- with the concoction, until we lose consciousness. Natika wound up warning the parents about the daycare center, but there wasn't shit they could do. As a result, me, J-Mack, Natika, Alex Hutch, Chris Dolmeth, Tony-D, Cita, and Tayla -- all made escape attempts, and all of them failed, and we would all get locked in the same room, sometimes resulting in me, Natika, and J-Mack getting sent to modification facilities.

By '85, I went to church -- as enforced to -- every Sunday. However I made the mistake of thinking I could trust a pastor named James Willis. He had me training immensely and wearing black belt by the time I was 9 to 10 years old. At this point he had me studying the Bible and shit, I dunno. There was a lot of shit that took place. Our friend, Tayla, who was there for our first escape attempt -- was bludgeoned to death by Cruz and the other care takers at the age of 9 (RIP, 1975.09.03 - 1985.03.03). Shortly after this I was visiting my Pastor/Communist Soldier. He started to notice I was growing into myself a little. He would take me to his king-size bedroom, lays me down on his bed. He started feeling on me and shit -- I instantly screamed like a bitch and he put his hands over my mouth, threatening to beat my ass should I make a sound. I never made a sound after that, not after he ripped my pants and underwear off and started thrusting his dick into my asshole.

Getting raped became an everyday thing. He would attempt to murder me around the times I have struggled and cried. So I just let it happen the next times he's done it. My mind became split in half. Getting raped in the bootyhole became an everyday thang afterwards. The worst part of this all is this is the closest I have came to being "loved" -- because getting bootyraped in church, despite how horrifying it was, but it beat being locked in the janitor closet with ammonia and bleach mixture and dealing with Cruz's temper at the Zuron City Care Centre. At least the 'passa wouldn't kill me, as for Cruz, I was never sure that she wouldn't kill me. So my childhood was like this: go to the daycare to get locked in a attic closet eating apple sauce on the weekdays, and at 3, go to the passa's house so he can do me up the booty -- and I have no say in it. That was my childhood. At this point, Natika was ordered to leave Zuron for Hollywood so her grand momma Gorthos was planning to mold her in 2 a promising child actress. Ambassadors of the Society Of Jesus, i.e The Jesuits, would visit Gorthos on a very frequent basis to encourage Gorthos to shame her daughter on her suicidal attempt, in which she complies… and she complied well.

In the year '87, by the time I became an prepubescent, the Zuron City Day Care Centre was shuttin' its doors, so we wound up being thrown into the wild and we went to school full time. It was horrible and the teachers was totalitarian, almost like Nazi Germany, or Mao Tse­ Tung’s “Great Leap Forward” in China (widely recognized as the greatest disaster in an attempt to construct a centralized economy). Them mothafuckas would bully us, whether we did wrong or not, and when we did chew gum in class or disrupt, the punishments and retributions the Zuron City High School would dish out would be disproportionate. After the said disproportionate retribution was meted out, they would continuously harass and bully the student for said slight. The deans and principals fit it, causing more destruction than the teachers. Me and other students would question what we was reading in the school books and we would get our asses beat. It got to the point where I started drinking 40 oz at the school (I had been drinking alcohol since I was 9), and I was addicted to drugs, wether they had been narcotics or pharmaceuticals). I was sick almost all the time, and by the time me and Natika slept together -- Natika had night terrors from getting raped in Hollywood Town in Zuron City, in Disney, where she was getting her first gig back in '88, at the age of 9. Both of us was coughing up bl00d at the time. Our bodies was paralyzed because of the abuse, damaged ribs, muscle structure and nervous system getting caught between 'em, dead nerves in the abdomen (which is where my Anarchy tattoo is located) and a torn diaphragm.

At this point I'd had enough, I wound up getting into fights in school, fights with the teachers, fights with the dean, fights with the security officers. That shit was what got me expelled from that school. And finally, got into a fight with Cruz when she was informed of what I did and won. She wound up snitching on me to the po-pos and I wound up facing a year and 1/2 in men's prison -- in REAL man's jail, nigga. Once again I got into fights with the correctional officer faggot muhfuckas. I found out that J-Mack, Chris Dolmeth, Alex Hutch, Tony-D, Purrpy McVay, Iverson, Lil' Dak-Dak, Kapo, and Zarius Kid -- were all in the same prison, and later on in the second half of my prison sentence, we would all be shacked in the same cell. It turns out we was all facing assault charges and got into hella fights, sprayed murals on libraries and shit -- and this is where I REALLY started writing raps. We would be released from jail around January '89, and at this point I started taking the "Sam Gold Circle Of Life" seriously, especially the first 3 elements of hip-hop. However they wound up taking me into modification once more, and I suffered amnesia after the last electroshock treatment. I didn't even know who my abuser was, who the other kids was, who my family was, my pets neither. I didn't even know what this town was. I found out that Cruz fled Zuron to live in Cali and some other shit. By the time I showed my face in West Detronas again, a lot of shit had changed.

At this point I wound up joining the Church Of Zuronism, an ideology that espouses Satanism, Dark Luciferianism, the Black Sun Cult belief systems, Illuminism, Dark Atonism, and other forms of Dark Knowledge. However, I would also study philosophical anarchism, conspiracies, the occult, secret societies, symbolism, magick, mysticism, consciousness, mind control, natural law, demonology, forager societies, etc, around this time -- and I would rebel against their orders immediately, them niggas started not to like me. By the year 1991, I amassed a shit-ton of knowledge by the time at the age of 15, and around this point I would begin my career professionally.

At this point in '91, I wound up ripping up my birth certificate and become free. I was 15 at this time -- my rapist killed himself. He blew his head off, niggas had to scrape his brains off the wall. I went to the nigga's funeral and tell niggas how great he was, but I couldn't cry. I just fucking screamed into the rooftops and shouted curses for the neighborhood to her. Didn't know why I did it, I just did. I was numb, dawg, especially after that treatment. I found out this Passa/Marine was rapin' lil' boys, done it for 20 consecutive years, and I was his fuck toy for like 5 of them years. After a series of events, my niggas, especially J-Mack, got me out of that NWO infested environment and moved me to East Detronas, the hood of the hoods. I learned to hustle, sell crack, get involved in the drug game and make that dough. I got involved in the street life, the nightclub life, living the rapper's hood lifestyle -- all the while in the daytime, I was a rebel nigga tagging up walls and street tunnels, getting involved in riots, playing street basketball, and writing and recording rhymes. However inspire of the drug game granting success, none of that shit mattered. I would still experience night terrors, I would still remember the abuse within that fucking Day Care center, I would still remember getting ass raped by that pastor in church. I would still remember the teachers bullying and harassing me. However my homies invited me into the G40 circle, the Zuron City rap scene. I accepted the invitation.

That's what pretty much jumpstarted my career, that time in my life. spending my whole childhood dabblin’ in the shit. Almost all the songs I made, I made like damned near 100,000 songs over the course of teh decade, and around 50% of them went Gold. Only like, 0.78125% of my shit went Platinum (and only 3 of 'em became singles). Near the 4th quarter of '92 and into '93 I released “It’s A Gold Thang”, and that shit went #25 on the Billboard Charts, and it went Platinum. I then petered out after the realization that I was in the Illuminati – and finding out that this whole agricultural society, including the music industry, was run by Luciferians, Dark Occultists, and a Black Sun Priest Class. To find out that your world was a lie, and at 17 years old at that, it’s traumatizing. At that point it took me 2 years to get me out of that contract.  I eventually did, but the beef between me and the Illuminati had begun. Because of this, and the fact that I couldn't smoke a fucking pound of w33d, I left the Church Of Zuronism -- that shit was wildin'. I don't fuck with them niggas, so you been t0ld. However, me and Natika would resume our relationship after I left the cult.

Near the end of '94 and into '95, I released “Mid-Coast Vibes”, when the rap group Midcoastsidaz was a thang. Me being 19 years old at that time, I found myself back into the street life, dealing all sorts of drugs and eventually gun-running. That and I found out Natika was a computer hacker and a tech freak, at that point we got closer. Meanwhile the Midcoastsidaz was poppin back in 1995. In the year 1995, at the age of 19, I decided to pass the time recording new tracks, performing in major hip hop clubs, and helping my homeboys (Jimmy Mack, Tony D, Alex Hutch, Chris Dolmeth, Dave Coast, Lynch Dawg, Tray Lu, Zarius, and Purrp McVay) on they hip hop projectz, as well as getting them out of their Illuminazione production deal. Chris Dolmeth also was attemping to promote his R&B boy band Ideation at this time too. On August 1995, Ialso released my second (or third) Gold single, "Gold World", and I became an underground sensational favorite at the age of 19. Even after that success, I was making jack shit off of this rap shit -- like, $312,500 -- and I split it with Natika -- who blew almost all her cash on gaming, techie shit, nail polish and dildo practice. It got so bad that I gave up my remaining $156,250 away and slept in the dumpster hunting for food. Aside from Jimmy Mack, Tony D, Chris Dolmeth, Alex Hutch and Dave Coast sleeping in the dumpster with me. I wound up finding my Natti Cake in the actual trash pile outta her mind. This nigga billionaire crime lord and rap mogul Mister Preme (born Derek Owen) wound up signing J-Mac, Tony, Hutch, Dave and Chris to a deal with Universal-owned Zuron based Detronillac Recording Corporation, and he took them outta the dumpster and primed them up for the big time. Preme was gonna sign me before Natti mouthed off to him. They all got on the bus and they left me and my girl in the dumpster.  

By the 4th quarter of 1996, me, Tony D, Chris Dolmeth, Alex Hutch, XVI2, Zarius, Purrpy McVay, Dave Ivy, Jimmy Mack, and Big Kapo was recording the “Detronas City Anthem”, but we didn’t finish the song until the middle of '97, because around that time I was rollin’ with this street gang called Venom Lordz, all the while Kapo, Ivy, J-Mac and Tony was fightin each other over the single. I was 21 at this point in my life. Kapo would later ink a deal with Uptown Records, and would record his album there, but as soon as it was primed for release, MCA began crumbling and the unreleased album got lost in the shuffle. We decided to release the single in June of '97. The shit was my first Platinum single, like EVER. And it rose my profile significantly – and it put Detronas on a national mic, tbh. Not to mention, in 1997, Kapo would later establish his AMP label. AT this point my relationship with Natika took a dark turn for the worst, she and I faded each other all the time, and over stupid shit too. I was even further depressed after reading even further into the fact that the industry I was taking part in was Satanist infested, what with the 666's, the devil horns, and satanic imagery. That and I realized the dream I was chasing, the "American Dream" was all a fucking con job created by them same Luciferians I worked with back in my teen years. I went in my fucking room, shut the computer off, curled myself into a corner and cried for most of the night -- and at this point my music became more depressive and emotive. I spent the rest of '97 going through the motions and ignoring the gun in the r00m.

Nearing the end of '98 and going into '99, I recorded “Zu-Pimp”, put that single out, and that went Platinum in within a few weeks into 1999. Kapo would sign all of us to his AMP label, and then he would upstream his AMP label to the legendary Detronillac label, which was under the Universal Records and Universal Music & Video Distribution umbrella. However, my m00d darkened when my protege Daliib was shot dead when me and him was runnin' from snipers in April of'99 (he was 19) -- I grieved heavily after that, and believe me that was a LOOONNGGG ass grieving process trust me. My m00d darkened even further when Natika told me she was pregnant. The arguments between me and Natika got worse after whether or not we were to spare Tamberine the horrors of existence. I would drink myself into a depression, because considering my tortured past, I was remorseful, thinking I would put her through this bullshit later on in life -- and it'd fuck her up just as bad as it did me -- I turned to antinatalism, efilism and negative utilitarian thought around this time frame. Even though Natika did wound up understanding what I was trying to say -- she still decided to keep the baby. It was at this point where the relationship fizzled away, and I stayed at The Zelter House more, where Jimmy Mack, Tony-D, Chris Dolmeth, Alex Hutch, Lynch Dawg, Tray Lu, Zarius, Purrpy McVay, and Dave Coast resided. By September 9, 1999 --  my daughter Tamberine would be born in the midst of my massive success at that time.

At this point I went through all the emotions of learning about Big Brother, Natural Law, Mass Media Mind Control, Agenda 21, Georgia Guidestones, Codex Alimentarius, Chemtrails, Flouride and Aspartame, Cannibis Oil, Freemasons, NWO, Illuminati, Project Avalon, MK Ultra, Monarch Programming, Club Of Rome, Monsanto, Jesuit Order, Kaballah, Fake UFOs, The Saturnalian/Zoroastrian Bloodlines, Fake Jews, Vaccines, Transhumanism, Child Trafficking, Adrenochrome, Satanic Rituals, Pizzagate, False Flags, Gun Control, Esoteric Science, Sephirot Death Cult, Baal/Bull/Bill, The Occult, Secret Societies, Symbolism, Demonology, Black Magick, Mysticism, World War III, Armageddon, Martial Law, The White Dragon Society, Ancient Egyptian Trinity, The Pharoahs, DUMBS, RFID chips, AI, Journalism, Unlocking Theological Anomalies, Esoterica, EMPCOE, etc.

By 1999, I stopped giving a fuck about what niggas thought. At the age of 23, I would give up on labels and decide to push forward, performing in clubs and battle rapping just to get known. I would later dye my hair red and wear a black hoodie (or wear a black 4XL shirt) – and 5 tattoos (an Erisem tattoo on my right bicep, a Tamberine Emelyn tattoo on my right arm, a Sam Gold on my left bicep, a 78125 tattoo on my left arm, and an Anarchy symbol on my abdomenal area; I would wear a G-Shock sportswatch on my right wrist, and a diamond wristband on my left wrist, with a pair of baseball gloves), and a pair of black Lugz Boots, completing my Sick Touch look for the 9-9 and onwards. All three of my singles sold like 1,000,000,000 copies to date, and at this point, This was more than enough clout to just leave the major-label brand -- and then go to sign a distribution deal with Universal Music & Video Distribution around 1999. I would later work on my EP, named Thermilliation, around the 3rd quarter of '99.

In 2000, I then met numerous rap, punk rock, heavy metal/screamo, country, and R&B singers in the Zuroni mainstream. I held my tongue, for I was a puppet of the mainstream labels myself.  In 2000, I decided to adjust my color scheme, and stayed in my ghetto neighborhood in the Detronas Projects, while Tamberine was at my pop's house at the moment. My crew lived in the same projects, and they even lived in the same apartment room.

Near the beginning of the 2K1, I entered the 2001 Epic Bowl Battle Rap Championship, where the grand prize was a replica of the Vince Lombardi Trophy, and $1,000,000,000 in prize money. I took on all of my opponents and finished them all ruthlessly. I str8 up ATE 'em. Wowed the crowd in the process. I got to the championship and faced Jim Beam, who won 3 consecutive championships -- and dethroned that nigga. Thanks to me becoming the new Epic Bowl Champion, relish wasn't hard to come by no more. That $1,000,000,000 prize money was MINES. To celebrate, I finished recording Thermilliation into 2001, and in 2001 was when I founded my Sick Touch label, while still on the Universal umbrella. After I won that Epic Bowl Battle Rap Championship, I toured in Argentina, Australia, Brazil, Britain, Colombia, Cuba, Canada, Dominica, France, Fiji, Germany, Greece, India, Iceland, Indonesia, Iran, Iraq, Italia, Japan, Jamaica, Korea, Libya, Lebanon, Malaysia, Malawi, Mexico, Malta, Maldives, Netherlands, New York City, Palestine, Peru, Russia, Saudi Arabia, Spain, Syria, South Africa, Tanzania, Thailand, Turkey, Uganda, and Yemen in Q1 2001. After that tour, I released my debut EP, Thermilliation, in June 7th, 2001, and that shit sold like, 1,000,000 copies in it’s first week. Eventually, on September 7th, 2001, them sales multiplied by 128x that. I would sell 1 BILLION, baby. I would go Diamond off that EP alone. The shit had 25 tracks on it, it felt more like an album. However I had 75 more tracks made around that span -- and made that shit into a compilation. BOOM. Released that shit months later in September 7th 2001. DIAMOND CERTIFIED. I still make mills off this EP to this day.

Everything was totally NEW by the year 2002, and I decided to record my debut album. Inspired by me listening to the Slim Shady LP, I decided to add "LP" to my album title to give it some oomph. My skills attract Zuroni teen rap sensation Kamaal, who has since released his debut album around the same time as me, and became just as popular as his idol (he became a fan of Samethyst through his material from 1997, saying his favorite album was Welcome To Thundaground, so he was a fan before his massive fame. 2002 was also a great year for the Zuroni hip hop scene, for it began to gain a massive following since Thermilliation was released a year prior to it (2001). Rapper Rawn's Kassassination was released in February 2002, Massa Kaine's Life Unto Part was released in 2002, LCN's Confrontayshuns Of A Homeless Gangsta was re-released in the year 2002 (though it was originally released in 2000). In September 2002, I decided to have his own summit with the Thundaground crew, for he discussed a lot of music, red pill and activism related subjects. Soon after this, me and my crew released our second album, Epic Bowl Championz, on September 10, 2002 on Full Circle Music, which was bought out by my Sick Touch label.

At this point it was ALBUM TIME. In '03, I put out The Sam Gold LP, on February 6, 2003, to worldwide critical acclaim. I would become the first autistic hip hop recording artist to go Platinum. The album’s subject matter ranges in between conspiracies and occult related topics, suicida ideation, arson, mental illness, and antinatalism. My album would become a bestseller in Zuron, and would go Gold worldwide. Know what I'm sizzlin', "Detronas City Anthem (The Finale)" was on there! I made a song about my drink, niggaroni, it's called Dross Juice, that's on the album! "Lugz And Gasmask" is on there, nigga who wouldn't wanna go to a war with some baggy ass sweats, Lugz Chargerz and a fuckin' GASMASK! WILD as fuck. Tha SMASH HIT SINGLE, "I Don't Wanna Live", that's on the album . Sold like, 1,000,000 copies to date. The whole world went nutz. I got arrested not long after this album. Got tried at the World Court. Around the time I was in jail, I heard word that Natika wound up building orphanages and homeless shelters for struggling Middle Easterners, with my proceeds. She even fought alongside her Palestinian brothers and sisters against the Israeli occupiers that her moms supported. Two years have passed and she is respected amongst the Middle East. But she feels as though its time for her to leave. Shit was heartwarming as fuck, she finally found her purpose, it seemed.

Shit was gon change by the time 2004 rolled in. I would fade random people, or just flat out assault political and religious figures on a whim. Me and my homeboyz would raid other mainstream rapper's club parties. I would get into riots a lot more frequent basis. I would snort coke off the crotches of sexy female models if given the chance to go to these house parties. In many cases, I would fuck Cita in the VIP Room (and a couple of other video models). In April 6th of '04, I was arrested for disturbance of the peace, riot inciting, but it was also a ruse for an even more serious crime: a domestic violence case. Simbad had crafted up a made up story of how I beat Natika back in 1997 (even though those injuries were the result of a bad fight, and the injuries Natika sustained back in '01 are from Gorthos Gothel savagely beating her and throwing her around like a ragdoll). By ‘04, I got myself in some major beef with them Illuminati sellouts named Leadaz Of The Free Nation, but me and my crew wound up squashing it after Tony brought a gun into the situation. I would hold the record of getting arrested the most times in a year -- smoking weed in the back of a po-po car would piss off any po-po officer. That and call them servants of Luciferian Occultists. Which they is. Had to say it, yo! I even beefed hella with Gamian Ritter, Sean Gotti, and J. Willis. I stopped fucking with Don Bling, them niggaz backstabbed us in AMP. Me and Emerald Shields kept it cool, we still talk every once in a while. But me and Bling ain't got no words. December of '04 was when I was drinkin' hella Caribull Vodka (Red Bull, Vodka, Sprite, Orange Juice, Grenadine), OD'd on the shit too, as far as I can remember.

2 years later, I had an Anghellic moment, I was now 29 years of age, and I would follow this up with the more aggressive second album, Erisem, which was released 2 months later on May 03, 2005. I wanted to go back to my Midcoastsidaz roots, and it had been 10 years after that shit was released, with a pint of darkness -- and that shit sold like 4,687,500 copies. We wound up releasing The Rogue Demonz Show by Hemdula, Criminal Tendencies by J.J. Moneybagz, The Shit List by Liquid Se7en, World Renowned by Gang Green Crew (their debut), DJ Spill's Destructiv  death metal band Triumpf's Livin' Legends, Horrur's album Absolute Largess, Joey J's Rise Up, Chris' Dolmethland, Blak Bloc's Chaos VS Order: 1312, and Zuron City Clique's Zuron City All Stars. However, there was a lot of violence, even within them times -- some niggas within the Illuminati that started a shootout with Big Kapo because he refused to pay they ass. Me, being a real nigga, decided to pull my TEC-9 and fired at them. The Illluminati hit men shot and killed Platinum-selling artists Jabrielle McClain, Remy Byrd, Ori "Orion" Pierre, Da'kuan Muhammad, and Zohn Dorsey, all artists that got killed in the midst of the action. My homegirl Cita was shot and wounded in that crossfire as well -- and it would take a while until we started fully hanging out near the end of the year.  

I also heard that Natika's altruism lead to her gettin' ostracized by her family. Her ring to the middle east and finding a purpose hurt her family's precious little fee-feez, and oh boy my nigga, riots were abound and lots of butthurt had come to the surface. When she would go to Gothel Family Reunions, she would get nasty looks from all of her family members. It was at this point that Natika would realize that she had become a pariah among her fam. One of them even threatened to kill her "COME PROVE YOUR A MUSLIM TERRORIST YOU TRAITOROUS SAND NIGGER SPIC, WE WILL KILL YOU", and she had to come defend herself and Tamberine. This ended in a battle against her family members. Not only that, the whole City of Gothelia wanted to off her -- and on April 4, 2006 (4.4.06), they got their wish. While Natika, me, Jimmy Mack and K-Vall was taking joyrides around Gothelia, one Gothelian was armed with a crossbow -- and he/she shot the laser crossbow thru the driver's seat of the car, the bow went square in her head, killing her instantly. She was 27 at the time. I couldn't even help but cry my ass off son. I heard the next day, everyone in Gothelia celebrated her death. On top of this, my moms gets diagnosed with panchreatitis on Natika's 28th birthday (August 4th, 2006).

Even worse, on March 7th, 2007, I become subject to an Illuminati Blood Sacrifice, just know that the Anarchist message will help these kids bring that spark to expose this New World Order. I got something on my pager and say "GET READY TO DIE", and I kinda complied. I wasn't afraid of my own coming death. I do worry however, is that kids all over the world won't get to see my message because it goes against the Illuminati. Wether it would be that the Illuminati that wipes out my message and preventing my message, whether it be the parents of these kids who prevent them from listening to my message and taking action upon learning what I learned. I don't know. That fast life during my early years of fame got me even more suicidal -- I wanted to die nigga -- so I decided to go kamikaze and crash my car into the Illuminati people's van - face first! I wound up in the hospital in a comatose state for about a month or two, before eventually surviving. I eventually survived that shit. In the midst of this, the damage done to Detronillac was already done, and so it closed it's doors in April of '07, and AMP Entertainment shut down after co-Gamian blew most of Kapo's masters and publishing on a casino, alongside our label earnings as a way to pay the Illuminati. I wound up leaving AMP, Detronillac and UMG and I took my albums, and my Sick Touch label -- with me.

Months after AMPs dissolution, I signed a distribution deal with Tropicala Distribution, another distribution arm of Universal. It was at THAT point where I would later release this third album, 175, on September 3, 2007, which was my darkest album, YET. I let the darkness and destruction consume my ass throughout the entire album, I talked moreso about darkness, death, gore, the occult, went even further on the arson and shit, etc. However, this shit sold 1,000,000,000 copies to date -- it didn't reach Thermilliation numbers, but it was close. THIS album was the one that opened a LOT of doors. And I re-relelased The Sam Gold LP and Erisem on Sick Touch as well. Now you get the full package, and the rest, as they say, is history.

…or was it? It wasn't even close to finished with my journey as a rapper, know what I'm sizzlin'? I started writing new shit, and recording for album #4! The name? Absolute Platinum… and it all started around October 2007, while I was on tour promoting the 175 album… my dwellin' in my darkness came to a head, and as a result it was a lot of fuck you music, it's the year 2009 now -- and I just finished recording it. ABSOLUTE PLATINUM IS ON THE WAY.