#showboatin

[thebandcampdiaries]

Silent Tha Soldier has recently announced the release of a brand new studio EP: ShowBoatin’

Silent Tha Soldier is a rapper with a focus on using punchy tones and articulate vocal chops as a way to tell powerful stories and connect with the audience, while also showcasing his skills and ambition.

As an artist with a broad range of interests and influences, it seems like Silent Tha Soldier is constantly looking to embrace new ideas, and expand on his sonic vocabulary as an artist and rapper. As a result, his work could be described as innovative while also refreshingly familiar, almost in a comforting way for fans of modern rap music with an old-school twist. There is something very special about music that feels new but also already intrinsically personal, like getting to meet a childhood friend that you haven’t seen in ages. Silent Tha Soldier’s most recent studio work, ShowBoatin’ EP, is almost like that. If you are familiar with this style of rap music, you will easily be able to connect to this project and appreciate the dynamic range of this EP.

This is a must-list for fans of classic rappers like Mystikal, Master P, Biggie Smalls, Erik B, and many more. To conclude, this song is really all about allowing the world to see what Silent Tha Soldier has to offer!

Find out more about Silent Tha Soldier’s music, and do not miss out on ShowBoatin’ EP, which is currently available on the web.

[kiloskywalker]

SNEAK PREVIEW

Sneak Preview of my WIP: “Take My Breath Away” by @kiloskywalker A Tarlos/Lone Star Fic set in the world of Navy Fighter Pilots Full work coming late 2023, this is just a first draft All rights reserved  ****** Naval Air Station Oceana Virginia Beach, Virginia Carlos Reyes loved flying, ever since he was a little kid.  He can pinpoint the exact moment in his childhood that led him on the path to where he was.  It was a hot summer day, and his parents decided to take an 8 year old Carlos to the Wings Over Travis County Air Show.  He still can feel the thunderous sound of the fighter jet engines as they flew over him.  He can remember how excited he was when he got to travel on a plane for the first time to visit his Abuela, and how he clung to the window watching as the plane took off and the world below him grew smaller and smaller.  And he can remember the exhilarating feeling he felt when he first got into the cockpit of an F/A-18 Super Hornet.

Carlos would say to pretty much everyone that he was born to fly.  The rush he would get at being higher than most birds, and flying at the speed of sound was better than anything he had ever felt.

He was practically buzzing with excitement as he zipped up his flight suit in the locker room of the flight line at Naval Air Station Oceana in Virginia Beach, Virginia.  Today was a gorgeous day, clear skies and very little wind.  The perfect weather for flying.  He grabbed his helmet and walked toward the flightline and couldn’t help but smile as he checked himself out in the mirror.  Today was going to be a simple flight with his wingman, up to 15,000 feet and up and down the Virginia coast.

“No showboatin’ up there, Ranger!” his wingman, Renegade, told him as they climbed into their respective jets.  “Commander only wants to make sure that everything is in perfect order.  So don’t muck up these multi-million dollar jets trying to impress the hot guys out on Virginia Beach doing all those low pass fly-bys.”

Carlos rolled his eyes fondly.  “You know Renegade, I don’t need to use my flying skills to impress the guys.  I do quite well with my natural assets.”

“Natural assets?” Renegade shot back.  “Please enlighten me.”

“You know,” Carlos replied.  “My charm, my looks, and my…personality.”  He gave his partner a quick wink before saluting his ground crew chief and climbing up the ladder to the Super Hornet’s cockpit.

“Ah yes personality,” laughed Renegade as he did the same.  “So that’s what the kids are calling it these days!”

“You just wait until later tonight!  I’ll show you how many numbers I can get at the bar and I won’t even mention that I’m a fighter pilot!”

“You’re on Reyes!” ******

[reblog4myficsnotesonly]

• Opposites attract •

**Title: *Opposites Collide***

The world of WWE was no stranger to surprises, but the relationship between Drew McIntyre and Madi, the pint-sized powerhouse known as "The Maneater," was a curveball no one saw coming.

At 5’6, Madi was dwarfed by Drew’s towering 6’5 frame. She was all glitter and sunshine, flitting around backstage in sparkly ring gear and handing out snacks like a cheerful fairy godmother. Her bubbly giggle echoed through the halls, a stark contrast to Drew's brooding demeanor. The Scottish Warrior didn’t smile much, unless you counted his smirks when delivering snide remarks or laying opponents flat with his Claymore Kick.

And yet, they were inseparable.

### Backstage Whispers

“Seriously, how does *she* put up with *him*?” Liv Morgan whispered one day, watching Madi skip towards Drew after her match. “She’s like a human cupcake, and he’s…”

“A grizzly bear,” Damian Priest finished with a grin.

Shayna Baszler rolled her eyes, muttering, “Y’all just don’t get it.”

Drew, as usual, didn’t care about the chatter. When Madi threw her arms around him, he caught her with ease, lifting her like she weighed nothing. “Good match, princess,” he said, his deep brogue soft in a way reserved only for her.

“You think so?” she beamed.

“Aye. But you need to stop showboatin’ so much. Nearly got caught in that roll-up.”

“Okay, *dad,*” she teased, sticking her tongue out.

“Keep that up, and you’ll regret it later,” he warned, his voice dipping into that dangerous tone that sent shivers down her spine—but not the bad kind.

### The Unlikely Pair

On-screen, their personas couldn’t be more different. Madi was a princess in the ring, sometimes literally wearing a tiara, while Drew exuded raw, brutal intensity. Fans couldn’t wrap their heads around how the sweet, sparkly girl had tamed the Scottish Warrior.

The truth? Madi was the only one who could call him out without fear.

“You’re brooding again,” she said one night, plopping herself onto his lap while he stared at his phone.

“It’s what I do.”

“Well, stop. You’re gonna scare the catering staff.”

He chuckled, the sound rare and rough. “They should be scared. Food’s terrible.”

She pouted. “They try their best!”

“And you’d defend them, wouldn’t you?” he teased, resting his forehead against hers. “You defend everyone. Even me.”

“Because I love you, dumbass.”

That shut him up, but only for a moment. “And I love you too, princess. But if you call me a dumbass again…”

“What? You’ll toss me across the locker room?”

“Don’t tempt me.”

### The Claymore and the Princess

Their relationship was a constant tug-of-war, her sweetness balancing his gruffness. In the ring, they were worlds apart, but backstage, they made sense in a way words couldn’t explain.

Madi brought out Drew’s softer side, while he grounded her, reminding her not to let the business chew her up. She’d pull him into goofy selfies, and he’d grumble—but always posed. He’d carry her bags without being asked, though he’d complain about her “carrying half the damn store.”

When they stood together, the visual was almost comical—her head barely reached his chest, and his arm looked massive draped over her shoulder. Fans joked about their “David and Goliath” dynamic, but the truth was, Madi was the only one who could handle the giant.

And when people whispered, “How does someone like her put up with someone like him?” Madi would just smile, knowing they’d never understand.

She didn’t tame the grizzly bear. She loved him exactly as he was.

[thought-i-to-myself]

@basikfangirl asked me for this gif and I figured since I’ve been so SR-focused the last few days, all y’all thirsting for SJ out there should have this too🎩

[kennyhoemega]

cody shut the actual fuck up

[tina-ahandbean-ya]

Showboatin’ baby!

[polymathematical]

[Lyric Excerpt]:

I Van Gogh 'em, pretend I don't know 'em

Too busy showboatin' to roast 'em, the flames floatin'

No jokes, see my quotes remain potent

Even in the casket, I'll be one to close it

I'm a poet and I know it, see I could do some good

But these demons in my ear make me feel misunderstood

Lord knows, my intentions are hood

And I rub it in a little bit more than I should

[full lyrics]

[kbtheplaymaker]

#Repost @hptgudda ・・・ #StickUp: WHILE YOU #BRAGGIN’ #STUNTIN’ and #SHOWBOATIN’ don’t forget about the ni👊🏾✊🏾az out here with nothing that will take yo’ shit!!! “If you doing to much they comin’ to get it!! #Gudda #kbarrell #theplaymaker (at Milwaukee, Wisconsin)

[trucksnboots-blog]

YEE YEE, bro, ain’t you just One Tall Sweet-Smilin’ Cute-Ass Little Cornpone Hick there! When you’re All Done Showboatin’ & Paradin’ that Wore-Out Ratty-Ass Rust Bucket of A RAM Pickup there, buddy, Let’s Slip Up there in the Cab o’ That Rattle Trap & Engage Ourselves in One Sleazy Sloppy-Ass Cock Suck & Fuck Orgy, you Long & Lean-Ass White Backwoods Hillbilly Fucker!

[startribune]

Showboatin’

August 18, 1957 An old-time showboat returned to the Mississippi River as an ambitious civic project in Grand Rapids, Minn. The boat, powered by two outboard motors, brought the “Mississippi Melodie II” to a riverside platform at Grand Rapids, featuring choristers, bands and dancers. Earl Seubert, Minneapolis Sunday Tribune

[heartbreak-records]

Entry Twenty Two

Shit is this thing on? Cam, you know I’m a LIVE theatre kinda guy, I don’t know how this shit works, you’re the tech kid. Closest I get are watchin’ the movies. *there is a pause, the blonde man looking off screen, most of his face obscured as he is far too near to the camera* Whatever, if it ain’t on I’ll do it again, you know I love the spotlight. Yeah yeah, I’m on it, hand me the damn script. ... What do you mean you don’t script this shit? Are you serious? ... Kid you’re lucky I love you. ... Right, right. *With this the man steps back, fitting himself into frame with a lazy smile.* Name’s Vulcan Crow, don’t go forgettin’ that now, and I’m here ‘cause our girl Friday over there got so worked up over that last entry. I came runnin’ when she called cause I’m just that sort of guy, I come when the ladies ask, and she has me set up to give some background on this stand I know from back home. ...! Alright kid, hold on a minute, I ain’t showboatin’, just lettin’ them get to know me first. ... Ah you already did an entry on little ol’ me? Well shucks kid, I’m so flattered, you’re gonna make me blush. *Vulcan punctuates this with a laugh, and a yell from off screen sets him back on course.*  Let’s set the stage here. The stand is called Kill The Lights, good buddy of mine is the user, does some shows with me when I need a little extra from the performance. Lot easier using his power than making Crimson and Clover make lights, I ain’t got a clue how that shit works anyway. The basics are it has some sorta, what did he call it, yeah, light manipulation. It can turn lights off, turn em on, make some in thin air, hell he can blind you if he wants. Another part of it is color manipulation, real hit with the kids on the street, turns the red into green into blue into yellow and all that. So I’ll make it pop outta the air like so- *Crimson and Clover makes it’s cameo, a few climbing atop each other and morphing into his wand. It is clear that when the stand transforms it becomes a corporeal object, meaning any audience could see it.* and he starts changing it around, turnin’ wands into sparklers and all that good jazz. Ain’t seen them fight, but I’d like them on my side when it comes to that, I bet that shit can be devastating. They work in my theatre group too, everybody needs a light guy. ... Whaddya mean there’s a time limit! Kid you gotta tell me this sh- *Transmission end*

[ellen-reincarnated1967]

Game night was always a blast when you had the gang over to you and your fiancee's house.

Tonight was a friendly game of adult pictionary, and Misha scrambled over to your side of the room, whispered in your ear, "we've got this," and walked back, cocky as all heck, pointing in your direction with an exaggerated wink.

"Mish, enough with the showboatin'," Jared whined.

"Oh hush, Paddles," you jabbed his side playfully, "you're just upset because Gen couldn't decipher your 4 year old drawing!"

"No, that's just it, YNN," Gen giggled, "pretty sure our son could've drawn a better penis!"

"I hate you all," Jared mumbled.

Misha took to the drawing board, "let the games begin, losers."

[deathorgloryco]

@projectthirteen.co showboatin’ and smokin’ ✌🏻 #smokey #showboating #skids https://www.instagram.com/p/CApr83Knr5K/?igshid=lr1ipxpn3pk6

[jessemccowbae]

🔪

🔪- A memory about a dangerous situation

[[ CW for graphic violence and bloody injury under the read more. ]]

“Deadlock, huh?”

The comment came over Jesse’s shoulder with an audible sneer. He looked up from his scotch, his surprise completely absent from his face. He was halfway to goddamn Salt Lake – who the hell around here even knew who those scrub fucks he’d grown up with were?

“Not hardly,” he grumbled. “Fell in with ‘em when I was a kid. Got out in a hurry. Where you from that you know of ‘em?”

The stranger’s lips curled into a smirk that didn’t reach his eyes. “Around.”

“Well, if they’re operatin’ this far north, they’re clearly gettin’ on just fine without me.” His mind spun briefly, acclimating to the new information. If they were operating this far north, he needed to get the entire hell out of town. He took another sip of his drink. “No hard feelings, I knew a few good guys in there. Just work better on my own.”

It was as bald-faced a lie as he’d ever spun in his life; the few superiors he’d had in Deadlock had sent him and the few ‘good guys’ he’d had on a suicide mission, with the dual intent of baiting out Blackwatch and getting rid of the upstart crack-shot kid who could have come for their jobs at any second. They’d gotten shut down with extreme prejudice, and he’d been so spitting angry at the betrayal that he sold them all out to stay out of prison without a moment’s regret.

It was the biggest blow the gang had ever taken; the consequent busts crippled them for nearly a decade. The last he’d heard, twenty years later, he was still a no-questions-asked, kill-on-sight target. It was the only thing that had kept him from going home after Overwatch collapsed. ‘Hard feelings’ didn’t even begin.

The stranger laughed derisively, and a chill shot through Jesse’s veins. Yeah, he needed to get out of town yesterday. “Fair enough,” he said, turning back to his own drink. Jesse nodded briefly, and nursed his scotch just long enough to make it look like he wasn’t turning tail and gunning for the nearest horizon, before doing precisely that.

It was still in the wee hours when he got back to the shitty hotel he’d crashed at, shoved the few things he’d bothered unpacking back into his bag, left enough cash to generously cover his stay on the nightstand, and headed out. He was halfway to the train station – a couple of old-fashioned slow freighters came through every night that he could probably catch without too much trouble – when a booming voice interrupted him from a side alley.

“Jesse goddamned McCree.”

He kept walking. The dramatic stop and turn shit was straight out of the movies. No reason to set the bastard’s shot up for him.

There was no shot; he was grabbed by the shoulders, and as soon as he spun around to swing, tackled by the legs by someone else. He hit the ground unceremoniously, and his arms were immediately jerked behind him. He snapped his head up, trying to get an eye on – fuck, there were at least six guys, count on Deadlock to be the only outfit on earth that didn’t underestimate him – and then he felt a needle plunge into the side of his neck.

Well, shit.

—

When he came to, they were far enough outside of town that he couldn’t see it anymore, and his arms were tied securely behind him.

“Ol’ man McCree,” somebody sneered, tutting and shaking his head, walking around to face him – nobody he recognized; he’d been out far too long. He could sense the rest of them still crowded around behind him. Odds said the stranger from the bar was among them, or else had tipped them off to curry favor. “Never took you for the nostalgic type, but here you are still flyin’ our colors after all these years.”

“Soap that strong’s expensive,” he barked back, gritting his teeth. “Look, I ain’t no threat to you jackasses anymore. You all know what happened, I’m on the lam from every government on the planet, I ain’t had a decent night’s sleep in two years and odds are I never will again. Y’all want me to suffer, I’m already there, and you know damn well none of you can call in that bounty the feds got on me.”

He wasn’t sure where all the words were coming from, why he still felt any drive to escape with his life. He’d been the walking dead since the shutdown, ambling from place to place, taking whatever work would keep him fed and not grate on his conscience too much, nothing left to drive him on but the most base human instinct to continue living. Hell, if he’d been able to specify who the reward money went to, he’d have turned himself in by now. Forty million was the least he could do for the family he’d walked away from… what was left of it, at least.

The man in front of him just laughed low in his throat, shaking his head. “Don’t that just figure,” he growled, grabbing Jesse by the front of the shirt and hauling him to his feet. “You still think this is about you.”

Right. That was why he was arguing. Because these fucktrucks didn’t deserve the satisfaction of killing him.

The first punch came from behind, the next from the front, the third was a kick to the side, and the rest quickly became a blur. Definitely the most thorough ass-kicking he’d ever gotten in his life. He did what he could to block shots, to minimize the damage, but their only threshold for being ‘done’ was that he got too weak to fight back, so struggling would only prolong it.

There was blood dripping into both of his eyes by the time they slowed down. He was definitely soundly concussed, had several broken ribs, something he couldn’t identify was seriously wrong with his right shoulder, and his knees were finally giving out from under him.

The ringleader stepped up, making a show out of pulling a pocketknife slowly from his belt. For the first time since Overwatch fell, Jesse could feel tears pricking at the back of his eyes. This was it, then. Everything he’d overcome, everything he’d been given, all the trust that had been put in him… and this was all it came to. Bleeding out slowly in this same shitty desert by the hand of this same shitty gang.

The eastern sky was beginning to lighten, the stars fading into the twilight. Maybe he’d at least get to see one more desert sunrise first.

“You know,” the man drawled, kneeling next to him, “the plan here was to slit your throat and leave your ass for the coyotes. Woulda been nice and simple. But you…” He reached back, cutting off the ropes around Jesse’s wrists, then pushed him back and knelt hard on his chest. “Your showboatin’ ass just had to change my mind.”

He grabbed Jesse’s left arm, wrenching it upwards, a near-lecherous grin spreading across his face. “There’s a whole lot of other arteries you can bleed to death from, you know.”

By the time Jesse’s muddled mind managed to make the connection, the blade was already sinking into his forearm, just below his elbow. It didn’t even occur to him to try not to react – the blood-curdling scream shot straight from his nerves to his lungs, bypassing his brain entirely. He sawed in deep, nearly to the bone, before turning the knife and sliding it down. Jesse’s mind wasn’t even processing the pain anymore; he was nothing but nerve endings and reactions, shrieking himself hoarse, tears streaming down his face. The pain didn’t end so much as change once the work was done, a grotesque mass of skin and muscle falling into the rivers of blood with a sickening, wet noise.

If they said or did anything else, he didn’t notice; all his other senses had shut down in the wake of the blinding pain. By the time he could even properly look around, they were all gone.

The pain definitely wasn’t gone, but it had gotten so intense that his brain seemed to be muting it somehow. He blinked slowly, taking a few deep breaths, glancing at the softly lightening sky and around at the horizon. The town he’d been in was just south of the mountains, so they must have gone south out of town. It was situated on the west side of the interstate, which ran on to the southeast.

If he walked towards the sunrise…

He hadn’t been Angie’s favorite field medic for nothing. It wasn’t anything you could rightly call a tourniquet, but he managed to wrap his serape as tightly as he could around his arm and clutch it against his chest with his other hand, keeping as much pressure on it as he could manage. The ground lurched under him the first couple of times he tried to stand up, but slowly, surely, he got to his feet.

It was slow going, the world swimming before his eyes, his legs threatening to give every step of the way. He stopped for a long moment to slouch against a rock, gasping for breath.

I didn’t let you die for that shitty ink the first time around, vaquero. You better not die for it now.

“Who the fuck said your grouchy old ass could haunt me, fuck off,” he growled, a bit startled by the sound of his own voice, and continued walking.

The brightening navy blue of the sky was streaking with pink and gold by the time he reached the interstate. His serape was more blood than cloth now, still dripping onto the dusty ground as he dropped to his knees next to a mile marker, leaning heavily against the metal post. Just had to stay upright enough for some passing driver to recognize he was human. Or at least a body. He’d done what he could. Lady Luck would have to handle the rest on her own.

—

The headlights just barely woke him.

“–even alive? I can’t – oh holy shit, his arm–”“Alex, what’s going–”“No no no don’t look, it’s awful – just, get in the backseat with the kids and pull up directions to a hospital!”

[necastjester-blog]

it must be some kinna cultural shit here at least in this sector but i don’t usually see brothers of the paint showboatin wealth in the same ways other highbloods do. not sayin they don’t ever, cause like we totally do it, just not the same way.

other cooler bloods will buy a bunch of fancy shit to show it off and feel good about themselves. clowns usually bust into clubs and pay for everybody’s drinks just cause they can or have a big meal with their homies cause it’s what we do. it’s probably still a lot of showboatin but we value a different kind of spendin, i guess.

[ratrocketart]

Showboatin’