#so good on him. I think more gods should hang out with mortals in non-worship contexts. might give them some perspective

[in-fair-verona-we-set-our-scene]

I do think Withers has a really subtle background character arc in bg3. Because at the start it is really clear he doesn't want to be here and he's being forced to clean up his mess by Helm and probably Ao. He doesn't really care either. Everything ends so nothing really matters, he'd like to go back to his paperwork now please.

Except he's stuck babysitting a bunch of traumatized dumbasses as they stumble into dealing with the most recent bad idea of his three fuck-up disappointments. So he brings them back when they die for a pittance, lets them pay for some vengeful ghosts to come back as flesh and blood to wreak bloody vengeance on the Absolute, and starts to... comment, on what's going on, as he follows them on their adventure.

Next thing you know Withers is like, doing things unprompted. He refuses to bring back Alfira (or Quil) but that's an act of compassion, keeping the poor girl from the Urge and letting her rest, his actual duty as a god of death. He tells Arabella to follow her destiny and does that thing to make her grief go away which honestly freaks me out but seems to be him trying to help her. He shows up at Moonrise and prompts us to consider why the Dead Three would want a bunch of soulless illithids that would give them no power, getting us to think of the big picture.

And by the end (especially if you do a resist!Durge playthrough) Withers is actively interfering and seems genuinely invested! He brings Durge back from the dead, free of their father! He encourages us before the final fight with the Netherbrain! He's real fucking smug that the Dead Three lost when he never seemed to care about the destruction they caused before! He throws a reunion party and many of his lines are genuinely touching or kind! Especially if a companion died permanently! He has tea with Gale's mom and Tara! He's like, socializing and shit! Yes, everything is temporary and we all die, but there's great beauty in fighting for that precious time and living it to the fullest!

Basically Wither's character arc is this meme, all because Helm made him go outside and touch grass.

[y-rhywbeth2]

Tripping over a possible BG3 epilogue; how do you think the ascension of a new god of Ambition would impact Bane? Is Bane even still a god after Jergal shoos him away? Is there a court battle involved, or are Tyranny and Ambition hashing out jurisdiction and territory through mortal minions? Who tops this relationship? (is power dependent on the nature of the portfolio or the number of followers? because Gale has like 7 friends and a cat)

Bane definitely would try to take the portfolio, if he saw an opportunity (as would a few other gods. Lolth springs to mind). It's not guaranteed that he would succeed - he tried and failed to take war from Tempus - but ambition suits him very well and he'd want it.

Or he'd try to subjugate the new god of ambition and add him to the roster of 'servants.' With both of them having terrifically bad relationships with Mystra, whose power I imagine both covet, alliances wouldn't necessarily be out of the picture, but, oh, the ego clash. ... and in this moment I feel it in my waters: somebody somewhere ships god-Gale and Bane. Or possibly just Gale/Bane.

Or if Bane and Gale end up fighting, it's possible that Gale and Mystra would have to grit their teeth and play nice for a bit.

A god of ambition could theoretically take a chunk out of Bane's pool of worshippers, as many of them are the ruthlessly ambitious looking to climb the ranks. But mostly they're going to end up sharing worshippers, because these people are going to be making offerings to both.

As an out-of-universe thing, ultimately, Gale would lose ground to Bane just like Cyric did. Simply because of the status-quo of the setting. Bane is apparently one of those annoying inescapable, fundamental cornerstones of the settings existence. He's slightly everywhere and it drives me insane.

He's the BBEG. When 3.5e rolled around Bane was the one of the Dead Three they brought back. He's in paragraphs in books that should have nothing to do with him. Bane is fucking inescapable.

And not to diminish Gale's delightful levels hubris but I'm... actually not sure that Gale is more ambitious than Bane, though I'd certainly be interested to see that theory tested. Perhaps Gale simply hasn't had enough decades, world shaking plots and insane god-killing challenges to power through to show that he's the most ambitious.

As for the rest of it... oh, the nonsense that is 5e and divine rank on Toril, with BG3 making it even more confusing. Because we can't go an edition without fucking with the gods, nooo, that'd make life too easy...

A god's power is still determined by the amount of worship they receive, as far as I know. Worship given out of love and devotion is worth more than that given out of fear (hence why the dead three have more 'pleasant' aspects as a bringer of law/stability, a custodian of the dead and the dying, and a bringer of retributive violence to the desperate... and why Bhaal is the weakest out of the three, because even 'good' murder is not in high demand, so he's not seeing much devotion outside of his loving and loyal homicidal maniacs).

Bane is still a god; we're never truly getting rid of him any more than we're getting rid of Mystra.

How much power he's supposed to have escapes me. The Dead Three have been described as walking Faerûn in to bypass restrictions placed on the gods at the end of the Sundering (meant to keep gods from messing directly with the mortal world). And that's all the information I have on that. Presumably it's a Time of Troubles type deal: they can hang around in a non-corporeal state or possess mortals as avatars (and change to a new host when one dies). They can still do some miracles, draw power from their worshippers and grant divine magic, so long as their worshippers are in range. Their divine domains remain intact, even if they can't visit.

Here Gale technically has a minor advantage, standing at the rank just above quasi-deity, so he should have more power. But he also has less experience, a less established/influential church, less followers, less allies, more restrictions...

Gale has maybe 7 friends he can maybe call on. He doesn't have a cat, as Tara can't bear to look at him. He can make an army of not-Taras though, I guess. At six months old, I'm not sure Gale's done much divine networking yet. His best bets if he wants to fight Bane are Bane's old enemies: Torm, Cyric (nope), Mystra (HA!), Tempus, Helm, Lathander (probably your best bet), Oghma (allied with Mystra), and Ilmater (who is a bit humble to be getting along with Ambition)

I'd say Tempus and Lathander will have the most overlap.

Assuming the Dead Three and their alliances still stand, Bane can call on both Bhaal and Myrkul for aid, as well as Loviatar, Talona and Mask. If Bhaal and Myrkul still have their old alliances then Hoar and Shar might be convinced to get involved under the right circumstances.

There's also an obstacle keeping any friction between them low because Gale can't do anything much on Toril, actively, and the Dead Three are currently barred from the planes, so they can't reach each other to do anything unless they act through their priesthoods (although I guess the Three could personally murder his followers and burn his temples; Gale would have to direct his followers to counter this or attack them, he can't do it directly).

If Bane wasn't hanging out on Toril then they'd still be fighting mostly through their mortal worshippers. Although I imagine they'd have interesting interactions on Cynosure (a neutral meeting ground for the gods, connecting all their domains).

[kitkat1003]

On the Issue of Mortality

Chapter 3: Duplicity

“Pretty good, pretty good?!  That’s not good enough!”

AO3 Link

Monkey King doesn’t tell Kid to come and see him, nor does he actively make Flower Fruit Mountain uninviting, but it takes longer than he expects to hear his staff slam onto sand.  He supposes he should have expected that, as just a cursory look of the Kid tells him that his successor is the type to do absolutely everything on his own.

He purposely doesn’t go to check on Kid, purposefully holds back, because he’s been getting too close.  Watching the Kid from afar at all hours of the day—he’s Sun Wukong!  He has better things to do than to just semi-stalk a full grown mortal adult.  

Kid’s an adult, he can decide whether or not he wants Monkey King’s help.  Even when Monkey King feels those little flares that mean Kid is using his powers, even when his stupid brain worries for some reason, even then he stays back at Flower Fruit Mountain and takes it easy.  If Kid needs help, he’ll ask.

Won’t he?

He should be concerned by how long it takes for Kid to reach out, but he’s made it absolutely clear to himself that he won’t be getting attached to his successor.  It’s really the best for the both of them.  Kid looks at Monkey King as if he’s God and Monkey King doesn’t see that hero worship fading anytime soon.  On top of that, he just doesn’t need a mortal hanging around.  It’s just asking for one of them to get hurt.

By one of them, he means he.  Because Monkey King, despite his best efforts, has a soft spot for mortals.  Triptaka was bad enough, he misses his master daily, but to add more to that roster?  Never.

He knows he’s been getting too close, too protective, so he pulls back, stops people-watching, stays away from the mortal world, lets Kid handle it.

A few weeks pass before he feels his staff hit sand and he waits patiently for Kid to come rushing in.  And he does, practically tripping over himself as he heads into Monkey King’s inner sanctum, and the first thing Monkey King smells is blood.

He jumps off of his cloud and watches Kid run over as something like terror tremors up his spine, because he hasn’t smelt blood in years.  It brings back too many memories, memories of his master stolen by demons and threatened with death over and over and Monkey King coming in just in time, but this time he didn’t even do anything and Kid comes over smelling of blood and Monkey King worries.

Kid has a bandage on his face and a once-over reveals a quite few injuries on the Kid, as if he’d been in a fight a few days prior.  That deep seated fear settles in his chest like a weight, and he slaps on a grin and waves lazily, bag of peach chips in hand.

“Hey!  What’s up?” he calls out.

Kid holds the staff like it’s a shield.  Monkey King wonders if Kid’s scared of him.  The thought bothers him.

“Um, hey, uhh...I was wondering about, um, training?  I guess?  You-um-you never said that we would-but you know more about how to use this than me, so—” Monkey King stops listening after the third stumbling sentence, because yawn, he gets the point, whatever.

“Sure,” he interrupts.

He turns around before he sees the look on Kid’s face.  He doesn’t see Kid go quiet and look down at his feet, as if ashamed to think he could speak.

“We’ll start with some katas.  C’mon.” He waves a hand, and Kid follows.

The first katas are a mix of easy and hard ones, because he needs to gauge the Kid’s current martial skills.  Once he establishes a baseline, he can figure out where to start Kid from.

Kid is clumsy, unfocused, and not at all sure-footed.  He stumbles through the easy katas and looks lost when shown the hard ones.  Monkey King barely bites back sighs of frustration, because he can’t get mad when learning was the point of the exercise.  He just wishes his successor had some semblance of martial arts training.  It would make things a little easier.

He’s about to tell Kid to take a breather, ‘cause no point in continuing when nothing is getting done, but then he watches a little longer and sees something...interesting.  Concerning?  Interesting.

Kid is determined.  Monkey King watches him take a deep breath—he sees young eyes glance his way, and Monkey King forces his gaze to drop from interested to bored—and reset his stance, stumbling and fumbling with the same kata over and over and over and over until something snaps.

It’s not a triumphant moment, when Kid gets the kata right.  Instead of bending like bamboo and finding his groove, Monkey King watches his successor push through like a hand through a wall, sharp and frustrated instead of excited and relieved.

“Good work,” he says, because you should reward success, right?  

Kid brightens like the sun under the praise, soaking it up like a sponge, and Monkey King watches, and wonders.

Kid goes through the next kata with that same grit and determination, occasionally glancing at Monkey King for something like approval, and Monkey King throws up some lazy thumbs up, leaning back on his cloud and munching on peach chips.  He does throw out a suggestion or two when Kid looks like he’ll snap again, but it seems inevitable, as if failure is a non option.

At this point, Monkey King doesn’t have it in him to tell Kid the point of the exercise, to tell him that some katas weren’t meant for beginners and some were, and that he was just testing Kid’s skills.  And, hey, if Kid gets the easy and hard katas down on his own, less work for him, right?  Why teach someone something if they can teach themselves?  That’s how he learned things, after all.

Again, he thinks he can hear his master screaming, off in the distance.  He shrugs to himself.

“Done!” Kid shouts from below, and Monkey King watches him perform the eight katas he’d shown Kid earlier in perfect form.  Well, not perfect, but close enough.

“Nice!  We can do more whenever you show up next, but, uh, that should be good for today.”  No point in overwhelming the Kid, after all.  Plus, eight katas ain’t too bad for a first day.  “Hey, do you got a schedule?  I kinda have a life, you know.  Would be good to know when to expect you.”

He doesn’t mean to let it come out as biting as it is, but Kid hunches down on himself and looks so terribly guilty that Monkey King immediately regrets asking.  He opens his mouth to say something that could soften the blow, lighten the mood, but Kid speaks up before he can.

“Um, I talked to Pigsy, and he doesn’t mind me taking half shifts on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Sundays.  We’re not as busy then, and some Sundays, Pigsy goes out shopping, so I won’t be missing work then,” he shrugs.

Monkey King nods.  Three days a week doesn’t seem too bad, all things considered.  Gives him some free time, 4 days where he doesn’t have to worry about watching out for the Kid.

“Sounds good.” He grins, eyes closed with his arms back behind his head.  He expects Kid to leave, but the shuffling of feet do not turn into footsteps moving away from him, and Kid doesn’t say goodbye or move for a good few seconds.

Right before he opens an eye to see what the issue is, Kid speaks.

“Um, how do your clones work?”

Well, now, isn’t that a change of subject.

“Figured you would know, considering your story chronicle thing.” Monkey King sits up and stretches, eyeing Kid with a half curious, half pensive glance.  

Kid fidgets, and something flickers on his face.  Guilt, fear?  Kid isn’t good at lying, but he’s very good at hiding.  “Yeah, but I’ve-uh-I mean not all the stories are a hundred percent accurate, right?  And, like, I was just wondering how you use them, so when-so if I need to use them I know how, you know?  Extra me’s are pretty useful, right?” 

Kid doesn’t seem to notice the slip ups, but Monkey King does.  He’d wondered if Kid would get all of his powers right off the bat or just the basics.  Makes him wonder if he should try for transformations, see if Kid can shapeshift.

One thing at a time.  He hops off of his cloud, picks a strand from his hair and blows on it.  An identical copy of himself appears and Kid’s eyes sparkle with interest.

“Let’s see yours,” Monkey King gestures for Kid to try, and he gets that same flicker of something.  Guilt is definitely there, and nervousness.  He doesn’t know why.  Shame, he thinks he’s getting?

He glances at the few wounds on Kid’s body with a new perspective.

Kid eventually plucks out a strand and blows, and an identical copy of Kid appears.  Monkey King raises a brow.  

“Nice,” he says with a grin, and his clone leans in to take a closer look.

Kid’s clone hunches down on himself, anxious, and Kid quickly dispels the clone, nervous.  Monkey King dispels his own with a shrug.  

“Um, how do you use your clones?” Kid asks, voice hiking up into a panicked lilt that seems to be expecting Monkey King’s response to be hard and mean.

“I mean, I use ‘em a lot as cannon fodder in battle.  Bullets I guess?  They can’t take as much of a beating as I can, but they pack enough of a punch or can be enough of a distraction that they help me get the upper hand in battle.  Not that I need them often.” He’s pretty good at fighting villains without them, thank you very much.

“Do you ever have them...stick around?” Kid asks, and Monkey King raises a brow.

“No?  The world only needs one of me.  I’m pretty great, no need for a second one stealing my spotlight.” He glances at the bandages on Kid, and a distinct lesser amount of hair on the left side of his head.  “Why?”

Kid almost full on flinches at the question, gripping the staff like a shield again, as if one wrong thing said would lead Monkey King to attack.  It puts Monkey King on edge.  What’s got the Kid so antsy?  It’s not like Monkey King tries to be scary around him.  He’d like to think his laid back persona would give off a less threatening vibe.

“Uh-I-no reason!” Monkey King bites back a sigh at the obvious lie.  “A-anyway, I promised Mei we’d go to the arcade, and I’m gonna be late.  Bye!”

Kid runs off, and Monkey King fights the urge to shake the story out of him.  

Something happened, and the Kid got hurt.  Even with Kid being vulnerable, he’s still got a bit more durability than most mortals, so it would take something big to damage him.  Why wouldn’t he talk about it?  Is Monkey King really that unapproachable?

He wrestles with that and takes a deep breath.  No.  He’s not going to be that close to the Kid.  Kid’s got an entire other family to talk to about his problems.  If it’s important, if it’s Monkey King related, he’ll hear about it.  If not, not his problem.

Surely the Kid will talk to someone about the issue.  He’s got the chef—Pigsy?—and the scholar, and that dragon girl.  He has people.  Monkey King isn’t in charge of the well being of his successor, he’s just making sure Kid doesn’t die, and Kid’s fine.  Just a few scratches and bruises.

But he’s mortal, and vulnerable, and a bit thick, Monkey King knows. So he wonders.  And sits back.  If Kid needs help, he’ll ask.

Won’t he?

The question still has no definitive answer.

[inevitably-johnlocked]

Hi! I tried to send this before, but I’m not sure it went through. Forgive me if you got this request twice. Do you possibly know any fics where John chooses Sherlock over Mary? Specifically after Sherlock comes back, John realizes that his feelings for Sherlock are more than what he feels for Mary? Thank you for any help! Your blog is a treasure! Thank you!

Hi Nonny!

I could have sworn I’ve already answered this ask, but I’m not finding the post nor the offline fic rec list I make in case of Tumblr fuckups, and I apparently didn’t, so… HERE WE GO!!

It’s not all of the fics I have for sure... I just posted the ones I remember! Please feel free, lovelies, to add your own fics!! I’ve certainly missed some!!!

JOHN CHOOSES SHERLOCK OVER MARY

See also: 

Sherlock and John’s Wedding

Marriage, Weddings, & Proposals (April 2019)

Proposals

Infidelity

Evil / Not-Nice / Villain Mary

It's a Dummy by Johnnlocked (Krullenbol2602) (T, 2,574 w., 1 Ch. || HLV-Remix, Major Character Injury, H/C, Love Confessions, Mary is Not Nice, 3G Moment) – What if Mary had taken the shot?

Let Go by thisisforyou (G, 2,743 w., 1 Ch. || Friends to Lovers, First Kiss, Fluff, Anxious / Worried Sherlock) – In the end, separating John's things from Sherlock's in the chaos of their sitting room is like pulling a limpet from a wet rock. Especially when the rock is clinging on for dear life, because Sherlock doesn't want to let go. Short, fluffy h/c Johnlock oneshot.

My First, My Only, and My Forever by vintagelilacs (E, 6,220 w., 1 Ch. || Post-ASiB, Virgin Sherlock, Pining Sherlock, Sherlock’s Bum, John’s Scar, Sherlock POV, Body Worship, Fingering, Bottomlock, Promise of Forever / Proposals, Misunderstanding, First Kiss/Time, Loss of Virginity, Virginity Kink, Seduction) – Sherlock narrowed his eyes. He was missing a vital piece of data, he was sure. John had been looking at him oddly ever since they left Buckingham Palace, and the ensuing incident with Irene Adler had only exacerbated his erratic behaviour. What was it? Why would he care that Sherlock was a virgin? There was nothing reminiscent of mockery or pity in his gaze. And then it hit him. John Watson was aroused.

London Gods by a_different_equation (E, 11,092 w., 5 Ch. || American Gods Fusion || Magical Realism, Sex Magic, True Love, PTSD John, First Kiss/Time, Marathon Sex, Sensuality, Genie Sherlock, Human John, Internalized Homophobia, Star-Crossed Lovers, Soul Mates) – Sherlock Holmes is a jinn who does not grant wishes. However, when Dr. John H. Watson, recently returned from the war in Afghanistan, gets into his cab by "accident", it might not even need magic to grant both men their deepest wish: love.

The Palmyra Atoll by elwinglyre (E, 16,609 w., 3 Ch. || TSo3 Divergence / Episode Fix-It, Stockholm Syndrome, Kidnapped John Watson, John Whump, Evil Mary, Angst, Cuddling & Snuggling, Toplock, Limited 3rd John POV) – As John's preparing for the wedding, Sherlock is preparing to have his heart broken, and Mary is prepared to do the unthinkable. Intervention required. Enter Sherlock. Set before Sign of Three with a far different outcome. John is drugged, kidnapped, and left on an island, but not just any old island.

A Study In Auto-Signatures, Sniper Dolphins, and Sex Holidays by cwb (E, 32,689 w., 8 Ch. || Case Fic, Post S3, Evil Mary, Dev. Rel., Beach Holidays, Confused Sherlock, Friends to Lovers, Honeymoon, Epistolary, Bottomlock, First Kiss / Time, Fluff, Secret Agents, BAMF!John) – John and Mary go on their sex holiday, and Sherlock is grumpy and pining about it. Part 1 of HOT DOLPHIN SEX

carrying up his morning tea by darcylindbergh (E, 34,504 w., 5 Ch. || Post S3, Minor Character Death, Grief/Mourning, Wakes/Funerals, Estranged John, Pining Sherlock, Depression/Insecurity, Slow Burn, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Chronic Pain/Injury, Reconciliation, Awkwardness, Loneliness, Scars, Angst With Happy Ending) – His fingers tremble as he dials and he can’t force them steady. Familiar number, even though he hasn’t used it in two years. He isn’t even sure he should be calling it now, but she’d asked. She’d made him promise.

Only To Be With You by SinceWhenDoYouCallMe_John (M, 40,768 w., 4 Ch. || Black Mirror / Future AU || Character Death, Future Technology, Sickness/Cancer/Illness, Heavy Angst with Happy Ending, First Person POV John, Pining John, Heart-Wrenching Angst) – I tell myself that next time I’ll come near this same place again. Wait around for the mysterious stranger in his coat to dash past me, hot on the heels of a new criminal in black. I think this all the way back to my Exit, planning where I’ll wait and what I’ll say when I see him. Scheming on how to get his name. It’s only once I reach the Exit Point door that I realize two hours and forty-five minutes have passed, and I realize that this won’t be the last time I Visit. It won’t be the last time at all.

Right Hand Man by SilentAuror (E, 42,031 w., 4 Ch. ||  H/C, Injury, Slow Burn) – When John's left arm becomes paralysed after a car accident, Mary asks Sherlock to take him back to Baker Street to recuperate, as she's about to give birth. Despite the fact that the search for Moriarty is ongoing, Sherlock takes John in and takes responsibility for overseeing his rehabilitation as he adjusts to the loss of his arm.

Guidelines by WithLoweredVoices (M, 43,018 w., 15 Ch. || Winglock || Angels, Fantasy, Angst, BAMF! John, War, Jealous Sherlock, Possessive Sherlock, Jealous John, Falling in Various Ways, Needy Sherlock, Wings) – The Good Soldier, one of the oldest and strongest of the fallen, is offered a bargain: to live as John Watson and to Guide a fledgling archangel so that he will stay on the path of good. Of course, Sherlock Holmes has different ideas about his destiny. Fantasy AU. Warnings for violence, occasional gore, and a whole load of hurt and angst.

Scars by SilentAuror (E, 60,494 w., 5 Ch. || Rape / Non-Con / Abuse, Gaslighting, Manipulation, Dub Con Elements, Homophobia, Angst With Happy Ending, Mary is Not Nice) – S3 rewrite, showing Mary’s manipulation of John as he realizes his love for Sherlock. Mary is not having it.

The Progress of Sherlock Holmes by ivyblossom (E, 62,006 w., 25 Ch. || First Person Sherlock POV, Pining, Angst, Slow Burn, Infidelity, Sherlock Learns About Himself, Happy Ending) – Sherlock struggles with his feelings for John, makes a mistake, and learns just how important he and John are to each other. Non-BBC Mary / John, but it’s a *complicated* relationship.

Hell Sent, Heaven Bound by ConsultingHound (M, 64,381 w, 16 Ch. || Angels / Demons AU ||  Fallen Angel Sherlock / Angel Cop John, Alternate First Meeting, Slow Burn, Case Fic, John & Lestrade are Friends Before Sherlock, BAMF John, Mind Palace John, Friends to Lovers, John in Denial, Sherlock Picks Out John’s Clothing, Clubbing / Dancing, Mildly Jealous John, Awkwardness, Kidnapping, Sherlock’s Mind Palace, Sacrifice, Worried / Anxious Sherlock, Angst with Happy Ending, Immortal to Mortal) – Ex-War healer and current angelic guard John Watson is not having the best day. He overslept, he’s underpaid, and now there’s someone tagging the Council’s building walls. However things may be about to get interesting: there’s an unusual stranger hanging around (the definition of tall, dark, and handsome), a literal underground cult is brewing, and rumblings are coming from hell. Can he keep his neighbourhood safe, how and why is he being connected to all this, and who the hell is Sherlock Holmes?

Being John Watson-ish by elwinglyre (E, 69,902 w., 17 Ch. || Bodysnatcher AU || Author John, Cranky Sherlock, Angst, Sexual Tension, First Kiss / Time, Falling in Love, BAMF John, Past Soldier John, Feelings, Inside Someone’s Brain, Shy Sherlock, Sherlock Loves John, POV Sherlock, Switchlock, Slow Burn, Internal Dialogue, Mental Turmoil) – When consulting detective Sherlock Holmes steps on one toe too many at a crime scene, he's consigned to a desk job in an archaic office on the seventh-and-a-half floor of the New Scotland Yard. It’s in this bleak office that Sherlock discovers a portal into the mind of renowned author John Watson. Grander than his mind palace, this new wonderland affords Sherlock new vistas of experimentation. To learn more about the mystery behind the portal, Sherlock seeks out and befriends Watson. But then it all goes wrong when others find the secret portal door—including the man whose brain he visits.

The Moonlight and the Frost by CaitlinFairchild (E, 77,289 w., 10 Ch. || Case Fic, Post-HLV, Self Harm, Virgin Sherlock, First Time, Oral/Anal/Rimming, Romance, Angst, Mary is Not Nice) – John has to somehow rebuild his life in the wake of Mary's betrayal and Sherlock's deceptions.

Not Broken, Just Bent by Schmiezi (E, 87,585 w., 43 Ch. || Pining, Love Confessions, Torture, Hurt/Comfort, Heavy Angst, Villain!Mary, Suicidal Ideations, Main Character Death, Sherlock POV, Eventual Happy Ending) – "For a second, I allow myself to remember teaching John how to waltz. There is a special room in my mind palace for it. A big one, with a proper parquet dance floor. For a second, I go there. I remember holding him, closer than the World Dance Council asks for, excusing it with the fact that we are training for a wedding, not for a competition. For a second, I feel his hand on mine again, smell his sweat, hear the song we used. For a second, I allow myself to love him deeply. For a second, only a second, that love reflects on my face." Fix-it for S3, starting at the end of TSoT. Evil Mary.

The Adventure of the Silver Scars by tangledblue (NR [M], 142,458 w., 41 Ch. || S3 Fix-It, Post-HLV/ Post-TAB / Canon Compliant, Case Fic, No Baby, Angst, Humour, UST, Slow Burn, Angry John, Reconciliation, Not Nice Mary / Leaving Mary, Dependent Sherlock, Pining Sherlock, Caretaker John, Fist Fights, It’s An Experiment, Virgin Sherlock, Dancing, Drugging, John Whump, Pet Names, Sherlock’s Mind Palace, Scars) – It’s been thirteen months since Mary shot Sherlock and John finds he’s still pissed off about it. Sherlock had thought everything was settled: John and Mary, domestic bliss. But when John turns up at Baker Street with suitcases, the world’s only consulting detective might not be prepared for the consequences. A new case. Some old scores to settle. Certain danger. Concertos, waltzes, and whisky.

[dwestfieldblog]

REVELATION: 2021

...’Then I saw a new heaven and a new earth...see, the home of God is among the mortals.’ Hope you are staying sane. Meanwhile, from my war room (arf) inside a deep (astral) state within a non binary body...hallucinating realities...

Imagine, if you will, millions in a democratic country, who gladly make (and addictively want to) their private thoughts known via social media and are quite happy to tell random pollsters on the street their feelings on any subject of which they are asked. And plenty on which they are not. So pleased to be asked their righteous opinion, so ego led deluded that anybody might ‘like’ their words that they will spout the hatred their hearts feel on issues of the day and in their lives without a care where such information goes. They want to be heard and so, they are. Now imagine a computer driven listening and watching station with instructions from media masters, political leaders, and advertising companies paying close attention to the data gathered. Not actual facts as such but almost all emotion led opinions, collated to show the group mindset of a subsection of a country.

An algorithm can be created for what products would most likely appeal to that mass. Guns, (for random example), waterproof bibles, clothing for survivalists. You have direct knowledge of this already when You tube, your email, Alexa etc ‘suggest’ something you might/should like, based on what you have ordered, written, or spoken online. This year I have been getting dozens of spam emails for bad eyesight, Viagra type stuff and hair loss. HA. My age must be written somewhere. Not much stress on imagination to see how simple it is for organisations like the ex Cambridge Anal lytica etc to capture and utilise such info via Facebook. Or how enemies of a country could understand in no short order what makes a country really tick below the surface and how to manipulate those emotionally crippled, poorly educated AND those who seek power over others. Psychographic profiling...stop giggling at the back there...

Cui bono (who benefits) from seeding disorder? Follow the money, ‘it’s only business’. An algorithm which reveals just what people believe and who can then be exploited en masse as useful idiots to disrupt the usual inbred spastic normality of daily life in a human country. And it is dirt cheap because people WANT to reveal themselves and a rival country need only a minimum outlay of actual infiltrating agent provocateurs (many of whom will be actual natives.) A set up involving ‘sock puppets’ which serves the same purpose as APs...the legendary bots and fake identities rattling off tweets and false flag Facebook pages, rallying the disaffected faithful. ‘More evidence that the targeting works and predicts our behaviour’.

Now, once the group targets have been identified, seek out those among them who long for their moment of fame, their years of special importance and time of power. They will have already made clear their characters in online posts. Weakling Alpha types cowering their insecurities behind a loud voice. They hunger for followers, to be ‘liked’, (a basic larval human need for most) and admired for their rightness. Show them support, aid their voices to spread, mysterious donors for the message; Anybody not similar to you MUST be the opposite...and therefore, the enemy. Step by step, the daily hormone rush reprogrammes and the opinions become a self fulfilling prophecy, imprinting over all sense of reason. So now you have your moronic masses (and those dumb enough to want to lead them) most of whom are too stupid (or busy surviving) to realise they are being manipulated from afar by those who understand what is within and do not have their countries’ interests at heart. Bombarded with attack ads and propaganda... ‘Until they saw the world the way we want them to’...

Some of the leaders, big or small, will actually know they are puppets but will think it acceptable as long as they are given a little pat on the head via position and power. And a lot of money. Most, (whether mass or leader of such infiltrated countries) will be certain they are doing what they do in the name of Freedom and Democracy, while all the time, being used to further limit the same. Hilariously, bleakly, deathly ironic. From hubris to nemesis.

Yes, I am writing about Brexit and Trumpists and Q Onan. Et al, etc. Ad infinitum. Almost. Those in democratic countries who are ceaselessly working unbeknown to themselves against most of what they demand the most. ‘To take back control’. No children, you are creating a system where you will have less and less of this. ‘Follow the white rabbit’? No, you are following an algorithm in highly predictive patterns to those who own it and by extension, you.

‘I love my country!’ Do you? Why are you working free of charge for another who only wants to see your Union and partnerships broken? You vote for ridiculous men like Trump and Farrage because they are not the government and think you are rebel anarchists who will herald a new dawn of purifying flame...by substituting yet more slime who care only for their own power.

Someone points the finger, uses a trigger word and you do the Pavlov dog. Someone claps their hands and you pay unquestioning attention to their misinformation. Look over there, the world is being run by Satanic, child abusing faggot socialist liberals and foreign scum. Arf. So why are you obeying one of the above mentioned groups in the name of taking back control of your freedom? Because they already know how you will react. Because you created the infamous All Seeing eye yourselves by feeding information into the data base. Because you are so easy to trick into believing you are thinking for yourselves. ‘They’ don’t need to insert chips or vaccines with nano bots, they can just implant you with audio visual media and Nuremberg style rallies.

Take two blonde, fat stupid white men. Liars to the highest degree. One an entitled megalomaniac spoiled child and the other with half the megalomania. A glance at their track record and into their eyes should have told you all. Seems it didn’t. It took over four years and up to the week Trump left, for the rats to finally start jumping ship and for the band of the Titanic to start changing their tune. Twitter took four years to decide to cut off his fix. Nero played golf while America burned with Covid. 414,000 dead. Incitement to riot? Incitement to riot.  Investigate his wannabe aristocratic family and do not allow his children anywhere near politics. Or Smug petulant Kusher anywhere near business.

Over 74 million still think Trump is a go to guy rather than a take a running jump at kicking him up his arse. He pardoned various criminals, including Bannon, (lest the fascist scuzzball fink on him)...and no pardon for Maxwell... who still could, unless she also should manage to ‘kill herself’ by accident fnord in prison. Seems likely Donald could run for office again, form his own party....What? Pence announced ‘Space Force’ personnel will be called Guardians; yes really...this year will see their first battle against the children of Thanos. Thanos, thy name is Trump. But lacking the compassion or humour.

Good morning to billionaire Mr Robert Mercer...a ‘Christian’ Conservative, gun lover, climate change denier, donor of over 100 million dollars to right wing candidates, 15 million of which went into Cambridge Analytica/Brexit and more to Breitbart and Trumps 2016 campaign. On the face of it, both he and his second daughter Rebekah would seem to have their fingers hard on many triggers of chaos, all of which serve only the rich and Russia. Breaking up partnerships, friendships, splitting unions and sowing discord. Check. Encouraging  the working  and middle class to merely shift their belief across to another band of disreputable rich guys by telling them how corrupt the other rich guys are. Look out! They might be Socialists! A lot of them are Europeans! They eat children and want immigrants to swarm over your town! Works like a charm. It would be so nice if billionaires would actually behave in a decent moral way (yes, sarcasm) and actually help out more, regardless of whether there is a return on their ‘charity’, instead of being the James Bond villain scum they act like.

And speaking of Q...HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! Arf. That narcissist prick in horns Jacob Chansley of Arizona...Shaman? Shame man. Bullhorn? Bullsh...t. No hanging lawmakers for you boy. He only eats organic food? So what? A lover of nature? Which is why he wears fur and horns and wishes death upon fellow Americans who are ‘traitors’. The Kremlin and Mercer have done a job as sweet as they did with Brexit divisions. Just let the rabid cretins do all their work for them splitting unions. Well, it’s what the CIA did so well against communism. Now it is our turn. Watching yanks and brits demand more control of their democracy while pulling it apart. Hilarious. Q Onan wanked their conspiracy to death and are now confused the Golden One has not led them to the revolution...not exactly levitating the Pentagon are you?

They believed the world is run by a paedo satan worshipping elite who plot against Trump and operate a global child sex trafficking ring. Yes really. So you can see how they appeal to the deranged righteous Christian gun toting hordes and internet savvy youth against the Deep State. Arf arf arf. The Kemlin will have studied key points as to what gets the average American and British goat and exploited it. People are so keen to share their beliefs, ideas and fears on social media that it is simple to collect and combine such info...(as happened with Cambridge Analytica) and use it for manipulating gain. Putin/Mercer probably told Trump the nature of the beast. ’If you want followers, do this...’Follow the algorithm. Dying covid patients continue to deny they even have it in South Dakota etc...that is how well the misinformation works.

Boris. A pathetic deal with Europe after an endless mantric blather of an ‘oven ready Brexit’. The chumocracy in full force as Ayanda Capital receive a 150 million pound PPE contract and provide no masks at all. And tax exile Tory donor (Lord) Ashcroft’s firm lands a 350 million pound vaccine contract (without a tendering process). Well, rather help a pal than put money into the National Health Service eh Boris? In 2019, the music industry brought in around 5.8 BILLION pounds, whereas the fishing industry netted (arf) 446 million. Sunak and Johnson have not seen fit to grant work permits for musicians to play in Europe and bands from outside will find it harder to get visas to tour in Plagueland. ‘Health’ secretary Matt Hancock said it was ‘Peculiarly unusual’ why British people went to work when they were ill. ‘Why in Britain do we think it’s acceptable to soldier on and go into work if you have flu symptoms...’Hmm. Germany pays 100 percent of sick pay. Czech Republic pays approx 60. The UK? 26. Good enough answer you prick? This guy also voted against food parcels for children, and then reversed only after an outcry.

The ever lovely Good Catholic William Rees Mogg called UNICEF’s feeding of poor English children during a pandemic at Christmas a ‘publicity stunt’. Hmm...well in 2019 the charity received 6.4 billion in contributions of which the Tory government of the UK donated 494 million. Perhaps UNICEF wanted to make a point that the UK has the largest number of food banks in the democratic world (over 2000, Germany has 900) and that it was a little beyond shameful that this was necessary. Still making money from selling birth control/termination pills in Indonesia after having said all contraception even in cases of rape was wrong Billy? The English gentleman also said he found the rise in food bank usage as being ‘rather uplifting’. Verrry Christian man. And that rotting British fish are ‘happier’ now out of Europe. A joke? The 2019 EU clampdown on tax avoidance will be avoided by him thanks to Brexit. Heavenly off shore interests, Glory! ‘How hard it is for the rich to enter the kingdom of God’. It easier for a camel to piss through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of god. Mark 10 21:25. Good luck Billy.

Met a Christian guy again who tried to tell me a parable of sorts. A little bird was flying and suddenly fell into a field dead, a cow walked over and took a dump on the little bird and the heat of the manure brought the bird back to life. Overjoyed he started to sing and was heard by a cat that killed it. The moral being, don’t interfere with God’s plan. I wondered if that had been where Christ went wrong...perhaps he should have left lepers to die...but obviously no...he was a special case. Aha, so nobody should try and help anybody ever if they have a problem or are suffering. No one should help their own children, no doctors or surgeons...but priests are allowed because the intermediaries through whom the pious live vicariously are essential workers. Great parable. If you believe in God, don’t help anyone else. That’s the story of Christ eh?

The man who told me the story also said Donald was a great guy...I need to remind him Trump has broken every single one of the Ten Commandments (apart from direct murder) The burning cross is a T for Trump... ‘The function of law and theology are the same: to keep the poor from taking back by violence what the rich have stolen by cunning’. ‘The function of theology? The recitation of the incomprehensible by the unspeakable to pick the pockets of the unthinking’. RAW. Natures God. Hilaritas Press.

The most wisdom from China since Confucius was tweeted several weeks ago to the smug frog like Nigel Farage who had written ‘Christmas cancelled. Thank you China.’ Upon which, the Middle Kingdom between Heaven and Earth replied ‘Wear a mask and stop talking s..t’. Wonderful...shame the state media Global Times then spoiled it by writing a pot/kettle article which suggested that such politicians...’care only about their political ambitions and see ordinary people as roadside grass.’ From a regime which mowed its own teenage children down in tank fire, ran over their bodies and sent the price of the bullets used in the execution of young rebels to their parents.

Meanwhile, back in the temple of ketamine far away from all that nonsense... Universe will respond non locally to my thought...All pure chance as exists cross divided in all encircling mode, arf...non-local effects...’the ‘maybe’ in between ‘yes’ and ‘no’ in Quantum Logic, of ‘solid’ ‘objects’ that are superimpositions of waves, according to one quantum model, and of ‘minds’ that are superimpositions of waves if the ‘minds’ are transactions involving brains and the brains are made of cells which are made of atoms which are made of electrons which are superimpositions of waves’. RAW THE NEW INQUISITION. Yes. And...

The hidden variable theory of consciousness asserts (1) there is a subquantal level beneath the observational/theoretical structure of ordinary quantum mechanics; (2) events occurring on this subquantal level are the elements of sentient being. Drs Walker and Herbert.

‘Consciousnesses in this model is not ‘in’ our heads. Our brains are merely local receivers ‘consciousnesses ‘is’ ‘an aspect of the non-local field’ The ‘ego’ then is the locally tuned in aspect of this usually not-tuned-in non local field.

‘...we find that our consciousness controls physical events though the laws of quantum mechanics.’ Magick. Rise in Love, ‘arouse the coiled splendour within you’ :-)

[all-scout-blog]

Slick Blue Marble

Facebook reminded me that four years ago today I was happily enjoying a Efes beer and a sheep’s milk pide on a squatty table in Istanbul alley.  I had just crossed eight time zones, flown for 15 hours and been awake for over 30 hours. I was exhausted, but overwhelmingly excited to be in a completely different country. While traveling, I wrote some pretty extensive journal entries on composition paper and one, and then once home transcribed them onto a blog online. 

Here’s one of my favorite journal entries from the day after arriving in Istanbul.  

September 19, 2013 Istanbul, Turkey Today was great. I woke up feeling very well rested. I left the room to get breakfast at 9:45 in the hotel’s cafe. Apparently, hotels in Istanbul pride themselves on the quality of their complimentary breakfast service. Our hotel surpassed expectations. There were several types of cheeses(all some color of white,) slices of salami, pastries, toast with several exotic jams, honey still on the comb and of course Coco Puffs. In the corner, I noticed a griddle with a chef making omelets, ordered one, sat down at a table by myself and enjoyed breakfast amongst the other tourists. Judging by the multiple languages and accents being spoken in the little courtyard, I seemed to be the only American. Tom had decided to sleep in to catch up on rest from the flight over, so I was free to explore Istanbul alone for the morning.  After the fine breakfast with the omelet chef, I began exploring the cobblestone streets around our hotel. Up just a few blocks was the Hagia Sophia, one of the iconic fixtures of Istanbul that is a massive church-turned-mosque-turned-museum. Back in the day, Muslims had a habit of not taking too nicely to churches or anything associated with that other bearded prophet of God’s word. Somewhere down the line, a bunch of guys decided that having those pesky Christian-likes keep talking about that Jesus guy all the time was not cool anymore. They then deemed it necessary to turn the churches into mosques, but lacked the effort or desire to build entirely new places of their own. Sometimes, all it took was scribbling out the face of the Virgin Mary on a mural in the hall and moving the altar just a few degrees east to face towards Mecca, and w-Allah!, you can now worship the new bearded Mohammed guy. They may have argued they were just being resourceful…. It was pretty common to see these flip-flopped places of worship like the Hagia Sophia throughout the trip, and it was easy to spot. If you weren’t aware of the story behind this phenomenon, you might think that the guys building the place just got lazy and haphazardly threw an altar in the corner of the room and called it a day, but in actuality, a lot of thought went into measuring the precise degree to face Mecca. Early Muslims were pretty ahead of their time in math and measuring the Earth, so to see this in person was quite fascinating and impressive. After reveling in the religious wonder and nonsense of the Hagia Sophia, I decided to try and navigate the Istanbul Tram. The Tram was the public transit system of Istanbul and was an efficient means to explore the sprawling city. Used by locals and tourists alike, the Tram was essentially an aboveground subway that ran on and across the streets and sidewalks of Istanbul. The tracks of the Tram were inconspicuous and embedded flush with the ground. No gates or railings protected the general public from being hit by the Tram, so merely walking around required a heightened awareness at all times for the Tram flew up and down the streets with no reserve. The danger was compounded for the coming Trams offered no warning save for a soft and unassuming synthetic bell sound and the whirl of the electronic engine. Surprisingly, a quick Google search shows that accidents aren’t as common as you would think. How more drunk and clueless tourists don’t wander into the path of the evil Tram monster every year baffles the mind. I paid for the fare in a machine beside the Tram stop and received a little token. I had no idea where this particular line went, but I hopped on. Two stops later was the Grand Bazaar. Literally every travel show, travel book or travel pamphlet about Istanbul had the Grand Bazaar as a must see, so I took their advice and got off there. I chose to deliberately avoid the Grand Bazaar until later so that I could walk around the streets outside to see the non-touristy and more local parts of Istanbul; to see the “real” side of this foreign place that I was desperate to explore. A few minutes of strolling through the streets I discovered that the location of businesses in Istanbul are situated in a peculiar way. Every shop has a particular niche of items that it sells, and all of them congregate to sell the exact same things in the exact same area. Need a few links of chain? Well, there’s about two whole blocks of stores that just sell chains side by side. Gold, purple, plastic, they got it. Need industrial-sized rolls of leather? There’s a few guys just down the road that claim to have a good deal for you. Sinks? Yep, that way about five blocks. It was clear I had stumbled upon the Home Depot district of Istanbul. I continued downhill on the same street. Had I kept on walking in the same path, I would have walked directly into the Bosphorus.  A man standing behind a lump pile of loose tobacco was manufacturing cigarettes with a cheap rolling device easily found at any local convenience store. I made the mistake of making eye contact with the man and he immediately burst out in Turkish with what I can only assume was his sales pitch offering me cigarettes. Careful not to doubt the fine quality product this man was selling, I decided that this was about the time I should turn back and head towards the Grand Bazaar. Massive wooden doors appearing to be as old as the Ottoman Empire marked the main entrance. They stood very tall and grand and contrasted the single security guard charged with protecting this national icon with only a radio and a metal detector wand. It looked painful for him to do anything other than apathetically watch the crowd of people enter through the doors. My instrument gauge read that precisely 0.5 fucks were being given. At one point he motioned for some guy to put out his cigarette, so I’ll give him credit there. All in hard day’s work for him. Walking further inside the Bazaar, the sensory overload of all the things being displayed from the floor to the tops of the ornate mosaic ceilings was magnificent and overwhelming. Juxtaposing the gorgeous marble structures were t-shirts of Spongebob and crudely made figurines of Obama. There were a few pockets of these cheap touristy stalls, but for the most part, there were a bunch of really, really interesting and exotic things for sell. Fabulous clothes, stationary sets bound in hide from an unknown animal, pottery that held a meaning trapped in time only the faraway peoples from whence it came could decipher, and spices displayed in a spectrum of color that transcended mortal reality. This excitement all transformed into a massive and literal labyrinth of commerce. *** A solid 45 minutes passed looking for the entrance, but I was thoroughly lost. I ended up washing out an exit somewhere completely different and onto a street with even more shops and mosques. On the left read a sign pointing towards a door that read “HAMAMS: Turkish Bath.” I remembered something. On my research before the trip I compiled a list of suggestions the Internet had for things to do in Turkey. Aside from loads of food and historical locations to visit, the most common thing that popped up was Turkish baths. From my limited research on Youtube, a Turkish Bath seemed like a pleasant time. An experience that began in a hot sauna was followed by a wash that culminated with a relaxing massage all performed by a professional crew eager to keep you comfortable. Curiosity gripped me. I stood on the street looking at this sign debating whether to go in. Ever the salesmen the Turkish are, the representative/doorman/hawker from that particular Turkish Bath convinced, if not dragged me inside. A few words of broken English were spoken, and before I knew it, and by not much of a choice, I was now starting the experience of a Turkish Bath.   I was escorted up a flight of stairs to a series of personal locker rooms that faced the lobby of the business. I was issued a small towel and cheap plastic slippers and instructed to change into them. In the lobby was a group of old fat Turkish guys just kind of hanging around. It wasn’t clear who was a worker and who was just there, but they all looked to be doing the same amount of nothing. The door of my locker room faced the lobby and was made of frosted glass, but was still very effectively transparent. Being the only non old-fat-Turkish-guy and in full view, I had their full attention. The stage was set and the audience was seated. It was my time to shine. I often wonder about many moments in my life, and how and what choices led me to those particular times. Most can be explained or rationalized rather simply. This very moment—dropping chow and changing into a towel in full view of these old-fat-Turkish men—was not one of them. I had no choice but to maintain a thousand-yard stare straight through the walls and devoid any thought other than the necessary mechanics of taking underwear off. I can now share sympathy with the ladies of the night in the Red Light District of Amsterdam: beautiful young souls trapped behind glass performing a show with only loneliness in our hearts. The imagery may even be the same, but swap a big rack for a flaccid penis. A different man escorted me to the door of the bath area. He gave me a tour by walking around and motioning towards the different rooms. The first room held the toilets. They were the hole in the ground with a textured surface for your feet kind. These were common in Turkey in the areas not populated by tourists. The main bath area consisted of four big rooms made entirely of blue marble from floor to ceiling. The rooms were situated in a big counter-clockwise curve going back further into the building. Around each corner was another bath room. Each held a few basins of water along the walls and massive marble tables to lie on in the center. With each turn of a corner it became noticeably warmer and more humid. At the very back was a separate room closed off from the others. It has the unassuming title of the “warm room,” but a few minutes locked inside and it becomes the “hot as shit and unable to breath normal room.” My guide gave no instructions, so I stayed in the warm room for as long as what felt appropriate and healthy. Five minutes later, I had succeeded in sweating my scrotum off; the very same scrotum I displayed for the audience of old-fat-Turkish guys in the lobby.   I left the warm room and wandered around the bath area to see what it was I did next. I slithered aimlessly around the bath area for five minutes trying not to slip on the slick blue marble floor or make eye contact with anyone else. I heard the sound of a door open and walked around the corner.  We locked eyes. One of the old-fat-Turkish guys had walked in with a bucket of supplies wearing the same uniform as myself. This uniform revealed a new adjective in his title. Old-fat-hairy-Turkish-guy. Like, wearing a brown sweater hairy. He looked at me and exchanged no words. Not even a wiggle of his mustache was communicated. It was clear he was to be the one. It was time to do the deed. So, like a lamb following its mother with blind faith, I too followed this man into the unknown, or, just into the other room. He made a motion for me to sit down beside the basin of water by splashing a smaller bowl of water onto the marble seat. I sat down and he immediately started splashing me with water from the basin. It was almost unbearably too hot, but after a few splashes I was soaked and had become acclimated to the temperature. On one hand he wore a mitten made of abrasive loofah type material and began to rub my shoulders and back. I'm assuming it was to exfoliate my skin, but it didn't feel as bad as I had imagined. It actually felt pretty nice. After my entire epidermis was removed, he once again dowsed me with hot water. He motioned with the bowl and water trick, but this time I was to lie down on the table of marble in the center of the room. To no surprise, it was extremely hot. Bare skin plus hot wet marble creates a shock to the system. It’s a sensation similar to the body’s instinctual reaction to retract your hand from a hot pan before you can even think to do so. The difference is, this reaction is faced down on a table and a guy has his entire body weight pressed down on you. You can’t move your hand away from the hot pan. You grip it even tighter and pray. Acclimation to this surface came soon and I was back to enjoying the splashing of water. He began rubbing me down with this huge brush the shape of a wicker broom and the touch of coarse horsehair. It was full of soap that smelled really good, and I wondered if it was some sort of special Turkish soap with sheep’s milk and roses and herbs and what not. But, when I leaned my head I saw his bucket of supplies and it seemed to be just a bar of regular soap. More lathering of soap, more splashing of water, I still could not escape from the hotness. I kept telling myself it was part of the experience. Then came the massage. It was obviously no therapeutic massage, but felt pretty good, nonetheless. Lots of pressure mixed with the contortion of limbs in new directions around the slippery marble surface. A solid 10 minutes of this and a firm pat on the back signaled it was over. He walked away with no words. I sat up stunned and puzzled. Should I follow him or not? I followed him around the corner that led to the area of the bath that had the toilets and the exit. We were the only ones left in the bath area when we finished and I had not heard a door close. It appeared the man had vanished. But as I looked around closer, I found through the bottom slit of the toilet stall two hairy feet and the tips of two hairy ass cheeks. Mother Lamb was taking a post-session deuce. I stood there soaking wet in my towel and flops, waiting for the man to finish. Once he did, he walked over and motioned for me to take off the wet towel, so I did. He wrapped a fresh dry towel around my waist, then one around my shoulders, and then one around my head. I felt bizarre. I then walked back to the lobby to greet my audience. Three of the same old-fat-Turkish guys were sitting there, and as I walked out they continued to stare at me. I stared at them. This stare down was taking a toll. A few moments more of trading blank stares and I walked back to my Red Light District window, changed back into my clothes, paid the guy, and then walked out still confused as to what just happened. Outside feeling refreshed, cool, and the cleanest I've ever felt in my life, I stopped and just giggled out loud to myself. No time to reflect on what had just happened. That was for after the trip. *** Hungry, I walked around the streets and found a place to eat. I saw a German couple sitting at a table outside and ordered what they were having. It looked basically like a burrito. It had sliced lamb meat, pieces of cheese, a pickle spear, tomatoes, topped with french fries and wrapped in a thin flat-bread. It was tasty and would be a nice meal that picky eaters would enjoy. I figured it was best to slowly work my way into the Turkish food. I finished and took my time to walked back to the hotel. It was now well into the afternoon and Tom was still asleep, so I gingerly woke him up. While he took a shower and got ready, I found a computer for guests next to the concierge desk and checked my email. It took a few times of hitting the wrong keys to get used to the Turkish keyboard. The keys were arranged in the same general area as a normal American QWERTY keyboard, but since the Turkish alphabet has 29 letters, the keyboard had been rearranged to fit all 29 letters. Tom finished getting ready and we met in the lobby. We plotted course back to the Grand Bazaar. I showed Tom around like an experienced tour guide as best I could, but we became lost again amidst all the walkways inside. We shopped for a while and decided to get something to eat. We settled on this place right outside. We had a pide( a Turkish version of a pizza) and a cumber, tomato, and cheese sandwich topped off with some desserts. After our meal, we walked back through the area I thought I was in earlier, but as I kept cutting across streets trying to make it back towards the main mosques in the Old City, we came out right on the edge of the water and really close to the fish market, evident by the smell. My Eagle Scout senses were failing me. I had lost my bearings in this place. The fish market was a lively place. Perpendicular to the line of vendors was the Galata Bridge that spanned the body of water known as the Golden Horn. Hundreds of fishermen stood on the bridge and cast their lines for these tiny fish to eat themselves or to sell to one of the many restaurants built underneath the bridge. We walked underneath the bridge where all the restaurants were. Why you would choose to sit and smell disgusting fish while you eat disgusting fish is beyond. From bait to plate, I guess. “Fresh” When we made it across bridge we quickly realized that this side of the water was a lot more grungy and didn't seem as interesting, so we headed back. On the way, we saw a guy on the side of the bridge selling what looked to be stolen cell phones displayed on a cardboard box. Tom and I looked at each other and just laughed. We caught the Tram and rode it back up to the Blue Mosque and stopped at a nearby alleyway bar. I had tea and Tom had a beer. As we sat there, it finally hit me how tired I was. This was day number two of our trip, but it had really been close to 60 hours since we departed Huntsville. Add the jetlag of flying across the globe and it became increasingly difficult to stay engaged in the conversation with Tom. I felt my eyes getting heavy. The excitement of being a new country and in a new continent kept me going.   We finished our drinks and Tom decided he was hungry again. We stopped at this cafeteria-style restaurant and ordered some dishes. I ordered rice and this chicken dish that looked like a burrito covered in cheese. It’s reassuring to learn that burrito-shaped foods are universal across the world. More simply, regardless of what culture or cuisine, if it’s wrapped in bread and covered in cheese, it's got to be a good choice. Tom ordered grape leaves, a bean dish and a strange looking lamb dish. This was definitely beginning to venture into the side of Turkish cuisine that would wig the normal American out. Full bellies, sore feet, extremely clean skin and past the point of exhaustion, we walked back to the hotel, showered, and crashed hard. I promised myself I better write this down.