#sultan of squat

[dustedmagazine]

The Cowboys — Sultan of Squat (Feel It)

Sultan of Squat by The Cowboys

The Cowboys, on this sixth album, edge further and more precariously out onto their psychedelic rainbow bridge, pushing garage pop into increasingly ornate and baroque directions Of Room of Clons in 2020, I wrote, “Out with the Wire in and in with the XTC. The Cowboys lilt and tiptoe and swoon in fey, unmistakably British ways that evoke Syd Barrett, Television Personalities and the Cleaners from Venus,” and the trend continues here. The band may be from middle America (Bloomington, Indiana to be specific) and the title track may reference the All-American pastime, but there’s something very old-world decadent about these prancing, gesturing tracks.

Indeed, “The Sultan of Squat” barrels into view on roadhouse piano, an exuberant “bop-bop-bop” chorus incanting jittery, high-kicking energy into an already nervy anthem. The piano makes the cut sound like Gorky’s Zygotic Mynci, minus the pathos. The piano reappears, boogie-ing and woogie-ing in “Token Drifter”

As before, the singing is fantastically mannered, warbling and crooning through thickets of stinging guitar. “Red Headed Playa” is perhaps the disc’s heaviest cut, launched with crushing chords and riotous drums. Yet even this one dances off on staccato upbeats and rickety choruses. And “Raining Sour Grapes” may strike a Who-like pose with windmilling power chords and abrasive dissonance, but it quickly gallops off towards glam-rock territories, a latter day Mott the Hoople in the wings.

Not to say that this band wouldn’t be a barrel of fun live, or indeed, that this giddy full-length doesn’t have its appeal. It’s a playful joyride, a sped up carnival trip through florid emotions, and if it doesn’t feel real, especially, it doesn’t feel false either. It’s just that the colors are unnaturally bright.

Jennifer Kelly

[genericamentegiuseppe]

The Cowboys - Sultan of Squat

Dalle periferie del sogno americano resta solo una speranza: che il rock 'n' roll ci salvi tutti. I The Cowboys saranno i nostri profeti?

Etichetta: Feel ItPaese: USAAnno: 2023 Continue reading Untitled

[rustbeltjessie]

Current Jams (9/4/23)

Besta Quadrada - The First Four Weeks (favorite track: "It's in My Head")

Bootcamp - Bootcamp 23 (favorite track: "Victim Complex")

Chaos Imbeciles - s/t (favorite track: "Dictatorship Continues")

Corker - Falser Truths (favorite track: "Molotov")

The Cowboys - Sultan of Squat (favorite track: "She's Not Your Baby Anymore")

Crosshairs - Perverted Law (favorite track: "Guillotine")

Gym Tonic - Sanitary Situations (favorite track: "Millenials Angst")

Insane Urge - My America (favorite track: "No Sense")

Kepi Ghoulie - Full Moon Forever (favorite track: "Cosmic Dancer (T. Rex cover)")

Nurse - s/t (favorite track: "Self Sabotage")

Partial Traces - Wild Surf/Quiet Blues (favorite track: "Silver & Green")

Private Life - Get Me Outta Here (favorite track: "Ghosts")

Rive Droite Country Club - Antifête (favorite track: "Boule de Flipper")

The Shivvers - "Reckless"

SLANT - Demo 2023 (favorite track: "Criminal")

Sweepers - Demonstration (favorite track: "Sweep It Up")

Tube Alloys - Magnetic Point (favorite track: "Magnetic Point")

Vaguess - Thanks // No Thanks (favorite track: "Texas Clouds")

War Against Sleep - Mysteries of the Impossible (favorite track: "Vlad the Impaler")

[invincible-heaven]

Squats Minigame Perfect Score, Pro Difficulty - Sultan of Squat Trophy - Final Fantasy VII Remake

[parkerbombshell]

Pulsebeat #344

Mondays 3pm EST bombshellradio.com Archival shows : bombshellradiopodcasts.com Pulsebeat a new release based punk, alt. whatever show out of Abingdon, Oxfordshire broadcasting Mondays 3pm EST bombshellradio.com #Punk #Powerpop Pulsebeat #344       Track No: A3 Time Artist Title 1 00:00:11 The Cowboys - Sultan Of Squat 2 00:02:35 Rivalry - Touch The Ground 3 00;05:16 Powersolo - Six Foot Six 4 00:07:36 The Sadies - Message To Belial 5 00;11:48 The Cult - C.O.T.A. 6 00:15:02 Sprints - Shadow Of A Doubt 7 00:19:39 Idles - Grace 8 00:23:32 Benjamin Zephaniah - You're Under Arrest 9 00:28:04 The Three Johns - Do Not Cross The Line 10 00:31:40 Bloodshot Bill - Won't Back Down 11 00:33:54 The Courettes - Shake It Off 12 00;38:36 Shock Value - Gout 13 00:41:21 Vannas Kasino - Savage 14 00:43:19 Fat White Family - Religion For One 15 00:47:17 Duncan Reid and The Big Heads -  Real Good Time 16 00:50:58 Aleighecia Scott - Pretty Little B Read the full article

[noloveforned]

it's somehow already september and while there's no formal schedule yet it's pretty safe to say that no love for ned will continue airing friday nights on wlur from 8pm until midnight for the new semester. tune in tonight to see what new sounds i'm jamming on or catch up with last week's show on mixcloud at your leisure, tracklist below!

no love for ned on wlur – august 25th, 2023 from 8-10pm

artist // track // album // label bettie serveert // sugar the pill // dust bunnies // matador babytooth // hey minnow // babytooth cassette // antiquated future idle ray // localism hours // we are time mixtape volume one compilation cassette // we are time comet gain // pinstriped rebel // the misfit jukebox // tapete dancer // cordonbleu // woman life freedom- music for iran, volume two compilation // free them now salad // what do you say about that? // singles bar // island red label claud // dirt // supermodels // saddest factory lofi legs // breakup sex // tragic magic sex // we were never being boring neo neos // total oka // act vii // under the gun keyring jeans // pinecone // keyring jeans ep // foghorn the cowboys // sick high heels // sultan of squat // feel it be your own pet // goodtime! // mommy // third man sonic youth // death valley '69 // live in brooklyn, 2011 // silver current zoh amba, chris corsano and bill orcutt // the morning light has flooded my eyes // the flower school // palilalia sandy ewen and jason nazary // as town // a beaded gesture cassette // notice scott clark featuring laura ann singh // the wind // dawn and dusk // out of your head henry threadgill // movement i, sections 6a-7a // the other one // pi damon locks and rob mazurek // suspense in the grip of suspense // new future city radio // international anthem brent cordero and peter kerlin featuring daniel carter and adam amram // freedom jazz dance // a sublime madness // astral spirits stimela // say say no // fire, passion, ecstacy // tidal waves prince and the new power generation // alice through the looking glass // diamonds and pearls (super deluxe edition) // rhino mckinley dixon featuring ms. jaylin brown // beloved! paradise! jazz!? // beloved! paradise! jazz!? // city slang girl ray // begging you now // prestige // moshi moshi the waeve // sleepwalking // the waeve // transgressive the bv's // warp (extended version) // warp 12" // kleine untergrund schallplatten party milk // wedding hair // your problem as a mountain // teenbeat

[lightdancer1]

To begin with the history of medieval to modern Morocco, there's the Almoravids.

The medieval history of Morocco underwent a profound shift with the rise of the Al-Murabitun, usually known by the Europeanized variant Almoravids. The equivalent in English would be 'Fortificationists' or 'Barrackists'. The Almoravids arose as a puritanical movement among Amazigh tribes and have a very direct parallel in some ways with the Safavid order that would build the basis of modern Iran. They existed before the rise of gunpowder and were able to consolidate rule first in what's now Morocco, and then to drive into what's now Spain.

Of course for Black history their relevance is that in the middle of all this the Emir of the Al-Murabitun decided the Ghana Empire was squatting on his trade routes and he sent his armies down to destroy it and he succeeded. The dynamics propelling the Al-Murabitun were part of a broader sequence of convulsions in the Muslim world that brought to power the Fatimids, the various Seljuk Sultanates, the Abuyyids, and marked the high to late medieval era in the Dar-Al-Islam. The Almoravids were very much an aggressive force seeking to expand like other states and movements of this kind, and like their counterparts in the Christian world, really.

They were also part of the rise of a very aggressive Islamic fundamentalism that with their even more puritanical Almohad successors marked the demise of the brief era of Muslim toleration of Jews and the first glory days of Sepharad.

[rcgcnt]

The sultan. Now he starts piecing things together, with the bits of information that he has been given. A dead husband, and echoes of suspicion running rampant in his own family, that much he can remember.

"I can imagine." The quiver in his voice tells him almost everything he needs to know in the present moment. It is fortunate that it doesn't seem to be an illness of the body — but illnesses of the mind and soul aren't much more merciful.

Eirik turns towards the guards. "Your sultan needs somewhere quiet to sit down. You two may come with us." The regent's tone is firm and comanding as he guides the younger man into a nearby room. A charming little sitting room, whose door he leaves open for the others to see and listen. He doesn't need the guards to follow — in fact, their presence may be detrimental —, but it would be best for everyone to prove his honest intentions.

Helping the monarch onto a couch, he squats in front of him. "Take deep breaths. Close your eyes or hold my hand if you need to. Inhale, slowly. Now let it out."

"unhand the sultan!" echoes in the hallway, loud and stern from the two guards who had quickly sought out their ruler the moment eirik's hands found their shoulders. rostam raises a hand in communication although the limb feels like lead suddenly and any worry about this man harming him is quickly replaced by worry for himself; this was the first instance where he could not pass it off as indigestion or grief - it felt much more powerful than that. lack of movement ceases dizziness; the man's calm presence allows heart haphazard rest. it felt paternal, the way hands find pulse and the concern that he feels in his words. "i..." he wants to lie, to tell him that he was okay but somehow rostam felt as if the other wouldn't believe him. "i have been feeling ill for a long time..." he admits in a murmur, trying to calm his breath. "however, it normally...passes quickly. that is not the case this time." and although he wishes to lean into the touch, he recoils from it.

[magnitoria]

what are your thoughts on hurrem sultan?

An a-ask.......in 2022.........shaking and crying with emotion.......

I still insist on separating Hurrem in MC and real Hurrem because in the former case, I only have thoughts about the screenwriters and the nature of Turkish telly production that brought us to all this. As for real Hurrem, iconic, really. Married a sultan, basically kickstarted the whole women sultanate phenomenon, managed to squeeze her son through stronger rivalry on the throne POSTHUMOUSLY, and all of that without revealing a single goddamn thing about herself! We don't know squat about this woman! Bestie schemed behind closed doors on anon! You can interpret her any way possible and there's nothing to disprove it!

Like I don't think there's any point in trying to desperately assimilate her personality through what little we have, foaming at the mouth looking for plausible answers. She came, she saw, she conquered, she has a wikipedia page, a whole show to herself, and the best we have to our names is kpop fancams on twitter with 14 views, I think at this point history made itself clear and there's nothing much to muse on.

And in terms of how she was portrayed in the show and whether that was any close to the truth, I'm writing all this and keep thinking about one letter of hers I've read ages ago that I can't even find anymore. Just a typical "hewwo we miss u dad" to Suleyman while he was at war, but below the text all the free space on paper was shaded with lines. To prevent additions to the existing contents. You know. To prevent the "hewwo" from becoming a tool in political or other intrigues by altering its text. And it's so jarring to see in such an innocent context, and it was back when the show's non-existent Abdullah was alive, so very early in her rise to power, and already she had to 5D chess to write a nonsensical letter. You can't say her comfort in scheming in the show was far from real life. You can't really say that her very atypical rise to power has nothing to do with ambition of some sorts.

At the end of it all, I do believe she was a strong player on the intrigues arena. I just can't deny it based on her life and achievements. She might've very well contributed to offing Mustafa. VERY well might've pushed the marriage affair forward. But we'll never know for certain even though it seems oh so evident, and it really feels like banging on closed doors foaming at the mouth trying to piece the evidence together. In Educated Places the number one rule is to never say anything with certainty unless you have proof, so that's exactly what I'm doing here because that's the truest opinion I can give. I don't have concrete evidence that can help shape her personality and mind, so her motives and involvement are, at best, of uncertain nature. She could've very, very well been in the epicentre of the schemiest of intrigues - could have! But that's not certain. That's not me lying or guessing, that's just stating the facts as they will stand and that's why it's the safest answer to give, because that's the closest answer to the reality without incorporating unreliable assumptions. Welcome to the world of boring academia <3

[lifestylesea]

Tattered stragglers of generations of men

She is almost a European lady, thinly disguised. And where are the men who moved about, crowned with turbans, and attired in long, coloured, flowing robes? You meet them occasionally on the street, or see them gathered about the mosques, weary and tattered stragglers of generations of men, whose mien and gait were the look and motion of princes. Some one has said that the Turks committed a great mistake when they adopted the European dress; for the change makes you suppose that they have ceased to be Orientals, and are to be judged by European standards in all respects. Too much is therefore expected of them. Certainly the change has not improved their appearance. It has robbed them of that quiet dignity and commanding air which imposed immediate respect. The eagle is shorn of his plumes.

Glittering saddle cloth

The Turkish pasha, for instance, is now a shadow of his former self. What a master of men he looked when seated on a fine Arab horse and glittering saddle-cloth, he rode slowly through the streets, accompanied by a retinue of servants on foot, the crowd making way for him to pass as though a king went by. What an incarnation of gnat he was when he floated on the Bosporus in a caique of five pairs of oars, two servants squatting in front of him, with folded hands, in the bottom of the boat; his pipe-bearer, behind on the poop, ready to present him with a long-stemmed pipe of cherry or jasmine wood, surmounted by an amber mouthpiece, adorned with diamonds. With the disappearance of such things, there has been a sensible weakening of the awe which the ruling race excited in the rest of the population. If any one wishes to experience the fall, so to speak, in the temperature of the feeling of awe produced by the change from an Oriental to a European garb let him visit the Museum of the Janissary Costumes.

What terror those costumes must have inspired! Or let him visit the Imperial Treasury in the Seraglio, and walk down the line of lay-figures attired in the costumes worn by successive Sultans. The eye pays instant homage to every master of the Ottoman Empire clad in native appareL But when the figure of Mahomet the Reformer, who swept away the janissaries and other old institutions, is seen dressed in European clothes (except for the red fez), one reads there the sign that the glory of the House of Othman was on the wane. The dread and majesty by which the Turk was formerly hedged round have vanished.

[punkandsnacks]

Between Wolves & Doves, Chapter Three; Hunger.

Author: @punk-in-docs​ & @adamsnackdriver​

Also on AO3-

Trigger Warnings: !!! Violence and gore in this chapter !!! As-well as stalking, dub con and mentions of attempted sexual assault. Hungry horny vampires gotta eat somehow right?

Synopsis: Vampire!Kylo x OC love story. Inspired by BBC’s Dracula. Also inspired by Austen’s Pride & Prejudice.

He’s been stalking this earth long since civilizations can possibly fathom. Before records even began. He sneers at the fact that this pitiful young world has only just begun to see his reign of it.

He’s dined with moguls, emperors, princes. He’s consorted with bloodthirsty ruthless Queens in their courts, and whispered into the ears of powerful King’s, whose names still echo through millennia.

In his myriad of centuries gifted to his immortal self he’s been many many things. He’s been a lowly pauper. A crusading knight. An assassin. A sell sword. A soldier. A wanderer. A simpering suitor and a voracious unyielding lover. Aimlessly lost in time- besieging this earth. Ripping it apart and drinking what’s left.

He was made in the hinterland between snow and dirt and pine trees. Crusted with ash and blood and gouged from battle. Born anew. Sired from the hell-mouth of war. He was made in 789 AD.

He’ll come undone, one bitter winter night, in England, in 1816.

~ ~ 🥀  ~ ~

When the coach door enclosed him in darkness and silence at the end of the evening, he tosses his head back to the scarlet velvet wall behind him and sighs out a deep releasing exhale. One of gladness.

 It felt like the most cleansing breath he’d taken all damned evening.

 Polite society hereabouts was exhausting- he rather preferred the one of years past.

 The coach lurches away. Hooves clip on the icy midnight road, splashed in watery silver moonlight and mushed grey snow.

 He listens to the glorious sound of his driver steering the horses to take him away from that stuffy ballroom and all its conceited occupants.

 His body rattles and shifts on the softness of the upholstered bench with the rickety rumbling and turning of the carriage wheels. He lets it ground his restless temper.

 He tries to recall the differences of when he last stepped foot on this island. What he’d said to Miss Ashton was no incorrect lie. He hadn’t been on these shores in an age. Not in 600 years atleast-

 The last time he was here was during the crusades.

 Everything was truly different in comparison. Back then he’d donned a hauberk chain-mail coat, with a conical helmet and a kite shield. He’d come here armed with only a horse, a long bow, a lance and his mail armour.

 He’d been a Knight back then. In the third crusade of 1189. Fighting under the blood soaked banner of an Christian king to reclaim the Holy Land from a Sultan. He forgets the kings name, theres been so many he’s served. The lionhearted one perhaps? Faces and names of mere humans fade back into his mind like fog.

 He’s seen so many lives begin and end. Even kings fade eventually. Too many mortals to list.

 He remembers how hospitality and society was vastly different then. It was peasants and lords. Not all these lords, and dukes and earls and titles.

 He recalls the wide unpolluted pure of cobalt sky and meadows of yellow daffodil flowers stretching on for miles. The kiss of their innocent nectar in the air. Exotic new spices, cloves and saffron and salt, animal sweat, dung, and musky furs and hides.

 Salt of the earth humble houses were squat little wood straw huts. Dominated by the reaching slanted cold shadows, that came from the immensity of the rich grey-stoned castles.

 People revered one God and their masters. Kylo was a knight. He was as good as both.

 He has memories of great fine feasts with roast suckling pigs or boars turning on the great hall spit over the fire. The glaze of flame crackled pork skin and the dirt of ash. He recalls to this very day the sweet honey spice of mead on his tongue.

 He remembers gorging himself on that honey-wine and devouring still bleeding slices of roast venison. That juicy ichor dripped down his chin. He ate meat off the bone like a starved dog. Drank flagon after flagon of barley ale to celebrate war and shedding the blood of the infidels.

 He’d greedily dined with the Lords at their courts, scarfed down their hospitality like a beast. Then he’d gone and ripped apart a peasant or two in the forest afterwards.

 Blood pulsing with matter and protein, and stomach groaning full with wine and blood. The next day when they found the decimated bodies they blamed the innocent deaths on the wolves. How appropriate-

 He can remember this country in the spark of its infancy. He was there to see it born.

 He was in Runnymede in Surrey in 1215, outside the fringes of the very room, watching, as the band of feuding Baron’s made the unruly King sign the Magna Carta. The cornerstone of British law. The first time a higher power was held accountable.

 And now look at the pitiful state of it-

 He’d been in the ballroom tonight of this grand house when those higher powers had sneered at his choice of footwear behind their snifters of French brandy and their fans. Foppish young ladies and men and all ignorant as to their place in the world they think they improve.

 He was there at the very inception of all the powers and laws these vapid people obsess and fuss over. The one that gave all those preening lords and ladies their cursed little country and their dignity.

 Maybe if he were a nicer, more patient man he could settle for people flattering him and wheedling him with idle compliments at every turn. Maybe if he were more vain, and knew his own handsomeness, he could accept those honeyed words. The sickly ones that rotted in his ears. If he was like them he could indulge their meaning.

 He’s not like them. He never will be. And he’s glad of it.

 He’s older. Laughably older. He’s a warrior. He’s seen every facet of life and history and war imaginable. And they are all nothing but specs of insignificant dust to him.

 They think they matter, when all they do is fuck and breed and drink and dance. They marry well, and produce offspring to hold up their fetid titles, and stately homes. Then they die. And the next generation begins the same thing all over.

 Some of those ignorant men tonight had the sheer nerve and effrontery to sneer up at him. Thinking he was so foreign and unfamiliar that he wouldn’t find the insult in their sniping adulations. The way they dug at his incorrect attire, his gloves, his boots. His dark clothing and his longer unfashionable hair.

 Were he in a less forgiving mood he would have snapped a few necks in that room tonight. Stopped a few hearts from beating by breaking the ribcage open and reaching in with his bare hands.

 He could’ve- it was vastly too tempting. But he had to assimilate to this petty crowd and open bloodshed wasn’t the way to do so. He has to remember rules and politesses about where to stand and what to discuss. It’s infuriating-

 He reaches a leathered hand to his neck and yanks open his neatly tied cravat. Jerking it lose from his neck so he could take a damn breath. Shoves the tie pin from it deep in his pocket.

 Irritation pounds at his temples reminiscent of a headache; his throat is crackling and sore-dry.

 He’s imbibed many glasses of Portuguese port and piddly French red wine. The crushed grape of its taste still sits on the back of his tongue and it’s simply not enough.

 He needs to feed-

 Aching to feel the blushing heat of it drool down his chin. Frothy pink where it blends with his drooling mouth.

 He’s been hungry ever since Miss Ashton crossed his path that very afternoon. Her blooming innocent scent unfolded for him like the rarest flower.

 That lavender oil and clary sage essence of her fragrance. He likes her eyes. So shy and soft. Grey like Howlite.

 People say they couldn’t see beauty in pale eyes but he very much disagrees. Pale. Like the pearled moon, like clouded open skies. Like the gentle purity of creamy rose petals.

 That girl he glimpsed tonight was shades away from the shy creature he saw walking along a pale road. With a crease of concern on her brow.

 Arms and hands aching with strain and numb from her labours and holding that basket.

 Even in her ill fitting coat and her cracked shoes and worn dress he’d seen more of her. More of her obvious true beauty.

 Her hair this afternoon was riotous and wild and he so likes wild things.

 Tonight she’d been trussed up, and decorated and tamed in a flimsy silk gown and made to look like every other girl donned in their best. To parade in the ballroom like a swan showing off its feathers.

 Or like a snowy little dove-

 He smiles to himself. Time was - back in some far less strict age - he’d have cleverly concocted some excuse to get her alone at that ball tonight.

 A darkened room for a lovers tryst. A room out of use and earshot of everyone where he could be her lover just for the night. Where he could kiss her senseless. Sate the craving.

 Crowd her to the wall of some parlour, tear those silly slippers off. Rip those papery silk skirts right up the middle. Make her cry out in pleasure on his cock. Make her thighs shake with rapture that makes her sweet core drip right down to the insides of her stockinged knees.

 He’d feed on her too. Oh, he’d make a feast of her. Make her last.

 The little delicate morsel she was. What a mouthful. He’d mouth everywhere. Her gorgeous breasts, her neck, devour between her thighs at a place where he’s certain no other man has ever been.

 Shove his muzzle in her neck and lick the sweat off her soaped salt skin. Taste that awful cloying fragrance she put on. Growl at her that she should never bother with scent again to entice him. He didn’t want the citrus rot of perfumery and flowers.

 He wanted her. Her bare skin. He wanted the clean pure innocence he smelt off her from his carriage that afternoon. Her skin. Body. Her unguarded neck.

 He’d bite and suck and feed. He’d feed as they are joined as one with him slipped up inside her. And he’d happily watch that white white dress turn crimson garnet.

 He damns civility. He growls and tears the infernal cravat right off his neck. Not only is he raging hungry, but he’s now got an appetite for things that just blood won’t sate.

 His appetites for Miss Ashton.

 He balls up the cloth of his cravat and shoves his deep in his coat pocket. His shirt neck now gapes wide open. Down is pecs. Almost to his chest. Baring him to the cold that he’s too deadened and numb to feel.

 When the coach bumps over a rickety track in the road, he gazes out the window, feeling the chilled glass brush his icy hands. Even through his thick skinned leather gloves. Lined with silken rabbit fur. An irony when his hands were ones that didn’t even need keeping warm.

 He peers out the tiny icy slither of the window pane in the door. See’s that they are now heading through some tiny hamlet. One far from home. Somewhere quiet where there’s a quaint roadside tavern under the heavy bruising of a night sky.

 A run down roadside coaching inn by the looks of the squat old building wedged into the earth, compressed under a heavy blanketing snow. The roof sags in the middle. There’s tiles missing. A wonky chimney which coughs and chokes out little smoke.

 The crusty paint peeling sign above the door announces it’s called ‘The Horse & Wagon’ In faded wheat gold paint. He sees the small square spits of Tudor windows to the front are glowing with candles and many men are crushed within. Drinking away their riches. Or drowning their sorrows. Escaping their nagging wives or their crying children. Getting away from the responsibility of all the hungry mouths they had to feed.

 He pounds a big rattling fist once on the carriage roof. Careful not to plough his ravened fist through the wood. He could tear it apart like brittle match wood if he wanted.

 The coach shudders, whip cracks, horses whinny and snort in protest. Kylo wets his lips and climbs out down the coach.

 “Going in for a drink. Don’t wait on me.” He instructs. His driver tips his hat and the carriage churns up wet and muddy snow as it lurches away.

 He strides to the warped door and shoves it open. Creaky and shuddering old thing. The aroma of the dingy place hits him like being cut down by stampeding stallion.

 The decay of sweat. The heat and filth of working men. Body odours. Stale ale and musty unclean floors.

 His heavy treads from his expensive boots skid on the muck lining the grey flagstones as he steps in. As tall as the door, and more so, he had to stoop to get in. His shoulders too wide for the tiny door.

 The bar is crowded with labourers and farm hands. They have their backs turned to him. But the miserable portly barman assesses Kylo with offence and derision as he comes in. With his probable educated accent and his fine clothes.

 This was normal men’s refuge from their masters or the fine men and lords they serve. The scowl on the tubby mans face tells kylo this.

 In a previous life, any man looking with such open derision at his lord and master rightfully entitled them to be pilloried for a month, or flogged until he can’t stand, Kylo thinks.

 He looks around the dismal offering of this atmosphere. Settles on a table in the mouldy walled corner. Damp dripping from the sagging ceiling over the exposed stone.

 The tables are wonky chunky oak ones. The only light in the place are from melted and misshapen candles in brass black stands on each uncleaned table. Kylo sits with a full vantage of the bar. Next to the fireplace. Soot and ash spewed all over the floor. Crunching and crushed under his boots.

 A waify little barmaid appears in a dirty donkey-brown wool dress. Her hair the shade of red rust scraped back off her face in a low bun. Stained chemise under her rumpled dress.

 She still had the flush of youth in her cheeks. The baby-weight of it on her face too. She was still a girl and yet she had to work serving the foul pigs in here. He pities the poor thing. She couldn’t have been more than fourteen. And he knew men lost to drink could turn truly vile.

 “Serve the gentleman, Maggie.” The miserable barkeep growls. She does as she’s bid. The way he says ‘gentleman’ was as if the word turns his stomach.

 Kylo’s sat in shadow in his corner. Fully confident the girl can’t see him. Doubtless she’s had to approach more rowdy awful men than him. She doesn’t seem scared. Why should she be? She doesn’t know she’s approaching a man who’s scarier than all the rowdy and randy drunk men she’s seen, put together.

 She focuses her innocent little brown eyes at him. He sees the flush on her cheeks. And the dew of labour on her chest. There were splashes of drink sullying her crumpled linen chemise sleeves. She’s soaked in sweat and smells of drink and dirt. “What can I get you, sir?” She asks. Her accent was low born.

 “Ale.” Kylo asks for. All the alcohol this place would serve is spirits or beer. No cordials, port or madeira to be found in here. This isn’t the place for that. This is the place to get drunk quick - he hopes.

 She nods and scampers back over to the bar. She brings him back a filthy tankard of ale that he doesn’t even dare touch.

 He reaches his pocket and gives her two silver shillings. She turns away but he stops her by grabbing her wrist. Bones grate under his leather palm. Turning back she looks afraid.

 “Please, sir-“ She tries to protest.

 Kylo reaches out again and puts three crown coins in her hand. She looks at him with surprised wet eyes. Bordering on offence at his insinuation. This was an inn. There were rooms upstairs- she thought he wished to buy her time.

 “Nothing like that.” Kylo assures her with a cross frown. He prefers his partners willing. Not paid.

 “That’s for you and your family.” He nods to the bar. “Not for him.” He states firmly.

 She smiles and quickly pockets the coins. He likes travelling with coins in his coat. Knowing what he could idly spare to a deserving soul could feed a family in reduced circumstances, for an entire week.

 She walks away happily from his table. He slouches back in the shadows again.

 He lets the fetid ale sit in front of him and suffers this putrid place so that his dinner might show itself soon.

 He listens to the men cackle, hacking booming laughs, share stories and jokes, and drink and stoutly ignore him. Which is what he wanted. He planned for that. It always serves him and his appetite well.

 He waits and watches. As any good hunter does. And he’s one of the top predators stalking this earth-

 He was the second vampire ever made. The only devil worse than him is the one who made him. And the only one Kylo’s maker bows down to, is the original demon himself who bought them all into creation. The one who fell from heaven.

 He continues his waiting game.

 Eyes slipping over every man. Watching them imbibe. Watching the sense drain from their thick heads. Watching. Looking. Searching. Wondering who who who it will be.

 He doesn’t have to prey for very long. He never had to in filthy, discarded and squalid places like these.

 Kylo’s eyes zip to the bar where some letching man now has his hands tugging at the bar maids skirts and trying to get her in his lap.

 The assailant was young. Not very handsome. Ruddy faced. Tanned. A farm hand at his best guess. Broad backed with a square jaw and wheaten hair. Kylo leans forwards in his chair. Eyes churning. Stomach calling.

 She wrenches her skirts away from him and gives him a stout slap across the face. Before scurrying away scared, heading out the door at the back to fetch the things her boss barked at for her to go get.

 His friends all jeered and laughed and told him he got what was owing to him.  A red welt spreading across his face.

 Kylo’s stomach knots up in anticipation.

 The affronted farm hand sloshes down his pint. And starts after the girls retreat. Kylo slips out the front door with a smirk. And a belly full of rage.

 His feet crunch on the snow. Where he stands. He rips his gloves off and shoves them in his pocket. He’s a feeling he’ll need his bare hands soon. Nails already growing sharper. The promise of a hunt hangs in the air. 

 He slips around the side of the tavern. To the ale barrel store out back. He’s nearly there to the out sheds when he hears it. The crack of a slap harshly ringing the air, whimpers. Gasps of pain. Pairs of feet shifting in the snow.

 He rounds the corner. Silent as his shadow trailing behind him.

 He sees the farm hand with his hand over the girls mouth. Crushing her to the tavern wall by the back door. Hidden by the barrels, boxes and crates stacked all around. He’s trying to stuff his hand up her skirts again.

 “Give us a kiss, lass. You know you want to-“ He smirks.

 Hunched over the poor girl. Leering at her. Snarling that no one makes a fool out of him. Her eyes are so wide and terrified. Whites of them and sticky in the dark night air, like pearls.

 Kylo can’t stop the low growl slipping from his throat. The natural part of him- the animal- slipping free.

 He marches over with his blood raging fury through his body. Temples pulsing with strain and need. He fists a hand in the boys collar and yanks him back, slamming him up into the wall instead. See how he likes it.

 He holds with death. He doesn’t hold with rape.

 Not in any sense. Not to young girls with their whole lives ahead. He was born and bred in a time when women were revered as highly as men. They were treated and respected as equal. Not handled and oppressed, bred and showcased and sold like livestock.

 He turns the letch to face him. Marvels in the scared screams that come from his mouth. He likes hearing how horrible he is in his most feral state.

 His eyes are glowing gold now. Golder than coin. Golder than sun and wheat and everything precious.

 Only he looks terrifying. Gold eyes. Edges rimmed with raw red.

 The girl cowers on the snowy floor next to them. Tears streaming down her innocence puppyish face. One cheek reddened by a slap from a harsh hand. Kylo looks down at her. The farm hands feet dangled high off the floor, kicking at him.

 “Run along girl. Go home.” Kylo warns. Looking down at her. She scrambled back and heaved herself up to stand on shaking legs. 

 “W-What are you gonna do with him?” She asks. Edging away down the wall.

 “You don’t wish to know.” Kylo smiles squeezes the guys throat. Spit splutters out his mouth. He gurgles on his shouts of terror.

 She scarpers away in the snow. It clings powdery wet to her skirts and she run’s around the building and off into the dark. He’s not worried for her safety now. She won’t encounter a more dangerous creature than him out there tonight.

 The man before him whimpers. Kylo rakes his eyes over his face. Rubs his thumb along the pulsing jugular in his neck. His sharp nails quickly piercing the skin. Notes of hot sweet copper and pennies bloom up in the air.

 “Please. D-Don’t hurt me please-please sir.” He begs.

 Why do people think begging will save them? Like any amount simple pleading will keep them from harm. It won’t even scratch the surface.

 “I’m giving you a little taste of how scared that girl was when you followed her out here. Not very palatable is it? You beat her with your bare hands. You caused her pain. She suffered you. Now you’ll suffer me...”

 “And I will make sure it hurts.” Kylo’s promising with mirth in a savage whisper.

 When he smiles there are two glimmering sharp fangs where his pointed canines used to sit. Gleaming wet in the light. The farm hands eyes are shrieking with fear.

 Kylo strikes quickly and cleanly. Hands fisted into this grubby workers clothes. He growls as his teeth sink and he tears through the flesh like the skin is no more to him than wet paper being gouged at by knives.

 He groans as he drinks. Laps it down. As the hot viscous filled his mouth and slid warm down his throat to his belly like a trail of fire.

 His blood tasted of apples and coins. Sharp and bronzy bitter.

 Kylo can feel it smeared over his mouth. Slipping down his chin. Onto his chest and staining his open shirt. He’s crushing the man’s windpipe in his free hand. The other planted to the wall. He feels the wretch twitch and sag under his hands as he slowly eats away his life.

 The part he always likes the best- when the fight drains away and the muscles loosen. And everything unwinds. That’s when the blood comes quicker. Thicker. Less of it being pumped around a panicked body.

 There’s no panic anymore. There’s nothing. Not even life.

 He greedy with meals. He drinks until he’s had his fill and his appetite is about as large as his body.

 He feasts until blood is staining his hands. His chest. And smudged all across his chin. He even saw some drop on his boots. His teeth are stained crimson and his belly heavy with the bliss of being so full. He hadn’t fed since he arrived here. It’s nectar euphoria flushing into his blood.

 When he’s had enough. He easily drags the bloodless corpse away from the tavern.

 Discards his useless body in a nearby icy ditch at the side of the road. He reeked of Gin. And Kylo thinks it a fitting end that it looks like the drunkard stumbled into the path of an oncoming carriage and got torn and crushed to bits under the wheels.

 He kicks snow over him and leaves. Sucking the blood off his fingers as he walks.

 He’s not sure how or why. But he finds himself knowing to head through the woods. The opposite route to home. Trekking through snow in his leather boots. Forest and ice brushing at his wool jacket shoulders from the low hanging branches in the trees. Wisps of snow land in his hair. Floating all around and catching on every gnarled bark of each tree.

 He finds he ends up in the oddest of places. Westwell manor.

 He looks up at the large block of the Manor house. Gold brick. White sash windows. An ivy smothered roof. Cracked roof tiles that had seen better days, freckled in melting snow and moonlight. Just like the snowy gardens.

 He stands shaded under the old horse chestnut tree, and looks up to the one room, high up in the house. In the middle. There’s a candle glowing amber in the window. Turning the glass into a sheet of apricot cornelian standing stark in the bruised black night.

 He just wants a glimpse. He’s aching for it- he thought it was the bloodlust that pulled here. But perhaps he’s wrong- it’s deeper than all that feral nature.

 Just a glance. Just the one. Can’t hurt. It’ll help him make up his mind

 And there’s his little dove. Draped in a white nightgown. Sat in her window alcove.

 Up against the frosty glass with a shawl bundled around her shoulders. A novel cracked open and sloped in her lap. Her delicate face exposed by her hair. Now in that messy, freed arrangement. Tucked into a wild plait tied with beige muslin at the end. The nightgown it so big it slides off one pale shoulder.

 Kylo aches at the sight. His bones ring with wanting. Maybe this power is no more than desire.

 He shuts his eyes and he can smell her. Can imagine the simple taste of her hot skin on his tongue. Wants to feel his eyelashes kiss the crook of her neck as he does the same to her shoulder. Wants the drum of that pulse in his mouth. Is this desire? Or is it more?

 She turns the page and smiles a little reading the passage. He smiles too. As if they are linked. Already joined as one. It makes something stir in him.

 He softly whispers words that echo out into the frigid cold night. So only he can hear them “Sweet dreams, little dove.”

 Kylo’s not felt like this, or this strange pull of attraction in all his 1,027 years walking this earth. And now it’s here, she’s here-

 He wonders- 

 Maybe she doesn’t know it yet- he doesn’t fully know or understand it himself. They shared something like a deep connection as soon as their eyes met. He felt it. And he never usually feels things such as those. Not for another human.

 Kylo is in serious danger of outstaying his welcome- but he just wants to look at her. To admire her for a second longer. As openly as an astrologist studies the beauty and wonder of the moon. Perhaps he can make sense of all this.

 As Iris moves to close her book, blow out her candle and climb into her much cosier bed to warm her feet; she glances out the gardens, up past the pond and up at the bright cyclops of that pearly winter moon. 

She could’ve sworn she caught sight of a hulking man stood, looking up at her from under the chestnut tree. She blinks and rubs away the cold fog smeared on her window and there’s nothing there- idle trickery from her tired mind. 

He vows he will see her again; he’ll make sure if it. As he walks home in the cold night. Dripping dried blood and agitated with desire. He declares to himself that he will do everything in his power to uncover more. To make something sensible out of all this mess.

 After all. Kylo Ren is a creature of little patience. But this feeling, this situation. That is what he will patiently unpick. 

~ ~ 🥀  ~ ~

[holysmotez]

I have nothing useful to add about this except that the Sultans of Swing chords always play in my head whenever I see the name of this trophy

Sultan is a Muslim king. It's a weird choice when you think about it. Was it just for alliteration? There's better ways to match the trophies that don't sound so awkward. Did Cloud write them lol

Could possibly be a hidden call out about Tifa's ethnicity bs by calling Cloud a sultan when he clearly doesn't look anything like one.

The trophies still match, though there's a suggestion of Tifa holding a slightly lower rank compared to Cloud, since a peeress isn't as high as a sultan, but then again, Tifa's trophy is 1000x harder to get compared to Cloud's.

[kimmimaru]

I DID IIIIITTTT. I am the Sultan of Squats!!! Now I just need to get Andrea’s earrings....*sigh

[theindianfoodrecipe-blog]

Some Lip-Smacking Regional Variants of Biryani

https://www.betterbutter.in/recipe/55424/chicken-biryaniBiryani is an evergreen standard that actually needs no intro. India provides a lot on its cooking platter however the one dish Indians with one voice enjoy indulging in is the savory biryani. With regional and hyperlocal variations having actually advanced right into unique designs of biryanis, one is spoilt for options when it concerns experiencing this fusion of flavours.

The perfect biryani calls for meticulously gauged active ingredients as well as a practised method. Generally, the dum pukht method (sluggish breathing oven in Persian) was made use of to make biryani.

The development of biryani spans numerous centuries, many cultures, several components and many cooking designs. From an army meal to a recipe suitable for aristocracy, the biryani today is a pan-India cooking favourite. Its many ranges reflect the regional tastes, practices and gastronomic backgrounds of their areas of development. Here are some lip-smacking regional variants that every biryani fan should understand about.

1. Mughlai Biriyani The regal Mughlai biryani fit the bill perfectly. This biryani absolutely tastes as well as smells royal!

2. Hyderabadi Biriyani While the majority of other biryanis are dominated by their flavoured meat, in the layered Hyderabadi biryani, the fragrant saffron flavoured rice is the celebrity of the dish. Hyderabad was likewise the area where the Kacchi Akhni Biryani was great tuned as well as developed.

3. Calcutta Biryani Gotten rid of by the British, the fabulous premium Nawab Wajid Ali Shah tried to recreate his cherished recipe in the city of Calcutta. Not able to afford meat because of budget plan constraints, the regional cooks gave the dish a tweak, changing meat with completely prepared golden brown potatoes-- the signature of the Calcutta biryani Much lighter on seasonings, this biryani largely uses a yoghurt based marinade for the meat, which is prepared independently from the light yellow rice. Just like a lot of Bengali dishes, the Calcutta biryani has a hint of sweetness hidden in it.

4. Dindigul biryani The jeera samba rice used in making this biryani is unique and provides it a completely different flavour. Instead of huge portions of meat, Dindigul biryani utilizes little cube-sized meat items.

5. Lucknowi biryani. Cooked in the royal Awadhi design, the textures of Lucknowi chicken biryani are softer and also the seasonings milder. The initial step includes making a yakhni stock from meat that is slow-moving steamed in water instilled with spices for regarding two hours or more. This is the reason that this biryani is much more damp, tender and naturally flavoured than various other biryanis.

6. Arcot Biryani Introduced by the Nawabs of Arcot, this biryani originated in the towns of Ambur as well as Vaniyambadi in the Vellore area of Tamil Nadu. The biryani is usually gone along with by dalcha (a sour brinjal curry) and also pachadi (a kind of raita). The best well-known sub-variety of the Arcot biryani is the Ambur biryani that uses the squat seeraga samba rice, a traditional Tamil Nadu range.

7. Memoni Biryani Similar to the Sindhi biryani, this exceptionally zesty selection is made by the Memons of the Gujarat-Sindh region. Normally made with lamb, yoghurt, browned onions and potatoes, Memoni biryani utilizes much less food colouring compared to various other biryanis. This permits the all-natural colours as well as flavours of the various elements- meat, rice as well as veggies-- to shine as well as emerge in this standard meal.

8. Thalassery biryani The Thalassery biryani, among India's most enjoyed biryanis, is both sweet as well as savoury. The cornerstones are soft chicken wings, light Malabar flavors as well as a sort of rice referred to as kaima. Great deals of sauteed cashew nuts, sultana raisins and also fennel seeds are made use of kindly in preparing this biryani. The rice is cooked independently from the sauce and mixed just at the time of offering.

9. Kampuri Biryani The Kampuri biryani stemmed from the community of Kampur in Assam. In this simple yet scrumptious meal, the chicken is initial prepared with peas, carrots, beans, potatoes, and also yellow bell peppers. This concoction is then slightly spiced with cardamom as well as nutmeg prior to being blended with the rice. This little-known biryani, which merges the fresh flavours of local veggies right into meat, is an ode to the Assamese style for creating unique meals.

10. Tahari biryani Tahari biryani is cooked without meat. Commonly, rice is cooked along with different sort of vegetables in a handi with carrots as well as potatoes being the many utilized veggies in this meal. Tale has it that this biryani was produced in Mysore when Tipu Sultan hired vegetarian Hindus as his bookkeepers. Hence, a vegan variation of a cult recipe was birthed. Tahari is also a prominent street food in Kashmir.

11. Beary Biryani A cousin of the spicier Mangalore biryani, the Beary Biryani comes from the Muslim neighborhood of the Dakshin Kannada region in Karnataka. The primary flavour is of the rice, which is kept in a blend of ghee and spices overnight. This procedure allows all the powerful flavours to leak into the rice. The light recipe is additionally very functional and also utilizes all type of locally readily available meat and seafood.

12. Sindhi Biryani Unlike any kind of other biryani, the Sindhi Biryani is packed with finely slit environment-friendly chillies, aromatic flavors, as well as roasted nuts.An unique quality is the addition of aloo bukhara (plums) in the spices, which offers the biryani a lovely scent; great deals of khatta (sour yoghurt) in the layering offers a zesty note to the flavor mix.

13. Bhatkali Biryani The Bhatkali biryani is an essential part of the Navayath cuisine and also a speciality of Bhatkal, a seaside community in Karnataka, where it is a must-have at wedding celebration feasts. The meat is prepared in an onion and green chilli based masala as well as split with fragrant rice. The Bhatkali biryani has a special spicy and heady flavour that establishes it in addition to the other biryanis of coastal Karnataka.

14. Bombay Biryani Just like the city it was created in, the Bombay biryani is a melting pot of flavours-- spicy, zesty and hearty. Bombay biryani, whether it's made with hen, mutton or vegetables, always has fried spiced potatoes too.

15. Doodh Ki Biryani A definitely one-of-a-kind Hyderabadi speciality, Doodh ki Biryani is known for its light flavours. The mixing of velvety milk with aromatic spices and baked nuts results in a recipe that is refined, polished, as well as gently flavoured. Certainly a treasure among the regal biryanis of the Hyderabadi Nizams!

A complete dish in itself, biryani has enough varieties to please one as well as all. This is also a meal that suits all celebrations-- whether it is a careless Sunday lunch, a lively university get-together or a formal dinner with the in-laws. Eaten with love and gusto by the abundant in addition to inadequate, biryani is without a doubt a marvel of India's culinary heritage.

While many other biryanis are dominated by their flavoured meat, in the split Hyderabadi biryani, the aromatic saffron flavoured rice is the celebrity of the recipe. The best well-known sub-variety of the Arcot biryani is the Ambur biryani that uses the squat seeraga samba rice, a typical Tamil Nadu range.

Generally made with lamb, yoghurt, browned onions as well as potatoes, Memoni biryani uses less food colouring compared to various other biryanis. The Thalassery biryani, one of India's most liked biryanis, is both sweet and also savoury. The Bhatkali biryani has an one-of-a-kind spicy and also spirituous flavour that sets it apart from the other biryanis of coastal Karnataka.

Visit: https://www.betterbutter.in/recipe/55424/chicken-biryani

[holysmotez]

Proof in HQ

YEAH JULES CHOKE ON MY 52 SQUATS JULES THAT’S WHAT YOU GETTT

[myimmortalstalker]

Chapter 32

“Hi.” I said flirtily. “Im Strelok Mark’ed One da new rookie.” I shok my pale handz wif their blak noil polish wif him.

“Da name’s Sultan.” he said. “But u kan call me Slutan. Datz ma nam”

We shok hands. “Well come on don’t stand there.” Slutan said. I followed him. “Hey Slutan… do u happen to be a fan of Kino?” (sinz Hard Bass School and Gopnik McBlyat dont exist yet den) I asked.

“Oh my fucking god, how did u know?” Sultan gasped. “actually I like them a lot.”

“omg me too!” I replied happily.

“guess what they have a concert in The 100 Reds.” slutan whispered.

“100 Reds?” I asked.

“yeah that’s what they used to call it in these time before it bécame The 100 Rad in 2011.” he told me sekrtivly. “and theres a really cool vendor called-“

“Mitka Dynamite!” I finished, happy again.

He froned confusedly. “noo hes called Beard.” He smiled skrtvli again “then in 2012 his associate Mitka went his own way.” he moaned.

“ohh.” now everything was making sense for me. “so is sidorobitch around?” I shouted.

“uh-huh.” he looked at his black nails. “im a loner”

“OMfF SHME TOO!” I SHRIEDKED.

“u go to this vilege?” he asked.

“yah that’s why im here im NEW.” I SMELLED HAPPili.

Suddenly Sedorobix ran by and started shredding at us angrily. “NO TALKING IN FRON OF MY BUNKER!” he had short blonde hair and was wearing an Adidas tracksuit. “STUPID GOFFS!”

sultan rolled his eyes. “his so mean to us goffs just becose we’re not gopnik enoff for hom.”

I turned around angriy. “actually I fink mebe its becos ur da bangit lord.”

“wtf?” he asked angrily.

“oh nuffin.” I said sweetly.

then suddenlyn… … … the floor opened. “OMFG NO I SCEAMED AS I FEEL DOWN. everyone looked At ME weirdly.”

“hey where r u goin?” sultan asked as I fell.

I got out of the hole n it was bak in the abandoned house where Unkle Yard was. sedorbitch wuz dere. “Sidoroditch I think I just met u.” I said.

Umple Yar came in. “hey dis my place wait wtf stelrok what da hell r u doing?”

”um.” I looked at him.

“oh yeaH I forgot bout that.”

“wth how?” I screamed forgetting he was from another faction for a second. but hes a goff so its ok.

unkle yard looked sad. “um I was taking anabiotics.” he started to cry black tears of depression. sedorobitch didn’t know about them.

“hey r u crying tears of blood?” he asked curiously, tuching a tear.

“fuck off!” we both said and sedorobitch took his hand away.

unkle yard started crying again while squatting, sobbing limpid tears. “omfg strlok… …. I think im addicted to anabiotics.”