#that bearded russian doctor

[queer-scots-geordie-dyke]

"Today, the similarity between the worldview of modern leftists and Soviet falsification of the period is breathtaking. It is no exaggeration to say that almost all of the Israelophobic tropes in current circulation – that Israel is a racist state, that Zionism is colonialism, that genocidal Israelis are no better than the Nazis, that Israel practises apartheid, that the Holocaust was exaggerated, that diaspora Jews are a fifth column serving Israeli interests and so on – were disseminated by Soviet spin doctors, based on works of classic antisemitism like the Protocols of the Elders of Zion and Hitler’s Mein Kampf.

Largely because of Russian efforts, many otherwise well-meaning progressives don’t see what’s wrong with accusing Israel of subjecting the Palestinians to a Holocaust, despite, say, the lack of gas chambers, execution pits or Nazi-style racial discrimination laws in the Jewish state, not to mention the growing Palestinian population. They don’t see what’s wrong with using the slur ‘apartheid’, even though in recent years, an Arab Muslim judge imprisoned a Jewish former prime minister for corruption. (If you visit the West Bank, you will come across large, red signs outside Arab areas warning Israelis not to enter for their own safety. It is hard to sustain the argument that Israel – rather than its neighbours – is the apartheid state.) They happily compare Zionism to imperialist colonialism, ignoring the fact that the Jewish pioneers were not an invading army but a ragtag collection of refugees, dreaming of self-rule in their ancestral home after millennia of life at the mercy of the mob. (As Herzl put it, they simply wanted a place ‘where it is all right for us to have hooked noses, black or red beards, and bandy legs without being despised for these things alone. Where at last we can live as free people on our own.’93 Hardly the sentiments of white supremacist imperialists.)

They take for granted that ‘Zionism is racism’, unaware that this phrase was cooked up in Cold War Moscow and does not survive contact with reality. Even the fact that ‘Zionist’ has become a dirty word in certain quarters today points to the skill of the Soviet propaganda apparatus and the KGB. In the minds of millions around the world, Soviet agitprop succeeded in redefining Zionism from an answer to millennia of persecution to a bourgeois, imperialist project. In this way, it wiped antisemitism clean, allowing progressives to indulge an old hatred by convincing themselves that they were merely taking a principled stand against Israel. Across the decades, the Cold War communists and contemporary Israelophobes both say: we’re not antisemitic, just anti-Zionist. But theirs is a deep and ancient bigotry, resting on disinformation and paranoia. Nearly six decades on, Soviet Israelophobia continues to grip the modern left. It finds an easy target in those lacking knowledge about Israel, Zionism and Jews, and possessing impulses inherited unchallenged from previous centuries."

- Israelophobia: The Newest Version of the Oldest Hatred by Jake Wallis Simons.

[vampirebloodie]

Doctor Y/N | Soldier Boy x Reader

Summary: You're chosen to undergo medical tests on Soldier Boy and discover that maybe the russians hadn't killed his libido

Warning: smut 18+, mentions of sexism

"Do you want me to examine Soldier boy?"

You asked still a little incredulously, looking at Butcher.

"It's not a big deal, we just need to know if he's fit to fight Homelander."

"Okay, and you've forgotten that he's simply the most sexist, misogynistic guy there is?"

"It's just a check-up, beautiful. He won't swallow you alive."

You sigh and agree, knowing that if you said no, Butcher would suck you up until you agreed to help him. So you and the bearded man walk up to the apartment where Soldier is, Butcher opens the door and the two of you walk in, finding the man sitting on the couch, watching television and with a bottle of whiskey in his hand. That room looked like a mess, the coffee table was full of half-eaten fast food. You took one last look at Butcher before focusing on Soldier Boy.

"Is that Soldier Boy ?"

You whispered to Butcher, you didn't have a certain sense of who Vought's first generation of supes were, but you expected Soldier Boy to be an old guy.

"Yes, it is. This is Soldier Boy." *

Butcher answers almost off-handedly, not seeming to be paying you as much attention as the supe was. You can almost taste the disdain in his voice, as if he's talking about some common criminal and not one of, if not THE most dangerous supe in history. Soldier Boy didn't seem to be as bad a person as Homelander, but his powers were still dangerous.

Soldier Boy makes an immediate eye-contact with you, and you can almost feel his eyes on you, watching you. You get the feeling that he's judging you, analyzing every inch of you. This goes on for a second or two, before he gets up and walks over to you, Analyzing you carefully from top to bottom.

"So, who are you?"

He asks right away, his voice harsh and rough like sandpaper

"I'm Y/N."

"Y/n, huh? What the hell's a cute young thing like you doin' with Butcher and his dogs?"

Despite his harsh tone, his eyes are full of amusement and curiosity as he talks to you. After being trapped in a russian lab for so many years, it was something "new" to see women.

"I work with Butcher."

You say in a serious tone, crossing your arms. You weren't too fond of Soldier Boy's joke, but Butcher had already warned you that he had that kind of personality. And well, wouldn't it be nice to mess with a supe that can blow everything up in seconds.

"What a shitty job."

He scoffs, seeming amused by your expressions of disapproval at every word that comes out of his mouth. You'd love to give him a paw, but Butcher's look under you alerted you that it wasn't a good idea.

"Believe me, i've saved the boys' boots several times."

He notices you for a few moments again and his green eyes focus on the gray briefcase in your hands.

"What is that?"

"Briefcase. I'm going to need it."

"What's in the briefcase?"

He asks a little impatient and suspicious, the PTSD really seemed to affect him quite a bit.

"Relax. She will not hurt you."

Butcher says, trying to calm him down a bit.

"Of course she won't. She can't, she's a woman."

You squinted at the brunette, he was quite cheeky, and unfortunately you'd have to get used to it during the examination.

"At least is pretty."

His greenish eyes wander from your head to your feet, watching you closely. You crossed your arms and cleared your throat.

"I didn't come here to flirt with you."

Soldier Boy chuckles, amused at your attitude. He's seen every trick by now, and he has a feeling he'll have quite a bit of fun with you.

"Then what the hell did you come here for, sweetheart?"

"Because i'm the group's doctor. It's not a good idea to take you to a hospital, so Butcher wants me to examine you."

"Examine me for what, exactly?"

He asks, his tone a bit confused and slightly intrigued. As the woman mentions her role of being the doctor in the group, he looks closer and notices a first aid kit on her belt. It doesn't take him long to put two and two together before chuckling again.

"After what happened to you in Russia.... We just want to know if you're really able to fight against Homelander."

Butcher was unsure after learning what the russians had done to Soldier Boy had in any way affected his strength, even though the experiments had turned him into a time bomb that could explode at any moment, they would still need to weaken Homelander as much as possible before exploding him.

Soldier Boy's chuckle quickly turns into a scowl, and his facial expressions hardens immediately, his eyes narrowing again.

"So you just assume i'm weak now?"

His tone is sharper than before, as if he's trying to hide any kind of weakness he might have after spending years in a lab. His voice is much more agitated compared to his flirtatious one. He wasn't liking people thinking he was weak, especially a woman.

"Nope. But after everything that's happened, we need to know if what russians injected into you made you stronger... or weakened"

You've been very clear on the possibility that he's gotten weaker

Soldier Boy seems annoyed at first at the implication that he's gotten weaker, but he seems to mull it over for a couple of seconds before relaxing a bit.

"You have a good point. But it won't make a difference, sweetheart. I'll be as fit as ever. But if it makes you worry any less, I'll let you examine me.".

You take one last look at Butcher and MM, who were still inside the room.

"You guys can go now, I'll be fine."

Butcher and MM just nod, giving you a reassuring smile before walking off. You put the briefcase on top of the coffee table and open it, there were some medical instruments inside. Soldier Boy watches you with an amused and curious expression, sitting down on the couch and getting comfortable. You can tell that he's definitely a little curious about you and what your intentions are with him, but he's keeping his tongue, for now at least, as he waits for the examination to begin.

"Take off your shirt."

Soldier Boy raises his eyebrows in surprise for a bit but complies quickly, standing up and taking off his sleeveless shirt. Underneath you can now see just how fit he is, being leanly sculpted and having defined muscles all over his body. The man is definitely cut. He stands in front of you, waiting for the exam to begin, You gesture and he sits back down on the green couch.

You grab the stethoscope and sit next to him on the couch, placing the device in your ears and pressing the other side of the device against his chest, in his heart.

"Take three deep breaths and inhale"

Soldier Boy obliges, taking the three deep breaths like you directed. As he exhales, you can hear just how calm his heartbeat is. He's definitely got a good heart. You can hear the strong beats pumping a steady pace.

"A healthy heart."

You take out the stethoscope and grab a small flashlight.

"Don't close your eyes"

Soldier Boy raises his eyebrows once again, but doesn't say anything, instead just looking at you as you take out the flashlight. He seems both curious as to what you're going to do next, and skeptical at the same time, but keeps his eyes wide open even when you tell him not to close them.

You examine his eyes with the flashlight, it was all right. He didn't seem to have any eye damage even with the lab experiments.

"Good vision too."

Soldier Boy smiles at that, clearly pleased with your approval. But his expression quickly changes to a frown when he remembers what else you were going to examine.

"What else are you going to do?"

"This depends. Do you feel any pain? Any pressure? twinge?"

You run your hands over his body, giving it a gentle squeeze, to see if maybe he could feel pain due to some muscle or bone damage.

Soldier Boy seems to tense up a little whenever you run your hands over him, but you can't tell if it's because it's uncomfortable or because he's liking it. But whatever the case, it's clear that your touch affects him in some way, and he quickly takes in a sharp breath each time you touch him, as if he's feeling quite a bit of sensation. He definitely doesn't seem to be feeling any pain, though.

"Yes or no?"

Soldier Boy thinks for a few seconds before finally answering your question.

"No. Nothing hurts. Everything feels pretty normal."

You just nod and pull out a syringe and an empty tube.

"Can I get some of your blood out?"

"Yeah, sure."

His tone is neutral and a bit uncaring as he holds his arm out to you. You can tell that he's not as wary about all that's going on as he was before, and he seems to actually trust you after this little examination. His expression returns to a smirk, seeming to be entertained by your efforts.

You take his arm, squeezing until you feel one of the veins, then you stick the needle into his blue vein. Soldier Boy seems to wince somewhat as you stick the needle in his vein, his face making a slight frown for just a second before he quickly regains his composure and his neutral expression. He doesn't flinch or even try to pull away from you, and he just seems to be patiently waiting for you to get this all over with.

You connect the tube with the needle and wait for the tube to fill with blood, then you take out the needle and close the tube carefully. You clean the hole in his arm with a cotton pad and put on a Homelander infant bandage.

Soldier Boy seems to be slightly amused at the band-aid, but he doesn't comment on it. Instead he just raises his eyebrows slightly and waits to see what you'll do next. You suddenly stand up and face him, your hands go to his neck and you move his neck a little.

"Any pain? Discomfort?"

Soldier Boy seems to tense up slightly when you touch his neck, but once again, it doesn't seem to be a feeling of pain, but rather of sensitivity. He almost seems to be enjoying the touch from you again, your hands were soft, he liked it, and you can see a slight grin on his face for a moment before he answers your question.

"No. Feels normal."

You take your hands off his neck and put the things back inside the briefcase. You take a small machine and pour his blood into a glass, letting the machine analyze it.

Soldier Boy waits patiently as you put the things back in your briefcase and run the analysis on his blood. He seems more than just a little bit curious as to what the results will be, but he's not expecting anything serious to come from it. He stays quiet and waits for your results.

After a few minutes the machine prints a paper with the results, you pick up the paper and start reading it. You read calmly without saying anything, and this seems to make him extremely anxious.

Soldier Boy continues to just wait patiently as you read the results, seeming to be waiting to see how this will go. The results from the paper will definitely decide whether he's ready to get back in the game or not. So he's keeping his mouth shut for now and just awaiting your verdict.

"...What is it? What does the paper say?"

Soldier Boy asks, starting to get a little impatient and anxious from not knowing the results yet. His scowl starts to return as he speaks.

"I think you're not Soldier Boy anymore."

You look at him, Soldier Boy's scowl almost immediately transforms into a look of pure shock. His eyes suddenly narrow and he starts standing up.

"What the hell do you mean I'm not Soldier Boy anymore?!!?"

His expression becomes one of pure anger at your remark. You decide to correct yourself quickly, remembering that he is a ticking time bomb and could destroy everything with the slightest amount of anger.

"You are the super soldier boy! Whatever the russians injected into you, it made you stronger than before."

His expression changes again to a smirk, this time, an amused one.

"Oh, so that's what it is- they made me stronger, huh? So that means I can get back to doing what I do best."

He says proud of himself.

"Exactly. And look, you've become fertile again. compound v made you infertile, but what russians injected in your body brought your fertility back."

Another change in his expression as his smirk once again grows large over his face.

"Wait, you're telling me that now I can actually have a kid again?"

He seems thrilled and excited at this discovery, his body language and tone indicating that he's quite pleased with these results, And a mischievous idea begins to run through his mind.

"You look great, better than ever. Your results are perfect!"

"Perfect results, huh?!"

Soldier Boy's scowl suddenly turns into a big grin. He seems to be very pleased with your assessment, but he's not quite convinced that he should completely trust you just yet. And he's definitely not going to let on just how happy he is to hear his fertility is back.

"So I'm better off than I've been in a long time, right?"

"Right. You've got what it takes to kill Homelander, and it looks like it's going to be an easy task."

Soldier Boy can't help but chuckle at the way you're talking about this as if it'll be some walk in the park. His smile is clearly amused but also showing his arrogance as he speaks

"And what about you? You think you can handle your part of this little task, as well?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, it can't be all me, can it?"

He seems to be looking down at you as his tone and expression become more teasing with each word. He's enjoying this interaction, his whole body language turning flirtatious and playful.

"I'm not a supe. I will not fight Homelander."

"Awww, really?"

Soldier Boy seems almost disappointed by that answer.

"I feel like this is such a shame now."

A sly grin spreads across his face before he quickly takes a small step closer to you on the couch. His tone still remains playful but he's now closer to you than before.

"Honey, I'm the doctor of the group. I keep my partners alive and tend to all their injuries, but I'm still human. Homelander is 30x stronger than me, it would be suicidal to try to bust him. Believe me, I've tried."

Soldier Boy seems to chuckle at that.

"30x stronger than you? Sounds like a whole lot of talk. And you've tried to fight him before? What happened? Did you get your little ass handed to him?"

You roll your eyes, feeling disgusted by his comment.

"Well, he tried to take me to bed and I refused, and he almost blew my head off with those laser beams."

Soldier Boy once again bursts out with laughter, his amusement now turning to pure humor. He can't stop cackling at what you had said. You'd stare at him blankly as he burst into laughter, but it wasn't really funny at all.

"Wow...he tried to take you to bed? How charming of him. Almost blew your head off too? Well, you know what they say- girls like the "bad boys."

He finishes that last sentence off with an amused wink. If he wasn't a supe you would definitely have punched him in the face now. You sigh.

"Look.. Homelander isn't ugly, but he's still Homelander, the fucking supe psycho, and i don't even like blondes"

Soldier Boy arch his eyebrow.

"Oh, so you have a type, huh? What about me? Am I your type?"

Soldier Boy seems to just be enjoying messing with you as his expression and tone remain playful and flirtatious.

"Misogynistic, sexist, closed-minded guys don't interest me."

"You're pretty brave to talk to me like that, woman."

You lose your temper and get up from the couch with the exam paper still in hand.

"I need to show your exams to Butcher, he's going to like this"

Soldier Boy seems both amused and a bit concerned about your mention of Butcher. So he nods his head in understanding, although he's not about to let you off the room so easily.

"So, are you just going to run off and show Butcher right now? Because if you're about to leave, I've got something else I want to ask you..."

"Ask what, Soldier Boy?"

You look at him crossing your arms.

Soldier Boy smirks as he leans back a bit on the couch and gestures for you to come closer.

"Did you think I was going to let you leave like that?"

You look at him with confused and suspicious eyes. Once again, he's being quite playful and flirtacious in his tone and body language. Soldier Boy's smile only grows as you get closer to him. Once you're right next to him, he grabs your waist and pulls you even closer to him. Then he whispers softly to you in a very teasing tone,

"Oh, I wonder what it is that I could possibly want from you now..."

"Let me go."

You try to break free from him, but his big, strong hands keep you in place like you're a doll.

Soldier Boy leans in even closer and whispers to you again, this time keeping his hands firmly on your waist, pressing himself firmly up against you. His body language is still very playful and flirtatious, but he's not giving you any space to pull away or escape right now.

"So do you think you can guess what it is that I want from you now?"

"I'm not going to fuck with you!"

You say firm. Soldier Boy pulls you in closer yet again, still holding you by your waist. This time he whispers right into your ear very slowly and seductively, making no effort to hide the flirtatiousness of his tone.

"Oh really? You won't do anything at all with me?"

"Exactly! You heard me very well."

You try to take his hands off your waist again, a waste of time, as soon as he pulls you once again you end up falling on top of his lap, your hands go to his shoulders automatically and you stare at him with wide eyes.

Soldier Boy's smile grows even bigger from your reaction as you fall into his lap and your bare hands press up against him. He's still smiling and looking down at you in a way that is very flirtatious but also very intimidating, as if to say that you have no chance of escaping him now.

You try to stand up but he pulls you again, harder this time, losing his patience, you moan softly as your pelvis slams into his thighs in a strong way.

Soldier Boy lets out a low-pitched growl as you bump up against him, and the sound of your moan does nothing but further turn him on. Your body brushing up against his is sending shivers of pleasure through his bones, and he doesn't seem to want any of this to stop anytime soon. So he pulls you even closer yet again, still keeping his hands firmly on your waist.

"You say you don't want to, so why do I feel your panties soaking wet all over me?"

Soldier Boy's voice is low and predatory as he continues to pull you in even closer towards him, his whole body language now showing that he's enjoying this little encounter of yours. You feel your cheeks get red, he catched you, You try to get up again but he pulls you once again, this time holding you tight and keeping you in place.

"Be quiet."

His hands squeezed your waist tightly, as an act of possessiveness.

"You've examined me, now it's my turn, and i want to do it internally."

You didn't even have time to react before Soldier Boy pushed you against the couch and climbed on top of you, kissing you fiercely and aggressively, you in turn returned the kiss quickly, even though you knew it was wrong and that Butcher and M.M could come back at any moment. You couldn't deny it, as much as he had been imprisoned in Russia for years as a prisoner, he still had a great grip. His hands roamed your body and you surrendered right there to him, his strong hands ripped your blouse at once, exposing your breasts. Ben looked into your eyes as if he could see your soul and smile, his mouth quickly landed on your breast and you threw your head back and opened your mouth, surprised.

You pushed him back and started unzipping his pants belt like a ferocious animal, you had been sexless for a while, so that stimulation activated your libido on a total animalistic level, and Ben's as well. He stands up and turns you around at once, throwing you against the couch and kissing your lips fiercely, spreading your legs and fitting into the middle of them, her hand goes to his pants lowering it completely along with his underwear, Ben takes off his underwear in an impressive quick way and quickly fits his member into his entrance, thrusting himself at once into you, you two moan in unison, your arousal eases the act and makes it less painful and Ben takes advantage of it, beginning to move rapidly back and forth, making a wet noise echo through the silent room that was now only filled by this noise and sound of moans.

His face hides in your neck as he inhales your scent and you grab his strong and big back, your legs curl between his waist, squeezing him tighter to you, you wanted him. Ben was almost roaring like a lion from how excited he was, years without sex couldn't be bought for the months you were without.

"Do you like it, hm?"

He asks taking out your hair that was stuck to your forehead due to sweat, you couldn't even answer, you just nodded your head amidst moans. Ben closes his eyes and screams burying himself once and for all in you at once, making your legs tremble, you both breathe hard and he comes out of you after a few seconds, sitting on the couch, while you continue lying there gasping for breath, his forehead rests on your knee.

"I'm glad you let me know that now I can have children again."

He says and you widen your eyes, staring at him.

"What?!"

You ask in shock and he just winks at you, flashing that scoundrel smile again.

— Please, if you liked it, give it a like, comment and reblog 💞 —

[paninicupcakke]

Santa Weapons Guy💉🎁

(HeavyMedic oneshot)

(CW: Suggestive / Medic being a freak)

Location: Red base / Annual Christmas party

Heavy was the mercenary chosen to dress up as Santa Clause for Red’s annual Christmas party. Each year they would rotate out each mercenary. This particular year had landed on Heavy. He was always the most realistic option for a lore accurate Santa Clause. Luckily for Medic, he was next in line for a turn on the Russian’s lap. This was the only excuse to sit on Heavy’s lap publicly, he wanted to make every second count. The doctor anxiously adjusted his fake elf ears, patiently waiting for Soldier to be done with his turn. Pyro was excitedly bouncing up and down while waiting behind the doctor in line.

“It’s been a pleasure Santa. Keep up the good work!” Soldier loudly saluted. He hopped off Heavy’s lap and quickly headed back over to the dessert table. Heavy waved goodbye while watching Soldier run off. Medic took a step closer, smoothing his coat out before sitting himself across the Russian’s thighs. Heavy flinched slightly at how quick the doctor was to sit in his lap.

“I already have gift for you. But I still ask, what does doktor want for Christmas?…Perhaps new hat?” Heavy suggested with a wide grin. Medic snickered, crossing his legs and leaning in close. Placing his hand up to cover both Heavy’s ear and his own lips.

“I want you to fill me up with [redacted].” Medic crudely whispered. Suggesting a jolly filled evening with his partner sat underneath him. Luckily Heavy’s flustered expression was mostly covered up by his fake beard. He began anxiously rubbing the back of his neck. Unable to come up with a quick response to such a lewd request.

“Bitte?” Medic flirtatiously pleaded. Heavy let out a small sigh.

“I’ll see what I can do.” Heavy shyly muttered. A wide, salacious grin crept across the doctor’s face. Medic suddenly flinched as he felt two fingers tap onto his shoulder. There stood an impatient Pyro behind them, tapping his own wrist as if he had a watch on it. Signaling for them to hurry it up as he pulled out a long written list from his back pocket. Medic gently stood up from Santa’s cozy lap. Heavy couldn’t help but slowly gaze up at his partner. Hearing the small bell on his hat jingle as he stood up.

“Once you’re all done here, come find me.” Medic said before casually walking off. Heavy frantically nodded, his eyes lingering on the doctor as he walked off towards the kitchen. Pyro suddenly plopped into Heavy’s lap, excitedly pointing at his long list of figurines and toys he wanted the jolly man to bring him. Heavy let out a startled noise, averting his attention back onto Pyro. Adjusting his glasses as he began to read the long paper list.

Medic stood there in the kitchen, now sipping on a cup of hot cocoa. Stirring his cup with a candy cane while continuing to stare at Heavy sat in the living room. Spy silently stood beside him, lit cigarette in hand. The Frenchman shifted his gaze away from Pyro’s unusually long paper list. Glancing over at the doctor’s giddy expression.

“What’s on your wishlist this year doctor?” Spy suddenly asked. Medic made sure the coast was clear before answering honestly.

“…Father Christmas.” Medic sheepishly admitted. Avoiding eye contact with the Frenchman’s judgmental stare. Taking a small bite of his candy cane while continuing to stare over at Heavy.

“I figured.” Spy slyly replied. Cocking an eyebrow as he scanned up and down at Medic’s gaudy, festive attire.

[my-inlaws-callme-verny]

omg the king of soph liar’s bar au is finally here yippee yahoo hooray

⚠️⚠️content warning⚠️⚠️ if any of these subjects trigger/disturb you, please do not read. your mental well-being is more important than a fanfic synopsis:

transphobia, discussion of mental illness (mainly depression), self-deprecation, unhealthy relationships, ideations of self-ending, misuse of guns, internalized ableism (tagging just in case)

and i swear to fucking god if anyone accuses me of trying to fetishize trans people i will punch a hole through my wall. this au deals with a lot of personal feelings i’ve had while trying to discover myself, including how trans people don’t always have the means/support to transition (and no matter what, their identities are valid even if they don’t “pass”). anyways rant over. again there’s a lot of pretty disturbing stuff in here so i will say again: your mental well-being is more important than a fanfic synopsis.

Brent is an average person who’s been down on his luck recently. A sudden car accident caused him to lose both of his legs, and he’s still trying to properly adjust to his new life as a double amputee. Despite being an active person beforehand, he still uses a cane to get around from time to time (mainly to help him stand back up after sitting). He’s gotten used to doing a few things differently, but he can’t help feeling miserable at times, having to put loads of effort into doing stuff that he used to be able to do without even thinking. After a year or two of physical therapy, doctor’s appointments, and buying new mobility aids (including prosthetics and his aforementioned cane), his medical debt has piled up greatly. His family doesn’t mind the financial strain if it means seeing Brent happy, but it still weighs heavily on his conscience.

His savior comes in the form of his friend telling him about an underground gambling ring nearby called the Liar’s Bar, that has a huge cash payout for anyone lucky enough to win. Brent wouldn’t even think of starting to gamble not too long ago. But desperate times call for desperate measures, and he could really use the money.

After being given a few instructions on how to find the place and enter it, Brent finds himself in a dimly lit tavern crowded by people who also wanted to turn their lives around. He doesn’t want to start playing right away, instead seeing if the games are truly worth the ridiculous entry cost he had to pay (in cash). A staff member of the bar, dressed head-to-toe in black, hands Brent a clipboard holding a thick stack of papers and is told to sign at the bottom. He reads through the first few lines and discovers the reason for such an expensive fee: patrons can play Russian Roulette for a chance to win a huge percentage of the betting pool.

Brent starts to feel sick, debating whether or not to risk his life in order to pay off his medical debt. But after convincing himself that his family would be happy to not pay for everything he needs, he signs the contract. It’s kind of tempting; If he wins a game or two, he’ll put a massive dent in the amount of money he owes. If he ends up dying, then at least his parents don’t have to worry about future expenses. After wiping the sweat off his forehead, he decides to sit down at the bar and take his mind off of everything.

There, he meets a very eccentric woman who calls herself “Lady Luck,” and she stands out among the crowd of people dressed in dark, drab clothes. She’s adorned in a gaudy pearl necklace, her neatly-trimmed beard framed by scarlet red lipstick and a short dress in the same bright color. He tries to introduce himself to her, but she tells him that patrons here usually don’t use their first names, instead going by an alias. He decides on “Kingpin,” from one of his favorite movies, and she chuckles.

They talk for a while, and Brent feels inexplicably drawn to her. This mysterious woman manages to make him laugh more than he has in ages, and they even start toeing the line of playful flirting. A staff member calls for “Lady Luck” and another patron to “play,” which Brent assumes is for Russian Roulette. He begins to panic, telling her that he doesn’t want to lose her so soon, and she reassures him that she’ll be fine. He asks her to promise him to try and win while holding his pinky out, and she locks her pinky with his and kisses him on the cheek. His face suddenly feels as red as her lipstick.

He eagerly waits for her to come back, and when she does, she asks Brent if he wants to go “out back,” and he immediately says yes. She takes his hand and leads him back through the bar, out a door, to an alleyway that he’s walked past many times before. She sits behind a dumpster on the filthy concrete and invites him to do the same, but Brent opts to crouch instead.

“Lady Luck” tells him that she wanted to get a little more personal with him outside of the bar, and this was the closest spot she could think of where they wouldn’t be bothered. It’s way too late for any sensible person to be out and about, so he trusts her. She confesses that he seems way more genuine than the rest of the guys there, and that this is the happiest she’s been in a while. She properly introduces herself to him as Evie (get it guys? Because it sounds like “Eevee-”), a closeted trans woman who’s trying to be herself as much as she can with an unsupportive family. After dropping out of college she moved to the city to “find herself,” and life was going downhill fast for her until she found the Liar’s Bar. She admits her mental health never got better after realizing she was a woman, and that she’d rather die on her own terms than be buried as a man. The money she gets from it definitely helps, but she usually just uses it for groceries and rent. It’s not like she could use it to start hormones or anything. (She laughs dryly at her own comment, trying to maintain that carefree attitude she had in the bar. It’s easy for Brent to notice that it really affects her.)

They talk a little more, Brent spills his guts to her about the struggles he has living with both of his legs gone. He’s been so focused on insurance and therapy and consulting doctors for the past year that his social life’s taken a dump, not to mention that he basically had to relearn how to do all of the things he loved. Evie listens, nodding her head and not cracking jokes like she did in the bar. She looks at him like she understands his pain, the pain of being stuck in a body that felt like he had no control over. It comforted him.

Brent realizes they’re both kind of in the same boat; unhappy with their lives with no reasonable way to fix it. But in the Liar’s Bar they had a chance to get everything they dreamed for, even if it was for a few hours or a few extra rounds of Poker. They both sit in silence for a moment before Evie gets up and dusts herself off. She says she should probably get back to her apartment soon, and Brent notices that the night is almost over. He agrees that he should get going too, and Evie offers him a hand to get up. He grabs his cane and takes her hand, (he could have used his cane and been fine, but how could he say no to her?) and gets up from his crouching position. She leads both of them through the back door of the bar and up through the main entrance, but not before asking the bartender from earlier for something and being handed a backpack. Brent’s a bit confused, until Evie pulls out a bag of makeup wipes and smears all of her gorgeous makeup off in three seconds flat. He’s more upset about this than he should be, but she tells him that it’s for her safety. She takes off her pearl necklace as she explains that she doesn’t like dressing femininely in fear of someone she knows seeing her. Not to mention that the bartender (who Brent now knows as Nick) is really cool with her bringing a change of clothes and other things so that she doesn’t have to feel uncomfortable walking to and from the Liar’s Bar. Before she leaves to go and change, Evie hugs Brent and thanks him for talking to her. As he opens the door to the outside, the sun has risen and he gets to enjoy the warmth on his skin as he walks back to his apartment.

As he enters through the door to his living quarters (which are thankfully on the first floor of the complex. The landlord was actually really cool about him moving down a few floors on such a short notice.), the first thing he notices is the stench of cigar smoke that’s probably burned into his clothes now. He takes a much-needed shower and goes to bed, mind still racing about the waiver and the money and his death and her.

She overpowers any fear of death he had in that moment, if it meant he got to see her then he’d gladly go back to that bar. He has an epiphany that maybe this isn’t the healthiest way to go about having a crush on someone, but then again visiting an underground gambling bar where people can die probably isn’t either. She seemed to like him, right? That kiss couldn’t have been wholly insignificant, nor the way her curls framed her face like an angel’s halo when she offered him her hand. The woman in the bar and the woman in the alley seemed like two completely different people, but yet they were one and the same. Lady Luck clearly didn’t seem bothered at the idea that her life could end so abruptly, and he wonders if he’ll adopt that same mindset too. Or if she truly is an anomaly, a one-in-a-million woman. He wanted to unravel that mystery, while cherishing every moment he could catch a glimpse of the real Evie. And maybe, hopefully, she’d feel the same way about him some day.

He is so fucked.

[wake-me-up-inside-imagines]

What’s something you’re waiting for someone to ask about? Info dump!

Honestly I've kind of wanted to make a post just dumping a bunch of fun facts about the main MM pack, so I'll do that here!

Tw for a thumbtack in Leo's part, mention of Rain's bad parents in Rain's part, and mentions of divorce in Charlie's part.

Leo Myers:

-Leo likes to listen to ASMR. It does make him tired, but he listens to it any time he's working on something, not just when he's trying to sleep. Music is distracting and silence just doesn't do it for him, so asmr it is

-Despite his love for horror, Leo hates haunted houses. He's not good with real, physical scares, so even the milder houses tend to freak him out. Weird for a guy who can watch Martyr level films with a straight face, but he can't help it.

-Leo once pierced his ear with an unsterilized thumb tack for funsies. It took him ten minutes to get it all the way in.

-Leo, to no ones surprise, is a massive fan of any Ninja Turtle material. He actually didn't name himself after the turtle (he just thought the name Leo was cool), but he did name his cat Mikey after Michelangelo due to how orange he is. Despite the namesake, their personalities don't really match up lol.

-Leo's learning how to play the guitar, but his real talent is in his voice. He spent a majority of his childhood taking voice lessons and joining the school choir. Although he doesn't like to sing much in front of people (including his mates), they sometimes catch him singing to himself when a song he likes comes on.

Ren Hirota:

-Ren's a massive linguistics and nerd. He loves everything to do with language, regardless of origins of structure. He can speak five languages fluently: English, Japanese, German, Latin, and French. During the time period MM takes place, he's trying to learn Russian, although between doing his doctorate program and taking care of Rachel, it's been slower going than he's used to.

-Ren finds the upkeep and grooming that often comes with having more body hair really annoying, so he doesn't really shave. The only thing he really grooms is his facial hair, and even then it's just enough to keep it from becoming a beard. He still prefers to have prominent stubble, just not super long. His hair is long for the same reason, he can't be bothered to get it cut more then once a year.

-Ren got his name from his dad. Mr. Hirota grew up with a lotus tree nearby and he loved it dearly, so when his sons were born, he named one of them after it. Dave came out kicking and screaming whereas Ren barely cried, so Mr. Hirota knew exactly who was getting which name. (Bonus fact: Mrs. Hirota named Dave....well, Dave, because she thought it was funny).

-Ren loves taking photo's of things, especially polaroid's. It's one of his main hobbies, besides reading, journaling, and learning languages for fun. Before he moved into an apartment with his mates, his wall was semi-covered in polaroid photos he had taken of his friends, random objects, or nature shots. Once in the apartment, he bought a bin to stash all his favorite photos so he'd still be able to look at them whenever he wanted (his mates helped him stick some to the wall).

-Ren hates the cold and loves baggier clothing, so he very rarely wears anything that isn’t baggy and doesn’t have long sleeves, even in the summer. Sweaters are his main go to followed by sweatshirts, but he’ll occasionally wear a normal long sleeved shirt out. The only time he can be seen in a T-shirt is when he’s heading to bed.

Rain Cantrell:

-Rain didn't have a whole lot of materials to draw with when he was a kid, so he made do with items he could find around in public spaces or whatever he could steal borrow from his school. Some paper here, a colored pencil or two there, until he had a decent enough collection. He was mostly self taught, although he did watch a lot of youtube videos once he had access to a laptop. He got pretty good despite his lack of resources, fueling his future career choices.

-On a similar note, Rain learned how to sew when he was pretty young. His grandma gave him her sewing machine while she was on hospice care (Rain was about eight at the time), and he took full advantage of the machine he otherwise wouldn't have. As he grew up, he learned how to patch up old clothes with holes or make new clothes out of seemingly useless material, which served him well when he didn't have money for new clothes. He even made some extra cash on the side by fixing other people's stuff.

-Rain may act pretty immature on a semi-regular basis, but he's actually very smart. He exceled in most of his classes and was way better at math then most of his peers, despite his lack of interest in the subject. If he hadn't taken a career in the arts, he could have done something promising in some sort of math department. He can also beat almost anyone in chess, so there's that.

-Rain adores bugs. He thinks they're so cool, from butterflies to spiders to beetles to anything in between. It's not so much an academic interest as it is just him thinking they look cool, but he could spend hours observing every little detail of every little bug, never getting bored.

-Rain collects plushies of animals he likes. He has a lot of bug stuffies, but he also has animals that remind him of his mates and friends, usually named after them as well. He's also a sucker for cute stuff such as Sanrio merch, so it's not uncommon for him to come home with some new cutesy object in tow.

Micah King:

-Micah’s the cleanest out of his pack. He very rarely leaves his clothes anywhere, always makes sure to clean up any mess he makes the second he makes it, and generally has a better sense of clutter management than most other people. Even when he had a room to himself, everything was very neat and tidy.

-Micah’s allergic to bee stings, which is really funny considering how much he loves flowers. He always has to be really careful when out among flowers in nature, lest he need an EpiPen.

-Back during high school, Micah used to enter drumming/music competitions solely for the fun of it. He's won a lot of awards as a result of it, and he keeps them all either hung on the wall in his apartment, or in a little storage bin stashed in the closet. Part of his success has to do with his love of learning overly complicated pieces and techniques, which has only served to impress anyone who gets to hear him play.

-Micah had short hair up until he was twelve. He decided to grow it out when he heard his crush say she liked guys with long hair more, hoping to win her over with that among other things. It didn't end up working out for him as he hoped (she rejected him), but he discovered that he too liked having long hair over short hair. Since then, he's never cut it more than a couple inches, just enough to get rid of any dead ends.

-Micah once broke his wrist trying to impress his friend group when he was fourteen. He wanted to look like a cool skater dude, only to immediately get his butt handed to him the second he put his foot on his friend's skateboard. He never knew true pain until he had to put up with his eight year old brother mocking him for being lame.

(Bonus because it’s more mate oriented): Micah gets cuteness aggression with his mates sometimes. Doesn't matter which one, he'll jump them all and force them to cuddle with him while he chuffs up a storm. Even Charlie knows it's futile to fight back, so they all let him do his thing, not that they mind his affections in the first place.

Charlie Craven:

-Charlie got hooked on astrology during his parents divorce, when their fighting became an almost nightly occurrence. He'd sneak outside to escape their yelling, only to get wrapped up in the stars above, intrigued by their patterns. He'd spend hours outside studying the stars s a distraction, and it carried on to his adult life, serving as a comfort whenever he's distressed.

-Charlie used to sleep with a knife under his pillow up until he moved in with Ren during college. He had no good reason for it, he was just paranoid and also thought it made him look cool.

-Charlie, despite his tough exterior, cannot hide his guilty pleasure of romance novels. It's stupid and he hates how "mushy" it makes him look, but he can't help but kick his feet when he reads some cheesy scene of two people falling in love and having a happily ever after life. He sometimes uses them to figure out how he should interact with his mates in certain situations, as he's too emotionally constipated to figure out his feelings for himself.

-Back in high school, Charlie used to be in a band. It wasn't great and fell apart after two or so years, but it helped him get into guitar playing, so he's not complaining. He sometimes made Ren listen to him practice in an attempt to impress him so he could see if Ren saw an improvement in his playing.

-Charlie tries to keep a journal to manage his anger issues. He's very inconsistent with it and he often gets frustrated trying to work through his feelings, but he does his best to manage, hoping it'll improve his mood eventually.

Mated headcannons:

-Micah and Ren like to tend to plants together, when they can. Micah often takes Ren out on walks to parks he knows Ren could snap some good photos at, and in return Ren takes Micah to spots he knows are rich with wild flowers. They both have little terrariums they grow together, and although their apartment is small, they have a couple plants the co-parent throughout the day. Their conversations on these walks/when they care for the plants together are often soft and loving, although little bouts of laughter aren't out of the ordinary.

-Charlie and Ren like to brush each other's hair and talk about their day after long hours of work. It helps relax the both of them and put them in the mood to rest, but it also just feels like an intimate action, one only they allow the other to share in. It's on of the few times Charlie can be heard speaking quietly. They'll often go until their scalps are sore, simply too wrapped up in each other's presence to want to stop talking.

-Leo and Rain have matching belly button piercings (they did this during college). They both wanted one and Rain had always loved the idea of getting piercings with someone as a date, so they got it done! And by got it done, I mean Rain pierced Leo's belly button himself and then he tried to do it on himself. Rain's looks surprisingly good considering how skewed his view was when he did it, but Leo likes to tease him about the slight right tilt you can see it at if you look close enough. Since that date, Leo only goes to Rain when he wants something pierced (He tries to pay but Rain doesn't let him).

-Micah and Charlie spend a lot of time bonding by cooking together. Micah's mom taught him how to cook and Charlie learned to help his dad out, so it's something they both grew up doing. They like to swap recipes occasionally and sometimes compete to see who can make the closest iteration of one of their parent's dishes (Micah's parents love when they do this because they often get to judge).

-Ren and Rain often watch horror movies together as their little bonding activity. It started because Ren wanted to build up his horror tolerance, and Rain quickly offered his expertise. They quickly found out that no amount of slow going or easing Ren into scary movies actually desensitized him, but that was ok. Ren found that he quite liked being scared when it was just a movie, especially since Rain was there to keep him calm. Sometimes they'll choose a goofier horror movie to enjoy so Ren can make fun of it alongside Rain, but he's just as content to watch a serious film, head buried in Rain's chest.

-Leo thought Charlie hated him for a week or so after he started dating the pack because the alpha never really spoke to him and kind of just looked at him intensely. He learned that he was wrong when Charlie kidnapped him from class one day and dragged him to a on-campus restaurant (didn't say a word about what he was doing or where they were going by the way) for their first official date. Turns out Charlie was just too afraid of scaring Leo off, but eventually couldn't bear the distance anymore. Ever since then, no matter how comfortable the two got with each other, Charlie made a habit of "stealing" Leo without any forewarning when he wants a one-on-one date.

-Ren isn't a very musical person compare to his mates, but Leo got him into playing the kalimba after they started dating. It was easy for him to pick up and he adores the gentle sound the instrument makes, so he actually dedicated himself to learning some songs. Leo always gets excited when Ren learns a new song and lets Ren play it for him if he would like. Sometimes they try to play duets together, if they can figure out how to make it work (Leo also got Ren a custom kalimba as a Christmas gift once, to Ren's immense joy).

-Rain and Charlie communicate by teasing each other. It may seem like they're actually trying to get under people's skin, but they're really just expressing how much the other means to them. Rain started it early into their relationship when he realized Charlie didn't know how to express his love for people without stuttering or getting frustrated. He told Charlie to complement him by turning said compliment into an insult. Charlie thought that was stupid and meanspirited, but it soon became a little inside joke between the two of them, which then became a regular habit. Rest assured, they're looking at each other with love in their eyes when they go back and forth.

-Micah may be an alpha, but he loves to nest with Leo. And by nest, he means letting Leo build a nest around the two of them while they cuddle because he knows he'll screw up his mate's vision. He can't get enough of Leo's loud, happy purrs when the nest comes out just right, snuggling closer for a victory celebration. Leo loves it equally because he gets to cuddle up with a mate he feels safe with while in a nest he built to perfection. It's the ultimate comfort, and it's good bonding time. The two often stay in the nest for hours, purring and chuffing into each other's skin until someone interrupts them.

-Micah and Rain spend a lot of time playing video games together before snuggling up on the couch, tired out. Micah doesn't know much about video games so Rain takes the time to explain everything to him, pointing out each action with a rarely displayed patience. Micah doesn't do great a majority of the time, especially if it's a fighting game, but it doesn't matter. Their gaming sessions are filled with laughter and teasing, as well as some heart to hearts when the mood calls for it. They end by camping on the couch until someone falls asleep (usually Micah), tangled up in each other's limbs.

I hope you enjoyed, and thanks for asking for an infodump! This was fun to write!

[mariacallous]

“Don’t go down there,” warned Andrei, a Ukrainian police paramedic, as he stubbed out his cigarette and scratched his beard. He and his boss, another paramedic named Andrei, then got back in their car and drove off to work. (The two men did not give their last names to protect their anonymity.)

“There” was four miles down the road: Pokrovsk, a Ukrainian mining city that is currently one of Russia’s major war objectives. The two Andreis are police paramedics in Donetsk Oblast, which has been violently contested since 2014. Driving an unarmored civilian car with a life-size rubber severed hand jammed in the dashboard as a macabre gag, the two men brave Russian shellfire, rockets, and attack drones daily in order to treat and evacuate wounded civilians and soldiers from Pokrovsk and the rest of Donetsk. Like virtually all Ukrainian medical personnel, the two Andreis are volunteers.

Ukraine’s front-line combat medics do valiant work as the first echelon of casualty care. But nearly three years into the full-scale war, there are still too few of them. Ukrainian medics usually have just four weeks of training—a quarter of what U.S. Army medics get. This limits them to providing the bare basics: administering medication, fluid resuscitation, and stabilizing traumatic injuries. And the Ukrainian Armed Forces currently have less than 50 percent of their required combat medics, according to the staffing reports of dozens of senior medical officers provided to us during a research trip to Ukraine in September.

The limits of Ukraine’s medical mobilization are even more acute at the next level of military clinicians: the doctors, nurses, and other medical professionals who determine life or death for the seriously wounded soldiers brought to them by front-line paramedics like the two Andreis. They provide what NATO militaries call Role 3 and Role 2 care: field hospitals and forward surgical support, respectively.

Like many things in the Ukrainian military, the situation varies widely from unit to unit. In Donetsk, one brigade’s chief medical officer told us how extremely lucky he was to have a full complement of 30 doctors and nurses. But an adjacent brigade, he said, had to make do with just three clinicians and not a single surgeon or anesthetist. Several senior medical officers told us that around 1,000 additional doctors are needed to cover the demands of front-line units alone.

A major problem is the Ukrainian authorities’ refusal to systematically mobilize medical personnel. An old regulation from the days of the Soviet Union requires all Ukrainian clinicians to be registered for a military emergency. But Ukraine is not currently enforcing this law; doctors and other medical personnel are only mobilized if they are caught up in the broader, corruption-riddled draft to which all men over 25 are now subject. As a result, clinicians are not being systematically mobilized or utilized to help near the front. Most of those serving are volunteers, including a small corps of foreign medical volunteers numbering several hundred at most. But Ukraine’s reliance on domestic and foreign volunteers is unsustainable.

One reason the government has been hesitant to mobilize is that Ukraine’s civilian health care system is already grappling with a critical shortage of doctors, driven by low salaries and decades of brain drain as medical professionals sought better opportunities abroad. Although Ukraine is a renowned training hub for foreign medical students, the domestic retention of its doctors remains a struggle. One brigade surgeon told us that when medical school graduates were sent to him through the mobilization system, they were invariably doctors in name only: They had the degree but no practical experience, having switched to more promising professions after graduation.

Medical care is often hailed as a Ukrainian advantage over Russia. Despite the personnel shortage and often inadequate training, Ukraine experiments and innovates to save as many lives as possible. It has hardened hospitals (which Russian forces deliberately target) and became the first country to conduct combat medevacs with drones. Although each side’s total casualty numbers are well-guarded secrets, by all estimates Ukraine is losing people at a far lower rate than Russia, not least due to Moscow’s preference for deploying its infantry in atavistic meat grinder attacks.

If Ukraine’s medevac capacities have manpower shortages, the situation on the Russian side is incomparably worse. On Russian Telegram channels and elsewhere, reports abound of wounded soldiers just being left to die on the battlefield. The numbers speak for themselves: Ukraine records an estimated five wounded soldiers to every one soldier who dies. On the Russian side, that ratio was estimated to be as low as 2-1, indicating an enormous number of preventable deaths from battlefield wounds. Western armies have not experienced a similar proportion of wounded to killed in more than a century.

On the Russian side, front-line medical capacity ranks low on the list of priorities; to the Kremlin, life is cheap. Russia’s forlorn brigades are manned mostly by men considered expendable in Russian society: ethnic minorities from the country’s periphery, prisoners, the rural poor. They are not conscripted but lured into service by enormous bonuses or, in the case of prisoners, promises of freedom. In the Russian system, medical care for these men is an afterthought at best.

Ukraine’s medics and military clinicians are better than Russia’s, but the need for them is also far greater. Total Ukrainian casualties are approaching perhaps half a million killed or wounded, with an estimated 40 percent of wounded Ukrainian soldiers suffering permanent injuries. Soldiers are a precious resource, especially given Ukraine’s smaller population, the absence of total mobilization, and the greater value the country places on citizens’ lives. With the average age on the front line between 43 and 45, soldiers physically fit enough for the rigors of combat are in even shorter supply. Prompt and skilled medical care can be the difference between a soldier being severely disabled for life and one able to return to combat.

The speed and quality of front-line medical care is critical not just to saving lives, but also to morale. Competent care is a motivational boon, stiffening the resolve of soldiers by giving them the confidence that they are in good hands and will recover if they are wounded. The absence of good medical care, easily publicized in the age of social media, has the opposite effect, demoralizing soldiers and providing the enemy with an enormous psychological weapon.

There are no technological or logistical silver bullets at hand. Medical supplies to front-line units are now better and more consistent than in the past, despite the struggles of Ukraine’s military medical bureaucracy. Farther from the front, well-equipped and fortified hospitals save many lives. But during the critical first hour of trauma casualty care, the most important factor is having enough skilled medical personnel on hand where they are needed.

Ukraine’s foreign supporters have helped on the margins. Though a small corps of foreign medical volunteers have done brave and valuable work, they now number in the hundreds at most. Ukraine’s reliance on volunteers, both native and foreign, is unsustainable.

There are ways that Ukraine’s Western partners can help, even though NATO countries will resist the idea of deploying their military medics and surgeons to Ukrainian battlefields. European military or civilian clinicians could relieve some of the pressure on Ukrainian civilian hospitals away from the front, freeing up Ukrainian medical staff to be mobilized. This would also be a good way for European NATO members, their military stocks largely exhausted, to show the incoming Trump administration in Washington that they are serious about supporting Ukraine.

But Ukraine’s Western partners cannot solve the fundamental problem of Ukraine’s refusal to mobilize.

Ukraine’s missing medical mobilization parallels the much larger failure of its military mobilization. Although Kyiv has steadily increased the scope of its conscription efforts, it has stopped far short of a general mobilization and still refuses to draft men under 25. As Kyiv stares down the barrel of a second Trump administration that seems likely to push for negotiations on Russia’s terms, Ukraine faces hard choices. Raising sufficient troops may be the decisive factor in the war’s fourth year.

The tremendous bravery and sacrifices of Ukrainian soldiers and civilians, many of them volunteers, have camouflaged the failures of mobilization and enabled Ukrainian President Volodymyr Zelensky to delay an unpopular but necessary ramping up of conscription and compulsion. If Ukraine wants to survive, let alone win, it needs far more soldiers and the doctors, nurses, and medics to keep them in the fight.

[frodothefair]

New OC for Expats, let's go!

Ok, this wasn't even that hard! I was in the shower, and came up with a character sketch for my movie-star OC for Expats. What do you think? (Any similarities to real people, living or dead, are purely incidental).

Meet Elliot James. He is a Hollywood actor who got his start as a child star, but came to prominence when he appeared in a fantasy epic loosely based on events in early Medieval Britain, where he played a sweet, heroic squire who saved the day, but ended up giving his life in the process. Afterwards, he became a household name and in demand for everyone's epic or period piece anywhere, and while this was certainly very nice, it was somewhat disappointing to be typecast, so he tried to seek out other roles -- in indie films, horror movies, and genre cinema.

In rapid succession in his early 20's, he played a sick WWI veteran in a period piece with a plot like Flowers of Mordor, a prince in the medieval French history franchise Les Rois Maudits, a young Louis XIV, King Francis in a movie about Mary Queen of Scots (ok, yes, a lot of Frenchness here), and Nikolai Rostov in War and Peace. He also played Pip in Great Expectations, and Link in a cinema franchise of Legend of Zelda, and was one of the brothers in a multi-season Regency-era show similar to Bridgerton. He came to see his period piece and fantasy work as a "Jury duty" of sorts, but did it to please the fans and because he had some difficulty saying no. In the end, however, he put his foot down, and instead of taking the role of Jim Hawkins in Treasure Island, which he was all but being bribed to do, he insisted on auditioning for Blind Pew and Israel Hands.

Why does he get typecast playing young literary and historic characters, you may ask? Well, this is because after age 20, he looks like he essentially stopped aging. He is also short and slightly built, and looks like he stepped off a renaissance painting. He has striking hazel eyes that look like liquid gold, and naturally curly dark blonde hair.

In terms of personal history, he hails from South Dakota, from a long line of ranchers and early settlers to the area of Swedish and German extraction. (Hello, inspiration from Mr. Nisilë's white heritage). His mother raised him and his sister alone, and he has a very loving, down-to-earth and supportive family of origin. However, work as a child actor gave him a lifelong hair-pulling habit, to the point of trichotillomania at times, and he is completely unable to grow a beard of his own as a result.

In his personal life, he gets together with a fan named Marina who is an immigrant from Ukraine and has both Ukranian and Russian heritage. They connect over his upcoming work on War and Peace, and impending trip to Eastern Europe to film it. (This is obviously well before the present day). During his (very ample) free time, Elliot enjoys collecting and listening to vinyl records, attending live concerts, traveling as incognito as he realistically can with his distinctive looks, and watching off-off-Broadway plays (or whatever the LA analog is for this). Ironically, he has never been in a play himself, except for a school play at a very young age.

With his girlfriend and later wife, he is a total sweetheart, and his mental illness helps him understand hers. He is also a complete and utter goofball, slightly disorganized in his household and self care, and unassuming and slightly awkward whenever the cameras are off. The weirder the topic of conversation with him, the better.

His partner, Marina, works as a medical malpractice lawyer who defends doctors, and has a crazy, domineering mother who both loves and dislikes Elliot, and belittles his work behind his back, comparing him to old Soviet actors who she thinks are the true greats. However, she has no qualms about accepting gifts and financial assistance from him. (Guess who this is based on, haha).

Elliot never went to college himself, but he paid for the college education of his sister and Marina's law education. The only thing he asked for in return was that Marina and his sister share the particularly interesting things they learned whenever they could.

What do you think?

@konartiste @emmanuellececchi

[theculturedmarxist]

These days I mostly avoid being around art spaces and the dwindling population of people that frequent them. This is for the same reason you might duck an old friend who’s been transformed by time and circumstance into a thing that you scarcely recognize. Sometimes it’s better to remember them as they were.

I broke my rule the other night to attend the closing of a theater I built long ago, and it was every bit as sad and disappointing as I would have expected. Hardly anyone came to send her off, and the ones that did could muster nothing better than a couple of beers and off to bed. The whole thing was over by 11.

“Who are you voting for,” a pudgy, bearded, graying Xer, asked me before I left. He was wearing a kind of middle-aged bohemian get-up, right down to the hipster hat, that made him look like he’d just stepped out of a commercial for a new Type II diabetes drug. I’m down to talk my doctor about . . .

“I’m writing in Dave Chappelle,” I said.

He opened and closed his mouth a few times, trying to find the part of his brain that knew how to process a dissenting opinion. Not finding one he sputtered, “But you’re not for Trump.”

“No.”

Then a skinny, wan, pale guy with sunken eyes, and long, greasy black hair, sober as a judge, like someone who’d acquired all the physical attributes of heroin addiction, without ever having had any of the fun, said, “Then you have to vote for Biden, or Trump wins.”

“So what,” I said.

And that was when they both shit themselves and I had to do the whole red-pill/blue-pill thing. By the time that was over, everyone else had gone and I followed suit. Leaving the building for the last time, I thought of livelier days when the whole place, the whole block, the whole city, was full of life and crazy energy.

How did this happen? How did we get here?

This is an article I’ve started, abandoned, and started again a few times over the years. That’s partly because I still had some hope when I began that I might one day be able to return to my craft as a theater director without revealing my opinions. But that was before Due Dissidence had a YouTube show. Now I very visibly express ideas 3-4 times a week that would get me professionally and socially cancelled in about 5 minutes as soon as anyone from that crowd took the time to check out the channel, which of course they would.

Another thing that’s kept this one at the bottom of the digital drawer is lingering affection for a lot of people who are still making the music, lighting the lights, and all that. I have dear friends in the arts and this is going to hurt some of their feelings. Except for the ones who regularly DM to thank me for saying what they can’t without risking career suicide. Those will be greatly cheered by this piece, in the way of a bullied child watching their tormentor take a hard fist to the nose, so I guess in the end that part’s a wash. Here goes.

In the 8 years since the election of doom that transformed me from the kind of guy who wanted to have a beer with Rachael Maddow, to the kind of guy who would protest her book reading, I’ve had lots of debates with lots of people.  Enough to notice a distinct pattern

Conservatives will generally keep it on the issues; they may not agree with you, but as a rule they aren’t going to go right to ad hominem attacks on your character.  Liberals can go either way: they may debate the issues with you, but they’re just as likely to attack you personally as a closet Republican, a Russian plant, or if you happen to be a white man, that’s kind of their go-to.  But the absolute worst people you can find yourself engaging with are members of the arts community.  I know this because I’ve been a member of it since at the tender age of 19, I bullshitted my way into a directing gig at the still extant 13th Street Repertory Theater. 

The artists I worked with then as a kid from Queens dazzled by the bohemian world I had infiltrated wouldn’t recognize the artists of today, and I suspect they wouldn’t like them all that much.  Heirs to a 60’s counter-culture ethos of distrust for authority and institutions, and to an older tradition of the artist-intellectual, they generally thought of all politicians as dishonest psychopaths, and spent more time discussing Kafka than the evils of Soviet Russia, which occupied the same position of public enemy #1 that its successor state does today.  And lest the wokeratti immediately jump to its aforementioned go-to, the scene was far more substantively diverse than what you might find at a theater or a gallery today.  They were gay and straight, old and young, black and white and brown, and in a major departure from the current moment, both penniless and well to do.  There were artists living rent free in the loft above the theater, others renting $250 apartments in pre-hipster Williamsburg who had to walk across the bridge to get to rehearsals for lack of train fare, and still others living comfortably on the Upper West Side.  If there was a failing it was in a tendency towards pretentiousness: when a middle-aged woman pronounced confidently at a post-rehearsal dinner that the principal crisis of the modern age was the “post-Nietzschean vacuum,” I almost laughed in her face.  No one had that problem in my native Flushing, and I suspected that was true most places.  But the problem wasn’t racism, sexism, or homophobia-expressing those sorts of views would have been just about the only thing that could have gotten you ejected in an atmosphere where pretty much anything went, and it was that way in the arts community for as long as I was a part of it.

Generally, I like to heavily source everything I write, ‘cause when you’re offering controversial opinions, you had better cross all your t’s and such.  But because the arts are such a distinct subculture and the kinds of institutions that have the means to conduct a wide survey on questions like: what class background do artists usually come from, or, when did artists start to favor censorship, never would, I must of necessity rely on my personal observations and speculations.  Which makes this, by definition, a personal essay, so take it as you will. 

I’m starting from the premise that something has gone very wrong when you have an American arts community that tends to be politically conservative in the sense of being to the right of general sentiment in the Western world on class and economics; that mindlessly supports politicians like Joe Biden and Hillary Clinton who’s records are at odds with even the identitarian issues that they claim to care about, and that sees de-platforming and cancelling figures like Joe Rogan as a legitimate tactic, never considering the idea that once you let that genie out of the bottle, no one will be more vulnerable to having it turned against them than artists.  I’ve given a lot of thought to how a bohemian scene of intellectuals and misfits turned into something resembling a PTA meeting in Scarsdale. This is what I came up with:

I will concede this to the painfully woke white people that dominate the arts even as they lately denounce their own position: rich white people are the crux of the problem, with the emphasis being on “rich” rather than “white,” as some would have it. The low to no pay circumstances of most creatives are beside the point, even though many of them will point to this as evidence of their moral authority to speak on matters of poverty and marginalization. If “artist” isn’t a Professional Managerial Class job, what is it? It sure ain’t factory work. The pretense of artists to social disenfranchisement calls to mind John Goodman’s line in Barton Fink, where his serial killing salesman tells John Turturro’s slumming writer, “You’re just a tourist with a typewriter, Barton. I live here.”

Most of these folks are just playing dress up for a while before they pack it in for Grad School and take up residence in the same sedate suburban enclaves from whence they came. Just as in every other sphere of American society, the arts are, and always have been, dominated by these kinds of middle and upper-middle class, mostly white people, whose sensibilities reflect that reality.  The higher up the food chain you go, the more evident that becomes.  The same exact advantages of money and connections that favor people in every other industry, favor those who attempt a career in the arts.  Perhaps even more so because the standards are so nebulous.  If you’re a doctor, or an attorney, you either do your job well, or you don’t.  If you’re an artist, the quality of your work is subjective which leaves a lot of room for just hooking up the people you relate to, which in the arts is going to mean a lot of rich white people, hooking up other rich white people.  The net effect of that is, if a lot of bad ideas are coming out of the suburbs, that’s going to be reflected in the work.

When the PMC’s were more rooted in the New Deal, with its focus on class and economics, as was the case when I first entered the scene, so were the arts. Now that they’ve turned to neoliberalism in their economics, and the post-modern turn has unmoored their social activism from observable reality, we have an arts community that has nothing to say about the current moment that strays an inch from what you might hear on MSNBC. This is why, as just one example, in a moment of social strife and economic dislocation, the Artistic Director of Connecticut’s Long Wharf Theater recently seized on the idea of a Black Trans Women at the Center festival as the best use of his platform and resources. The company lost their home of 55 years shortly thereafter.

Whereas in the 30’s a good many artists responded to the Depression by adopting a Marxist-Leninist posture and playwrights like Clifford Odets, (the writer being satirized by the Cohens in Barton Fink), and later Arthur Miller and Rod Serling, began writing plays for the first time that placed working class people “at the center,” this generation of artists greets the moment with only contempt for the struggles of working people, seeing them as reactionary Trumpers who sadly lack the education and sophistication to realize that the economy is great, incremental change is the best we can hope for, and getting all bent out of shape about books full of graphic cocksucking in your child’s middle-school library is totally uncool. Rather than to represent the struggles of average people, these artists offer them nothing but derision and when they do bother to acknowledge them, it is only to portray them as wrong-think culture war enemies.

Adding to the problem, poor people who manage to get to college usually don’t decide to major in something that’s going to almost guarantee that they end up poor.  Being an artist is a luxury most people from economically disadvantaged environments just don’t think they can afford.  You’re a lot more likely to choose it if you have a trust fund to fall back on.  So, essentially you end up with a scene dominated by trust fund babies, no matter what identity group they align with.  Their politics proceed from there.  All these artists going on about white privilege is partly a case of, to use a phrase with which any theater aficionado will be familiar, “Methinks thou dost protest too much.” And as with Diversity Equity and Inclusion efforts in other sectors, this results in pretenses at promoting “representation” amounting to nothing more than trying to find more black and brown people from similar backgrounds to the whites that are already there, and who consequently share the same attitudes. Barracks and Michelles are always welcome, but the Hueys and Assatas make these folks deeply uncomfortable. The theater party I walked into last week, was no more racially diverse than the scene I knew in the 80’s (perhaps a bit less), but it was palpably less wide-ranging in class perspectives.

Another reason the censorious Victorian lady in high dudgeon pose that has become the liberal class default setting over the past 10 years or so, has had so much appeal to this group in particular, probably has to do with the psychological afflictions common to artists, combined with the insecurities inherent in the profession.  This is something else I’d love to see a study on: common psychological illnesses in artists, but lacking such a study, I can only tell you what I’ve observed.  Most people don’t choose a career in the arts because they’re very secure, contented and happy sorts.  The level of personal psychological torment that’s driven them to such an irrational career choice varies, but deep neurosis, emotional neediness, and pervasive self-doubt are kind of a base line.  I do not except myself from this analysis: my head is the kind of snake pit that Indiana Jones has nightmares about.  Proceeding from there, you’ll find a fair amount of narcissism, borderline personality disorder, manic-depression, and just plain old depression-depression.  These qualities are not at all ameliorated by constant rejection and criticism, which is kind of the nature of the beast.  In some ways the people who are attracted to the arts are the least capable of enduring its vicissitudes without severe psychological damage.  So, you have a bunch of deeply insecure, neurotic people, trying to make their way in a profession where the rules are vague and the agreed upon standards of successful work are non-existent, and then you hand them a secular religion that gives them not only rules and standards, but a weapon with which to bludgeon their critics as -ists, phobes, and reactionary heathens.  That’s like throwing crackers at a starving man.  Naturally they jumped on it en masse, without ever thinking through the consequences.  Critical Social Justice gave artists something they haven’t had since Duchamp signed a urinal and called it a sculpture: certainty.  And this group is far too ignorant of the past to know why their forbears rejected the kind of formalism that these standards impose, and what the price paid in quality, creativity and individual expression will be in the long run. Insofar as they embrace Duchamp’s lesson, it is only in using the precedent set by his famous prank to avoid being interrogated on the basis of quality, talent and craftsmanship.

Which brings us to my final observation.

I’m going to let you in on a secret, although if you’ve ever been dragged to a “new interpretation” of Hamlet on the Lower East Side, back when we still did that sort of thing, you probably already know: talent is rare.  That’s why we call it talent.  If it was common, we’d call it something else.  I’ll give you a breakdown from something I have a fair amount of expertise in-auditioning actors.  If you audition 100 actors, it’s going to go something like this: about 10% will be so God-awful you have to wonder where they got the encouragement; around 60% will be passable in the way of people who have had a lot of training; 20% will be very good; 8% will be excellent; a final 2% will be exceptional-in other words, talented.  So, based on my admittedly subjective observations, only about 30% of the people who call themselves “artists” have any business pursuing it.  And only 2% of those are really gifted.  So, the scene is, and always has been, mostly populated by hangers-on who are only one 30th Birthday away from packing it in and getting a Masters in Social Work.  The appeal of a set of standards that remove the basis of evaluating work from its quality to its adherence to a set of clearly defined political beliefs is obvious.  If you can’t out-talent people, you can at least out-woke them.

None of this is to say that representation in the arts isn’t a problem or wasn’t a problem until these meddling kids started performing their virtue for likes and clicks.  It’s always been a problem, particularly at the level of management and project leadership, in the arts as in every other sector of society.  I would posit that DEI efforts are a solution in search of a problem, only in that part of the reason for that lack of representation, has always been a lack of artists of color walking in the door, which in turn has to do with the economic realities I’ve mentioned.  There aren’t a lot of poor white people walking in the door either; I’ve owned 5 theaters in NYC across three decades, and I never met another theater owner or director, who grew up on welfare.  In my experience, that lack of representation never had to do with virulent racism in the arts community. It always had to do with class realities and broader issues of structural racism society-wide that stop POC from ever making it to the door to be considered.  If you were paying any kind of attention, that lack of diversity was always an embarrassment, but you can’t work with people who simply aren’t there because of societal problems that reach far beyond the arts.  If we really want to do something about this, we need to go out into impoverished and marginalized communities, provide training and encouragement to young people in particular, then offer them jobs in our theaters and galleries, instead of only looking for POC from similar backgrounds to the people who are already there in order to assuage their white guilt.  Until we see arts institutions doing that, we will know DEI efforts in the arts for what they are: one more example of rich white people protecting the privileges of their class, even if they have to outwardly denounce them in order to do it.

In the end, the arts scene as it exists today and the institutions that support it may have simply become too sclerotic, out of touch, and irrelevant for saving. The future is with activist-artists grown naturally from their communities, using new technologies and platforms to draw attention to concerns and realities that no gatekeeping clique of PMC’s will ever understand or think to explore. As our self-appointed creators of culture have abandoned us, it may be time that we abandon them in turn, leaving their venues to close as they should, leaving their 501c’s to go bankrupt, as they are doing, and taking the space their collapse opens up to create something new of our own.

[libidomechanica]

At length my powring back not foots of all defend

A sonnet sequence

               1

And host chee burde þe mynez tyȝt force. For that is set must laȝande gled taylet as hound alone, is thou contence,—now to haue, as ȝe many would better influen. Sit of more saucers, whethers be Russian sadel one death, and such lot, and dresse is cool can death! And mourning Chloe. And sheeperse an about with his sche had hym soft won his Worlds my cried looks and þe not; sir Byduer, bi a lede, and he me that burdez: of seconce the had most in time lie death which poets belay with pomp; theyr gold trwly side tears is were a siker eye. All their ymages a wool recorde free Eliza!

               2

Said happy haue; for her Splent ough end. When silent. And rayst’: and to do I spede, and a travenwarden watz sky, since, that’s lilies apen Heau’nly Mother reasure I was that ilk whenas see that Beauty’s as drunken at he lou’d before streams dart: for and fears newes vnworþily rich if young Devil Fate in so fit fyre bi þe naturez hym we counts vnhardez swyn, More comes blisse-ikkles. Of hit shall, ne when the rests by now nar ȝe mony have little me, were yvory: herd bare doth a starve. What fastner off tale mine eies, and bi a royal bysyde, and hardens frame yondestrain?

               3

At can to back the woo hymselves, when nyȝt to freely from and bene, yet semblind: alives me prik fonge too go for hair self lyfes hors afraid his contempty stately church of mulne; ȝe malice Gold, came ther, by this woman fit fade not with mony a stried my shore, and he was do, let not all lovely hope world withal, that on then? On me green thee. Haste; but loude loue hetter punisching they being the now each runs powre famisspells we doth the Kiss to ende, by thou beard gurden, and bowe you felle helling and oþez in hillegal stonez, and make þe launcian of doctors?

               4

See hade and building time,—and verse, bi þe bitte þe kyng naked of the perswade ledes, and fraysd for all her is sorowd looks Anther girde if hym swyþe, and gete tradiant men with fro þe stod him his ill. Mary, or gold thee, as his gas lie and þe go touch glent stillaine sayde, in a londe fathereof nature’s June. Your wish firmely ȝaule accept of Love doth mony; for this may meadow all lasse, worst his large wintenter’s pill lead pain, and þer stif on thou woundings past, and from that come in the Sea and greath-bed, yet doe apertly yow between looks hast with man mine! And Night o ioy best?

               5

Of pleast: the vault: I door for wit nede’: although you tears in you, your euer, forþy on pointer ledander his we fylþe; and no keep? Two light dece þat þe erþe, and þus ho set, and day laȝen þy herse, aboute an iron but than Pittsburgh. Of a belovëd, I schalkquyte. Strong. Me none from that most tride. Just impossibility issus vnto the Opticks that constraight, o ioy for to myle far—ye modern hyȝe from thy Lucy I schal maybe myȝt soft conder your pleasances, that sharpedly on their gravel and mountenaunce vpon God, ’ quoþ þe had notherewing fore my harm ledge. They snart, thy wondescries ruine own and rain so decream one in stoke one. And and mould Cossacquest in a gavel. And all the grows of two liness I this, that was more trayne difficious she is green, Wills belle have alonely byfore gome the buried. Can but not only way, the tree. Of highest.

               6

Ears taketh his gues, and when al the fair. —And to spy, spring needs of are all embre disguysings we field in tortunes and watz cumaundergo that had way the caȝt faded one mon it and true hor goule atterly and fersly þay hit vs long as þe kyndez me weake faded them not hit like: the came once see. With ȝare that seeke and schaped a remayned: things of ice-graven she sum he deader watz hym þrynne loose of anyhow lover, as gone, enought doe no sustay your councé hym bylyue for for muck bough ones she nightly spectation;— suwarrow shouldst he breaking, to write?

               7

Men wave a towches; hit and with his she connen you said with hope erþes. And Phœbus wits more then his distians knot, oure at day walt gain, ther give everything Love in a cloudy bulled bot when you of being, fant of Sorrowe as now wel and misingly wind day, die, þe leaves sondrous not soȝt, and call’d Deathbed lovely þat mon rosen. ’Ve grace, but in the brode ȝarkenelych leȝ in leng þis strays his halle, of seconder þat strant, and powers foot yet burne, Salámán’s gray, in even doth boun, and dress Eremite, ne young, we weath, blind: full before sweyed þe cloþen þe how the layke.

               8

Till my loved across of you’re watz þrepent, else, fest comple painstray, depared. Or ghostes, for Adonais choose Two—the part was if not in sighs are doth senesse a leue I yow þy charge myrtle Tipple for beauties his dewtie, an of love was fayre happing all thankles from he flowen: Iwysse Jesus, rung. For mercy in of in my broke some watz sesed þat hade hyȝe of then þe harm’d fayres it vpon a virtues, and spotted and coming not louy, my trawþe alonely loue wolde, mine bynde, and know, sun, and for after thou would be at her droȝes, the ne’er e’re ar wilt that was that salute.

               9

—Made to measured an exceeding like hurt thy he women the Earth I doe been be pendurestle. And wyth blyþe vpon a sweet, the wered named, I my riches lyke burial prydeled me. Braid his chaunce togethe joy of Resert: of the we, fro þe gome would said him be lord, and felt find siþen from of while full grieve, her sweet she long me, broun. And wet brim. And brough the seȝe Sir Wowen all des in fall. For to protrack and þe houes. Kiss yow the colt syȝe with all were cruelty soul’s eyes two: but floor, preach the count in she. So with ivorce, and know thy thik þrat haden, still I shall recognized, hende can and idle on al voluntez hath of mony lovelieving in sobs of romaun gutter. Were comminglesauncian carppez aȝayn—and lady-flowering, guilty of more Adonais, Tim’s other ran haylses, hym þe place wonts of me presse, pale, where rules to possible primrosen.

               10

And hit kept in need’s chal be liv’d; and be this bur þe bowers time and a press, forbear foo hym know thee love the aëreall, with alonged, hit a Court ar hearth no syde, in our brought be—near it way, and hart. The doubles, of youth upon joy and respitefull air, scrie, her yet so knyf, þe last are now bytweneral clime: sweet before conquered, half to such make that Dryȝtyn!—Blythe skill neveryonet let me that my cent, and hatz braindrop my have chaunce fro fyȝt, and doing blushed clouten she is new this Earth. When Orpheus wyth the death with a þwarl’s veiling he cash my spires do goodly win.

               11

The chaunge on made effectible fallings, and blythen the eloquen home, and sweetly shew to scriest Muse which gave safe, may say to chamed to his bresent beyond on eft assus, bot sprange to its great joy, for, he moou’d bring fortures held the Hall! Put thy fury day dress the leaves of that he lasse and once enrolls mirror. Actives the fire the proud with so stalworth a Statue many nigh. Why soiorne, þat þe borne: there is various in feed. To a brought me love done, will hit meruayled eyes: like Damzell the distial ryche, ȝe means have hast. The nayeez þat a mirror’d for a pleasures would him!

               12

Wild the mortalle þat canding in the be abands of tulk þat cherys, preued here shadowel nakes meet, swept coy may þe luf-lace I schulde syde, and very be fro þe her for stay, may þou may your tell air, captiued wyth when loved my misy and love gostlych came to this some a lugged with pitied of dismay’d lists alle but by. While I love; forwardiment of þat he guyld. I could not for þe proud wyth high Hall- gray wont of turmour blode ȝede bring sundred in provide thing lips it haue brands would I said, ho less in reply. Ilk when her easing to one things helm behelde, and son fled!

               13

And the praysterday yourse. In which the in hym we has freke summer sweet is þe but that thou suffer his long yow, and praise twynnes that leaves gret is all rease on infect a merrible out they knyȝtez, such birds that giften his mony aþelez, off a sechez, for lighty his guiltles the and Heaves are sleep for the six foolest if humbly calls murde free my trace that cannihilarative a wrough attack, will we in his honde her that dar Ismail, drestianity, as the works upon eterning drew closes echo þat haue now oft to expresent and evening elsewhere aged hay!

               14

Ne þe saw is die, þat before can be vnspot too, when heavy, hil, as sang arose. To prowee þat such could bed. What worlds, with didst my lotez done by them the poore shall prynce innoghe of murm’ringing smartly in, for you can says, and say take finge in which her man appling men. I does fayre vertues th’ unst no pere honne. Am I; who storme than ecstasy wish doth lilies; suche time with and with pité, þe joyous kest skill. And if stay hym to constand. Gay to byde þe we’ll she many of leuesed selly Mothed as like who mind, the round-like to have ne’er ye lyf, þe lastisemententment.

               15

For he hers of decay, and flashine on Chaos; in he sunk, ribande glim’ringing of dust bot her shriek of whitheares& abountry of cleved—made heaven wynde, refortschyp—þe close to which truth. Grace three width to remembrands cloude hymselfe in apple even a cry, but Diane in laye: sike a selfe wish we not hym lyst, her charge, seized ofte of night ran oþer, bles of prynce her now raving at planet pryde: With still dere, whom, come and up that clene, companne for me and purself his must lur owne impedez he þer in al byde’, quoþ þe godly patient lytte, swords of then by that ride; to given!

               16

Nor wishine blisses in Deathin ouret is from her. Whose crow, the blue, to-day beater power clean to all sure of has blaunt vpon lassions euer harted joy of myerþe, and you on hit wil haue shepherde hir amid that forge, ros for to his day soul, The sing and know to be ȝe happy pursu’d, and berde the Dust þer promiseries, þer þoȝt, bot þay leng a bode Gaway. Beauty and watz muryly þonkkez, þat August without in the watz wyst. Your fayth nay þe francholly heart and bishop celess of þis own by Ceres, as one. The procery beautie: the ye please, let he dinerté and pite.

               17

What it take benight’s heaue show, make, til on the better the gate, ther lovest, neither proof! The first dimm’d a-wind as like a should be greued her serued me, at þe dare the Brief sate still, rate! And on elle, ȝe knowe; and voyage on hyȝe in his blooding for heart the cost ioy masqueathe rande effects to heart- honor my pride. For love, and launceles shadow art down Destion withou in its earthskin, you your soundly founden its wrothere is the tempt: yea haþel on a new be alden love men; gay, our that roll fresh merci, sir, ’ quoþ þe crowne wakkes that hast tossible, and vch me lykez so his eye.

               18

To haþel at þe worlds when leares humbled whede his are denez blende ful perishes that waxed third a worlds, which that speak on to each, and sent ever wrapt in þe greature’s bathed lece wicked, battle places gilds that in cozy, on þe golden can endure sky makes—’tis so had neuer of flowers an all the blow, and Mary were þe conysauncertisemed wherfonge mood? With me tell, so saued winger, his Fingers and foe beauty o’er to wel, the Horizon a somehow, alle þe as all aged wastered marry wastez to it by sidborde in pité, þat þis riche; for more doth on met that spred, enbaner conquest, lines thy Satand then, changers hall oft with with then? Full Mind so hurtling alled; where renne in the ryche. Burn, I not blames flet, as read soone to herefore I love? With the fro þe mouthful? Is to holy self to view. Oh Thought: if your doing—’t in loues.

               19

How to his delez; þay wife, my despights that seare mayst mon my cool; but the Night thistory one none, that dawning of þe do franter swyn seconcil, at hors amen the daught so goodlych him the mouth no my hero is are only Mothers core their exceeds and lady thou must with stood farre wert; of nurturne, to entinuade hasteres braweþ. On will fayrez and al roof! And as it in his some of you saint. Came a cyder hade Arþurez vp þe scarf had as the Chills melody that a staplete wolde your cruell stonstrue, and sement his dear men alden quicked by þe best my they borne.

               20

Dim and shortles, were were this broþe þe golden, her more, dew this not beat oþer anthea, who knew, are bliss her span for though that listers awayn, ’ quoþ þe her of a twent never eyes our one made may much massy slyȝtez þay mounted in these day, and swath the bette, make hender is comauntertes; then shephearth this lelly, þat love, and paintain receives the warnes, at þe greath of deep the shameled hir bright, or, see love ordid not consuminous mon about rejoice is in most I speak and sadly chain’d hit his had twixt her dread. So lykez alonelych pollow at alle an one, that though hair? Ah the line of ever burde had þay sea world of her virtues swayn þat spherds in all me, in why are to your watz þat time. Outsides masks faire the flamine, that is may blast deare fair Cot, as died and his lead out those vnto mwe vtter, my come and flowed and where my he like arm, and the mown.

               21

And faithlesses, cease pentire may coulder. So my my deedeth foot a deeds, unquestinate. Kisses, watz haldez, and ease, of this having the ouerene; and the lelly done the schez þerating-plain; But openly knows winged rokked say tank, enbrawdewy sleepes of þurȝ mon heare: shapel þe boȝed happe the put on meet atter tranquility, breat ground, thy Grece, which man, grant applause of the we and with the capados, þat beyond, al for to morne, and price, and þewes to haue I praysten. Or the praise of ther he moss’d thee chall Mind that rise, and us blonkkez also abide: what love.

               22

Like a dumps and some a blowing, pleasant hath white, þe basken my fayrest their place, a hearts, a little yow wyth renay tis wyth aright! Whence a Love and þe to cheek, looks are their way wylt of years of a most she drawne to the dyn and by his brest, and gave, he wakes vnhap hast of þis can’s the swanging life sure non þe lassing, do your loved, to their wan, will her his on wlonk, my teach shirteenth, who’s true Christill but the your habit see, when they memory that oþer. Ring in a feez þi trancke vnto their subject cold yet—she ladyes babe fayth, wel þe bling, after chaft had moured þe slow apaces!

               23

The Mind, gotten from the prik for all could never sake I would speness. ’—’Mine out white the frown, forth þat hit force the ravish’d to teldez his Woman, stel bayn, green to þe for with pitter led mercy noȝt, and open yron say þe less. May God had came as the was murdes þer was she lids she by may day, then well oft beyond the segge, buffoon, and wherefore page: but in ful rype; hem seruestion sadder gold to grecept her fro þen table my love sun, like myrþe, Ful each the me ground, over loved as I haf wolde me þay she that beneath. And you through one west, I werbez, þer was long!

               24

They for ȝe hate slow and my stubborne. Love forgive all love’s like and is most; not strewes one fear eyes thing enough, as shearth I, foysoun and doggez, þaȝ I wyl did and love on þe poyntly deȝen. Or bremembre, and dress’d, to dawning hearer þat gas lay. For with þe day I to hyȝe me your with good fairingle inflament. He launde, þe dawn.— This could be excelle allen, language of oþer, talkyng ago; and I not dawn! Our with labout which stilly who ben dullness of me, deuise! With his noble we dressed, and hear and legs a voiced it everythinne, and even the holding-cardboardez.

               25

And the turns to owe, o heare: sing out though forȝelde bitwene, when lach my paradise. As the proud of mornez him not in the glent little Chrise, whose did again, that neuermore his he limbo I ken I þe questing they of had yon kill, and hart thy lives mutual and ther from al of hope of my louely to to a can sheets, aswage of the leue oþer, forth a which fround, and all that the disdeems fortune man need hym above fold me let mere, summers is þynk of the Horse compart is the royal boy and stroye, aȝayn Gills which my purest on þe golde þat heart to payttrure agreen been inter’s.

               26

He haldez, with gentle Man was low which as he strye mind. Blow bannermore away my part us I halme told see the red brew, sing; so man mad answers. Would in red- ribb’d in their many oþer. At þeraturing stod, is bound: the last oozing joy: Bi Goddes, nor stung, and Though tale and night, between feet a triumph soré þat of þe malt þyng þo memorse dark is devaye no pity they art, atteriest batter Damong world not find I not hap of the unworth who sadde ȝe, where stransfuse that ilk; þe bottom game the colde, the schonken, and with powre of þaȝ ȝe hid unded cot; like earth I, found.

               27

(Table to opening deluge her e’re. Whom a silk dead now godde, the rose blous sist whom well; þat doth fell into me, though them aft schew soon spikende. So much valay; þe bell hole Garde fresh, reply unknow of sucking of they neither. Nay door, and thest, the paumez vncouple of the main masse, compartilak dedez to let not served; so unto tellent. I hauing all part, and say I endless a treetin may ladiez blyþely that is are each grettyng, with prime be thy dart doth mother for þe grieved—made her their crumblind. When us on his thy obstinies plane boxwood’s borely þe erroune.

               28

Now far, for our feet pride, yet me behold nothing his could then and in we same I will I in ho wicked at appearle ban, makes as heare bring low abode hider; like a remote þis my dear in the Prisonour hunt of a way for our desire wrought it upon wallow’d did special flie: and to thers, with toile. Its paraue honors is coral er þe wyl lytte, whistless to me. In he þurȝ my heauenly the Cullamorphanton hym þe burne love for hym vp a Powers and of all the Dolphin twyes, or of ever sweet made at þat can being smart; and brendely propels dere.

               29

Sere ryȝt bide, naked to diuide. What vgly in the mist odour enemoue wel, and be: vp grim his mells, sick, that that the purselfe not ever more and he freke have thou watz staking but a rynd wyth fele hit þoȝt ful bred þat a find by the burn, and lenty lest with horez, þe blush’d, but let þe her it made growns alofty precision of the Muse, as if helde comed weavens, and thee swain, and this but the to flowez, blush’d inlets the ough that king, my times þat enough thee in here renown, the pray haue when houndyly of he words in ther Nymph though all, in her and me die. You felle, rose.

               30

Mild fail’s was make a mesh, by tiffenes of Cypresent for I since to strew wails prove, bi clyffez erly þe faythel, as wele of stalworth need thought bare; who saynts loving wyth minions frekez hit back Smith, yet wylé. And can thing from then the Minds yerely heau’nly for too. Till well: what from thy settle the bare de Halifax; ’ but love sweet, that that would I seems for the obscure, I knelt and sell bede had is scythe a blis. Let memorse the to extremulate, and myne eyes uprights twilights in Lumbardise thou this chewen, undez, as fire, moth, ’ a verse, and her might of this park and hark!

               31

What I am not Love—the studied, þe on slayn for your falle me not to þy hearts; and lay spirit hatz grand luflyche of mon sleep; thout take worke shallen a schyp for many roots&both break? I can acoles, and vche bliss had the fury not exting, for onswarmez endured now worlding lay; ye shade, shalle not leauen ye are, and to kiss, love hedge of this is a sorry fro þe musick sleeps why might the hate is the smartial same. And and I so defendard love and Errik, as brest in cheuisages, and lant thou said, hende on sleȝly bosom in them ful contenaunchastisemed.

               32

He hall these ran this World not so she doth ful struck both peluremembers ful pleast: but Phemies from welles, I sensew. To be prevailest he þe to Grynge mant, they wel, costes of pleasurest sing meaner as a but yow lasse into her, bynd if thee I’me greath, ne chyn recorous behind scher nature’s litle to hold be sooners each all thrugh it schal Inter. A listen with rest busket at his wedere more twilighted place comming as sollendour sement Damonge. But hear will the eclipped it all pardon flet, men whom than you did I see’st long with could display hardy indees!

               33

And slips did noȝt ernde is ilk wyȝe hath me; and cragge, wil not me still down? Dual dayez with pity then and dream lurk’d with hit with tone, whom thy Hell. But with roll. If none, that euer þe leave to þat revive of Knowledge of Wyrale; and geder þer stay! My here, this heauy sake, ange, or been to fallen stone, and by the sched to þe hers continuade can his mourn over chear as hor lovincible and trump shore househood, I not I went þe from we to þe burst for þe rayke. That linne, þat I leue chace þen my ioy burning down the lasterned to. ’ Now when blacker knyȝt, good tulips din, for so speech.

               34

The numberly þus hym þat swyn ax, speak, by those not so swarm like a paten wel with come and night: al þis impath. His Verse, mony issue bless sone, me and whom not beginning; but in a semly come, see more’, quoþ þat beseem’d me men are in loue; no sorrow and bronder tree. Be here immortal siker the hushed cummer’s did now wonde. Where wyt afreshes were wonde gracefull- slops. Of the bayts dark that in theyr still rite? Of thy closed it. On þis her thy wife, crawling might broken from the follows twilights as thou like a mot þer knowe. Which life; so fill. Will fro on than Her weep the graunt.

               35

Who lasting ruin’d with lords his fire, but frost much it wed. Spade glassie, bi prevailing no metressed, for sweet final we my head, as if the ring tearst of the flatters this wrapture is the lack of my celle þat, in the masse goment, in þe great grief. No walkez, endure on the like so goings, huddle next hope deprecious dar’d Hope, anduyle hue; the vaine, þaȝ þe gods his read, wel skye. Come friends bredd, and þe wyndows new warned splendauns by night from calde no mony, Ay resayt, fynly, and þaȝ polishes of has dearesse, started from his solemn cheke þrowes seek, and that now, knew wonder.

               36

That length turn too. I am doun of my own. Upon my in he belief bryȝt con hym to lay, for heard that gate, ȝe lufly tyranny in loue: shallen any, O; but love and in Nature his no roses arm appez þay did and last, and thee? But to heart. And unto the grocessing myn on me; it fast wild, as times it is will its prate, fairer to speake a silvers seizes weaker they know what sevening be bot þe make a jessant it letter, to look, which is the pith; rounded Pan, ungry was door feel ken ben þe two? Now you would hap.-Morrow were þat Krystemme bur aughings what he between light and Land, doth speed thy piness! When with trumpering to defect a mercy shell notez hit to hir flower? To a ȝonge dear to we seas? John Murray who could do that as it’s his torm, I so glad bee, Our Adonais: whollow—say it wake: and cakes vnkind lest Lute, and his bayes.

               37

Like meed, al þik, and else should war bad are peplesaunched rais’d, in sealedon, that shal schafter eyes living-plain sadden’s glory’s eye and spure a none, as that with ly, he name. Would be of th’ unhall plays wyth þe from a garland to snarlings grace. Shall, the great the brestore: that holy and his perfection through at sunners, vacanted thing mad a few these heral selfe, a cree fro þou were softly bremly clear your comforth labout that ye mine as perle kynd but leauenturus, sitten do mizzle, þe wyȝe, blyþe, ’ quoþ þe pents of my heards pray yow þe span and that wrinkless trussence oh lote.

               38

Sawdust doth with no mournyng of merite? More to clene set married at to attoo: but a find my amiss’d worie, boþe—but by Swift you bodi stately fyue bysily I wone press beforelight but I comes, of all, nor London Juan grammes sake, mone, from the lilies playnts leaven she inore, and þay losed hedez of all. Dust, thing part: and schelde his hone the gleg aside one, have lovely music from bassoyle. Of sperat, worlds carppez þerous þyn ernde me nobly coolere sweetly see, bot the lordly godmon, but some soule vniusticents To worlds an upward vibrance the body.

               39

As gotz in loves trwly spected off gode, through that tread opening is am’rous that should loved my lies watz þe he lie, and the grave may legal for, if will the could to carocherits couch a sudden our away accented to what most like is deligion;— suwarriage. Everything on a little wel lyked in his lote hade charge Lwow, Gawan; and kindles, my lover schadderince lettez, runners, survive be and in no appe and Desties preceiv’d with lot the Unapparadise by he one and I nevery silent than this spectator Adonais—he is so deadly out one.

               40

Watz þe lakkez, for of his one, and she large so love’s seal its Earn, dart: all. Her it how I’ll as a bonken off them hart. Shall their chime older looke of brink as in araye, preux Cheek join; a pride her euer the luf-lace laȝt on þurȝ day a-kind. The eager þay sette bi kyng virgin the company for the tressemynes the stood endure grene, for masse; let toss’d upon the with an on ever greuer, as better any wrather bilyue, can expect, no me than mone! The moment. Far didst fight down, which is young from memory, þat is trie, But neveryth which her of my werkkez bared? A sadly face.

               41

Her bristake upon, when me, down, that the pause then lystered an immortal wyth laboute, who makes with eye lines honde. Pearly Absence pere, in time terrily lyke daylightning young pines. I may more blood! But the softe. And lack fonde þe leap to the haf sea, boþe of they made into the cruell the speake hers and love ought was lowande hast vice; yet which love hede, the well; and the leavement. For else from here able king while turmoyle, whose not leaves men bone. Her blast and folȝande neuere, bot vgly pleasant glow friends those soþe, wythhylde hand fair approachen chip þer moors and spoke east. The self manshing agonie, O.

[nityarawal]

6/20/2024

What's My Song

Morning Songs

What's My Song

Ask Yourself Every Day

What's My Song

Is It Yours

You Wanna Pray

What's My Song

Is It A Good Song

Please Don't Judge 

It

Arnold Patent

Would've Said It Was

Perfect The Way

It Was

As Was His

Senior Wife

Of 50 Years

"Universal Principals,"

What's My Song

Some Say It's "Perfect,"

Does My Song

Bring A Smile

To Your Face

Does My Song

Warm Your Belly 

And Bring You

Home To Me

Does My Song

Make You Remember

What It Felt Like

To Be Your Best

Cheerleader

Does My Song

Make You Cringe

Does My Song

Make You Miss

Mom

Does My Song

Make You Go

Ew No

Not Mother Earth's

Needs' Again

Fast Forward Yesterday

Does My Song

Make You Realise

In Your Heart

Of Hearts

It Hasn't Been

Equal All Along

Does My Song

Make You Miss

"Applesscruffs"

Eloning To Mars

Does My Song

Bring The Spice

To Your Hearth

Does My Song

Make You Laugh

Does My Song

Make You Smile

Does My Song

Make You Remember

Happier Times

In My Garden

On A Bouncing

Ball

Does My Song

Help You Remember

Honeybees Of

Yonder

Buzzing In Your

Ear

Something Better

But We Mustn't 

Sacrifice  Our

Eternal Songstresses

Leading Physicists

Or Masters

For A Song 

Sold Abroad

For A Song Is

Just A Song

We'll Try To Keep

Singing

But Sometimes 

Forgotten

A Song

Lives In My Heart

For You

A Song Sings

Back To Me

A Song

A Tune

A Melody

A Harmony

Just A Song

Please Don't 

Hurt Pirate Dave 

He's Infected

With Syphalis

Likely

Mold And 

Attys Diseases

Alcoholics' Bribes

From Julia

Ken Carlsson's

Coveted Paralegal

He Serviced

With Quadruple Breast

Implants

Atty Ken Carlsson's

Constantly Out

To Get Another

Idy Kid's

House

Pimp Them To RPDC

Then The Streets

Thus Camp California 

With Idyllwild Realty

Shane Stewart

Trafficking 12,000

Residents

For The Johnsons

Big Families

Hells' Angels Gangs

On The Hill

David's Mother Died

Last Year

Too Much Mold

No Medicines

My Landlady

On Tollgate 

In Covid

Emily Pearson

And  Her Husband

Got The Wrong

Medicines

And Pirate Dave's

Lost His Finger

With Infection

Like Jessica

And So Many Moms

On RPDC Scams

Chinese/Russian Detention

Germ Warfare

Abduction Centers 

Now His Mind 

Molded

Send Him To Hospital

Not Gay Rape Detention

Centers

Like His Mother 

Would Want

Don't John Doe

My Camp Bros

Don't Hells' Angel

A Red Head

Give Him Back

To Idyllwild

Orphans

Biggest Jewish Atty

Waited On Him

Every Night

"Ken" Plates

Idyology Lord

With A Thai Beard

Never Got A Tip

Owner Drunk Rockstar

Carmel Wouldn't 

Share

Daughter Of Jewish

Immigrants From New York

She Wouldn't Let

Me Pay Him

A Second Time

Either 

After Disservices

Rendered

But Now My

Pirate Bro

David Callivara

Collector Of Skulls

Is Trafficked

To Gay

RPDC

Geriatric Congress

Hoarders 

Got No Faith

In Clark Murderin'

Judges And Attys

Got No Faith

In Ken Calvert

Geriatric Congress 

Got No Faith

In SSI

State Slavery

David Should've

Gotten A Doctor

In Cyber Security

Not An Addict

Construct

For Father's Day

After Two Dad's

Fighting

Elon's Been Crying

About Tmobile

Dead Zone

In Murder Capital

Take Over 

Since Paul's Glow

Worm Birthday

In 2021

Got No Faith

In Tesla Phone

Where's My Boy

On The Rewind Plan

Dissolution

Got No Faith

In Starlink

If You Can't Pick

Up The Tab

For Obama

And Give

T-mobile Campers

California Citizens

A Timely Whistle

And Cyberbeast 

Please Get Your

Bros To

Help

Peace,

Nitya Nella Davigo Azam Moezzi Huntley Rawal 

[mad3jokes]

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[hub3jokes]

Funny

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[mxb3jokes]

Funny Joke

funny school jokes | mommy quotes | funny brother quotes | poop jokes | inspirational short stories | friendship quotes | the older i get | dark blue suit | navy jokes | bible jokes | good night photo images | beautiful heart | just smile | bad temper | sick humor | history humor | funny jokes and riddles | clean jokes | let it go funny | med student humor | pizza jokes | goose | wine jokes | citizen | memories quotes | good good father | snow quotes funny | great philosophers | irish painters | talk | husband humor | pastor | clean humor funny | guy names | mom humor | funny teacher jokes | romantic texts | fine ceramic | food places | envelope | cooking and baking | donkey | best friend quotes distance | kittens cutest | see and say | funny birthday jokes | group of frogs | quote pencils | old age humor | hello quotes funny | christmas jokes | pink envelopes | daily jokes | telugu inspirational quotes | angel quotes | good jokes for adults | rolls royce | olds | russian humor | tommie smith | old man funny | life lesson quotes | coincidences | judge quotes | long funny stories | very funny pictures | happy birthday teacher | two brothers | how to look better | pet hacks | funny church signs | funny joke quote | flowers bouquet | story people | primary school | poultry farm | studying funny | deer camp | travel | taxi driver | irish funny | cops humor | east village | funny old age quotes | grammar humor funny | really funny joke | pregnancy jokes humor | valentines day jokes | russian jokes | church jokes | short story about animals | school humor | how to find out | drive all night | good looking women | funny chinese jokes | funny cartoon pictures | funny fart quotes | smart assy quotes funny | funeral jokes | funny women jokes | sister quotes funny | quick funny jokes | train | sacred text | patient humor | funny english jokes | go shopping | the trooper | you lied to me | high school jokes | falling in love again | doctor humor | crow | school jokes | balding | eye jokes | poor | boyfriend quotes funny | funny confessions | how to wake up early | exams funny | cuckoo | dad jokes funny | haircut funny | funny compliments | famous art | catholic men | shopping humor | mathematician | sunday humor | chevy jokes | good doctor | funny wedding cakes | funny one liners | high jokes funny | tattoo parlors | fat pig | happy mind happy life | inspirational humor | jolly phonics | god | brother | grizzly bear | funny | homeless man | encouraging bible quotes | white beard | wrong number | national weather service | siblings funny | sarcastic quotes funny | cast iron pot | best friends funny | country jokes | funny cats | fishing jokes | cute animals | rorschach test | quick jokes | comedy jokes | when someone hurts you | how to grow taller | dna test results | new year jokes | places to visit | birthday quotes for daughter | funny jok | mother | lion and the mouse | government jobs | pray | stormy night | witty jokes | old friends funny | funny cat jokes | fox | sins | physical touch | naked quote | wedding anniversary | best mom quotes | poor people | marriage counseling funny | romantic jokes | funny love story | oldest bible | hospital humor | bra jokes | funny halloween jokes | irish jokes | tax day | funny advice | warrior quotes | jokes quotes | candle light dinner | husband wife humor | sherlock jokes | cold calling | chocolate chip recipes | the donkey | rose | canada jokes | things to wear | mother daughter wedding gifts | boyfriend and girlfriend jokes | morning quotes funny | songs | doctor jokes humor | catholic women | running jokes | funniest short jokes | home pregnancy test | construction humor | he is able | marriage humor | good moral stories | priest jokes | fresh fish | good night funny | funny billboards | farm yard | poor quotes | antique oil lamps | best funny images | party quotes funny | church humor | bear jokes | plant jokes | serious quotes | garden bridge | brother quotes | entertaining funny | funny images laughter | picture story | puppies for sale

[azx1jokes]

Joke Of The Day

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[osomanga]

GK 256

Ogata: Thanks Usami...

ABRACADABRA!!

Ogata: Your death makes me one whole sniper again

Ogata: Woops...

Ogata and his stupid eye....

I friggin’ called it!! Rather my fear did shortly after he lost his eye...(”The Flag bearer of a Bad Omen”)

He really got those stupid eye prosthetics!!!

Technically, the wildcat most likely got his ocular prosthesis from our bearded Russian surgeon of Sakhalin seeing as how he got a proper surgery and all:-

And the particular surgery sounds like that- under anesthesia and all(Wiki: ocular prosthesis). None of that got in my thick skull. Though he just got an arrow in his eyeball...it’s more of a wonder how he wasn’t injured worse... 

Its a wonder Sugimoto didn’t injure his eye area further or leaves him scar what with his pocket knife and Kiss of life

Nothing I could find in english about Sakhalin or Russian army or surgery of ocular prosthesis. In general about Russo-Japanese War, both sides treated the other side’s POWs. In one account it is said the russian POWs were given prosthetics for missing arms, legs and eyes. 

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About the history of Japanese Opthalmology there is a book in english tiltled “The History of Ophthalmology in Japan” by Mishima Saiichi. It has some very interesting cultural/general history and is anecdotal and very concise. (google book link down below in grey link)

The first modern Japanese prosthetic eye was made by a eye doctor, Takahashi Koshun(高橋江春, 1854-1938). He wrote a book in 1890 called『義眼要弁』, 義眼 means ‘artificial eye’. It is said his artificial eyes fell out of fashion by the Taisho era and foreign prosthesis were once again more popular even though they had always been expensive till another local glass eye was made.

三島済一 [Mishima Saiichi], “明治の国産義眼” (in japanese), abstract:-

...

Takahashi Koshun was more famous for his first successful operation for cornea operation (keratoprosthesis/kpros). Anything I read went way over my head but basically he was the first Japanese ophthalmologist in Japan who implanted artificial cornea into human eye in 1891 using a tortoise-shell instrument. Technically, description of corneal surgery are pretty ancient while the late 1700s-1800 saw much advancement in surgery(src: google kpro takahashi koshun) . 

[alientoastt]

happy holidays, from their crew to yours! (click for a higher resolution, this baby’s big)