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eelhound · 3 years ago

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"This Fourth [of] July is yours, not mine. You may rejoice, I must mourn. To drag a man in fetters into the grand illuminated temple of liberty, and call upon him to join you in joyous anthems, were inhuman mockery and sacrilegious irony...

Whether we turn to the declarations of the past, or to the professions of the present, the conduct of the nation seems equally hideous and revolting. America is false to the past, false to the present, and solemnly binds herself to be false to the future. Standing with God and the crushed and bleeding slave on this occasion, I will, in the name of humanity which is outraged, in the name of liberty which is fettered, in the name of the constitution and the Bible, which are disregarded and trampled upon, dare to call in question and to denounce, with all the emphasis I can command, everything that serves to perpetuate slavery — the great sin and shame of America! 'I will not equivocate; I will not excuse;' I will use the severest language I can command; and yet not one word shall escape me that any man, whose judgment is not blinded by prejudice, or who is not at heart a slaveholder, shall not confess to be right and just...

For the present, it is enough to affirm the equal manhood of the Negro race. Is it not astonishing that, while we are ploughing, planting and reaping, using all kinds of mechanical tools, erecting houses, constructing bridges, building ships, working in metals of brass, iron, copper, silver and gold; that, while we are reading, writing and cyphering, acting as clerks, merchants and secretaries, having among us lawyers, doctors, ministers, poets, authors, editors, orators and teachers; that, while we are engaged in all manner of enterprises common to other men, digging gold in California, capturing the whale in the Pacific, feeding sheep and cattle on the hill-side, living, moving, acting, thinking, planning, living in families as husbands, wives and children, and, above all, confessing and worshipping the Christian’s God, and looking hopefully for life and immortality beyond the grave, we are called upon to prove that we are men!...

What, then, remains to be argued? Is it that slavery is not divine; that God did not establish it; that our doctors of divinity are mistaken? There is blasphemy in the thought. That which is inhuman, cannot be divine! Who can reason on such a proposition? They that can, may; I cannot. The time for such argument is passed.

At a time like this, scorching irony, not convincing argument, is needed. O! had I the ability, and could I reach the nation’s ear, I would, to-day, pour out a fiery stream of biting ridicule, blasting reproach, withering sarcasm, and stern rebuke. For it is not light that is needed, but fire; it is not the gentle shower, but thunder. We need the storm, the whirlwind, and the earthquake. The feeling of the nation must be quickened; the conscience of the nation must be roused; the propriety of the nation must be startled; the hypocrisy of the nation must be exposed; and its crimes against God and man must be proclaimed and denounced.

What, to the American slave, is your 4th of July? I answer: a day that reveals to him, more than all other days in the year, the gross injustice and cruelty to which he is the constant victim. To him, your celebration is a sham; your boasted liberty, an unholy license; your national greatness, swelling vanity; your sounds of rejoicing are empty and heartless; your denunciations of tyrants, brass fronted impudence; your shouts of liberty and equality, hollow mockery; your prayers and hymns, your sermons and thanksgivings, with all your religious parade, and solemnity, are, to him, mere bombast, fraud, deception, impiety, and hypocrisy — a thin veil to cover up crimes which would disgrace a nation of savages. There is not a nation on the earth guilty of practices, more shocking and bloody, than are the people of these United States, at this very hour.

Go where you may, search where you will, roam through all the monarchies and despotisms of the old world, travel through South America, search out every abuse, and when you have found the last, lay your facts by the side of the everyday practices of this nation, and you will say with me, that, for revolting barbarity and shameless hypocrisy, America reigns without a rival."

- Frederick Douglass, from "What to the Slave is the Fourth of July?" 5 July 1852.

#frederick douglass #quote #quotations #july 4th #fourth of july #independence day #black lives matter #blm #abolitionism #egalitarianism #racism #slavery #nationalism #patriotism #imperialism #american history

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freeindependentnews · 3 years ago

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handlewcaare · 4 years ago

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art by: ROSUTO

The Dojo was intended for self-defense practices, to disarm a belligerent enemy with but the pressure of the fingertips. Tai Chi depended wholly upon the synchronization of all points of the body. Though when one already mastered such things, it became tedious when no one would challenge them. It was as invigorating as a mindless act and that’s what made him seethe.

Garou made no exceptions to his opponents—or his sparring partners for that matter.

Initially, his much larger and taller partners would humor him by pretending to submit to his blows. It was only when he became taller and his baritone dropped an octave that such mirth was replaced with avoidance. It was one thing for a puppy to chew on your shoelaces, it was another when a behemoth of a wolf was.

Since he grew, his muscles lean and defined from nearly a decade of practice, he became one of the most difficult partners to fight against. What leisure and definitive strikes bloomed wisteria under his strong and strident onslaught, even when his partner seemed to half-ass it. His palms held the restraint of an unsheathed blade when he deflected a blow with but a bat of his hand, only to ram his elbow directly into their nose.

His sparring partner’s head was tossed back. The momentum of such a punctual strike evoked carmine ribbons to sprout. “Ow- what the fuh—!” There was little to no time before Garou outright rammed his right heel through the side of his partner’s jaw. The impact practically tipped the larger, stockier adolescent down to the ground.

There should have been vanity, the achievement of a Goliath being knocked down with but a pebble. However, what lingered in the depths of a leering tawny gaze was utter disappointment.

Could he really keep going at life like this? Constantly being subjected to those who would always pull their punches with him? It was rancid to envision that this was the requirements of being on the defense, to be rooted to the same technique and the same lifestyle consistently. They needed to fight back, to stop thinking that he was completely incapable of defeat himself.

“I left myself wide open several times,” Garou hissed at the adolescent who shakily collected his teeth from the ground, “I was givin’ you freebies and you still missed them.” It was safe to assume he anticipated it. The stockier adolescent wasn’t that good with deflecting facial blows.

In a beat, he swiveled his glower to one of the students who was kept on the sidelines. someone who very seldom partook in the sparring sessions. Too often would Garou hear him say he needed to use the bathroom, only to sneak out and flirt with girls.

“You.” There was little to no room to refuse, “you’re my next partner.”

Said student had fell into the same lines as the others with his refutation, but twice as obnoxious. His physique tensed under the beckon, though Charanko knew better than to outright hide or cower. It would have only made him a lesser man, especially when he knew Garou could possibly hunt him down.

Feebly was there an attempt to pacify the snarling wolf who hungered for a real opponent. “No way!” What words had been used to placate sounded like the equivalent of a terrified rabbit’s heartbeat, “L-Look, I’m only a white belt!”

Many might have considered it a waste of time at that point, but Garou saw no progress in holding back. His baritone strident and robust, as it had been accented with a snarl, “So? What’s the color of your belt got to do with fighting?”

What accessories of a belt should have been a masquerade of rank. At that point, he was exasperated with the reluctance, so much so he was already letting his knuckles tense. The hard and raw callouses felt within the tight grasp of Garou’s palms.

“Come at me.”

Was he berating him? Not exactly. Charanko was older than him marginally, but there was something child-like that only egged Garou’s irritation. A gnawing pressure unrelieved that had just became a blistering nuisance.

“Give me a break, Senpai!” The laments made by Charanko only split the blister open, fortunately Charanko was smart enough to (albeit reluctantly) approach. “Plus, this is only practice, we’re not fighting for real!”

It shouldn’t have mattered. What the Old Man had said about practice only being a leisure task was something that would not qualify for progression. Constantly shadow-boxing wouldn’t have given anyone the means of a hands-on experience.

This asshole was either taking Garou, Bang or the Dojo for granted; it was a wager to believe it was all three.

“Aren’t you older than me?” Garou barked—he didn’t look that old did he?—as he sharpened the dexterity of his fist to take the first swing, “aren’t you ashamed of being looked down upon? Huh??”

It was barely a half second when Charanko realized the intensity of the blow. The sheer momentum of it halting near an inch toward the tip of his nose released a hellish shriek. The fight was over with before it even began and Garou couldn’t suppress the disgust that curled at his lip.

The argumentative bark that had been accented with a frantic stammer couldn’t have hid the piss stain in Charanko’s pants.

“D-Don’t pull your punch before it lands!! That’s scary!!”

Garou wouldn’t have if the owlish gaze his opponent held wasn’t so pitiful. It was pathetic how badly Charanko was quivering, even for something that constituted as ‘practice.’ With a scoff, he diverted his gaze toward the rest of the disciples. “You’re weak as hell, you don’t even qualify for a punching bag.”

It was an insult to the punching bag, if he was being honest. Garou frowned when he stepped back, “do you even want to be strong?”

“I-I just wanna be popular, man!”

Popularity Garou thought with an inward scoff. To gain muscles for women to ogle at. To find some inward and self-centered worth that could have been described as abhorrent. It was a futile means of security, especially with how long Charanko had been in the Dojo.

“Say, what are you gonna do if I were a monster?” It was a decent push for a shove, as everyone there had some type of response: ‘I’d kick your ass,’ ‘I’ll walk away from you,’ and then—

“I-I’ll cry and beg and do everything I can to make you let me go!!”

It was pathetic.

The hypocrisy of wanting popularity, only to do nothing to achieve it. With a wrinkle to Garou’s nose and a curl of his lip, he turned his back to the whimpering waste of energy. He only sucked his teeth when he growled out, “get out of my sight.”

The irony of it was found six months later. Where the heckles were amplified. No matter how hard he would press or how hard he would taunt, none of his peers would have ever considered to take him seriously. For such a monstrosity became evident in his lack of consideration to those who would give him nothing anyways.

What had astonished him, truly, was how quick his peers were to team up against him. After he would take down one, two would surround him. Eventually five more would join the fray, leaving the atmosphere damp with salt and copper. Five more became ten and soon, the entire body of his class laid sprawled at his feet.

Even when they took him serious (finally), they were a pitiful bunch. Some had sustained dislocated shoulders and hips, others attempted to stagger onto broken limbs, only to howl in agony. All their techniques were an easy read for him and it made him wonder why he needed to pull his own punches for their comfort.

Why did he have to settle? Their hypocrisy was found in their means of justification: heroes only became good when it was a profit to their popularity. Wouldn’t he be no better than the pompous shithead who would refuse to acknowledge his definition of ‘the strong’ ? The heroes who thumbed their nose at a disaster that was ‘too weak’ for them to handle?

By the time Bang entered the Dojo, it was long over.

To have lost restraint, it needed to be there in the first place. What frenzy and bloodlust had circulated through Garou’s dilated veins had not quite reflected the capabilities Bang had under his feeble masquerade. Such vicious and hellish strikes were deflected and interjected simultaneously in fluid strokes. The only thought he could muster when he was forced through the threshold of the dojo was a regret.

It wasn’t a regret found in underestimating the old man, but of how he could have possibly assumed he was above everyone when he was just as bad. He didn’t know it then, but the compassion Bang provided him for nearly a decade was lost in the glare he met at the front of the Dojo. His curses seethed to a man who hid his pain well.

“You are no longer welcome to my Dojo.”

And thus, he began his hunt.

Isolation quickly became a company of his. What with Society ostracizing him for a hobby—a profession, really—and no home to declare his own, he sought shelter in the midst of street corners and old shrines long neglected. The old splintered wood and vacant promise of an eager hero never made his eye stay open as he slept. In fact, it made it easier to sleep.

Was this what Charanko wanted? The acknowledgement of his achievements by the word of mouth? Already were people talking about how the nefarious Hero Hunter had single-handedly made a joke out of the tank top squad (as if they weren’t already) and how it would be best for people to lock their doors at night.

Already were they eager to paint him in worse hues than he already was. To say he would outright beat a man to a pulp in his own home wasn’t the monster he wanted to be. His monstrosity unified people, unified those lesser than average and found solace when the top of the food chain met a larger foe.

He didn’t know what solace really was until he managed to save some old black cat.

It was by the end of the night after his encounter with the dynamic duo—Golden Ball and Spring Mustachio—when he heard the yowling near the shrine he would occupy that night. It was a grating sound, a similar sensation to the puncture wound within the depths of his hand, and it was incessant. Garou could handle annoyances, but persistent ones were just a bad joke that overstayed It’s welcome.

He had two options: simply ignore it and go back to sleep or investigate. Unfortunately, he hadn’t the time when the sound of a disoriented laugh resounded from the depths of the forest. What howling laughter would be accented with a harsh prod toward the feline’s belly, only evoking a protective hiss and a swat to the staff.

“Oi,”

There was little to no time to retaliate. The moment the monkey had swiveled it’s head, he rammed his fist atop of It’s nose. His cologne of salt and copper had been enough to lure the feline away.

The monkey swiftly twirled his staff along his scapulae to ram against the hunter’s diaphragm, a decent means to pry him off, but it came to no avail when Garou laconically intervened the space once more. The masonry served as a scaffold for him to leap off and burrow his knee into the staff—effectively breaking it in the process.

“Oh shit—!” The monkey could barely manage to utter, yet what deliverance of a blow prior was nothing to the natural strike of Garou’s fingers into the monster’s trachea.

At that point, it would have been a begrudging victory. A pitiful landslide that Garou shouldn’t have anticipated more from. Unfortunately, the monkey was proven to be a bit of a cheater when two more arms had sprouted from it’s sides and snapped to dislocate his shoulder.

What sharp pain that had ripped through his muscle was only reciprocated when the monkey tossed him across the shrine and through paper walls. Such mirthful chortles resounded as the monkey gradually approached.

“Ah~! I think I know who you are~! The hero hunter, yeah?” The four-armed monkey guffawed as he valiantly stepped forth, “you wouldn’t happen to know who I am, do you?”

Garou huffed as he obstinately popped his shoulder back into socket. What ribbons of carmine that dampened his temple only flourished a hint of irritation. “I know you’re annoying.”

The tyrannical monkey could only flaunt a grin made of needles, “I like you!”

A shame the feeling wasn’t reciprocated.

The instant that Garou stood up, his endurance amplified in tandem to his opponent. What jovial strikes made from the monkey became easier to read, as if they were verbally pronounced out loud to heighten the exposure. The full thud between each blocked hit or an insurge of strikes would soon be interjected with a hellish cry of agony.

In the same movement of Garou’s block, he had fluidly pried off the appendage of monkey’s arm. It’s eyes wide with horror when it staggered back to hold a crux of weeping amber.

Past the split contour, Garou offered a haughty grin, “what, you don’t like me anymore?”

The monster became but another pelt to drape along the floorboards. What furor Garou was greeted with had been sloppy and lethargic, as it lacked the precision and dexterity he could barely muster with the wounds he sustained. What bruises and hellish claws that scratched down from his nape to his chest was met with more golden bloodshed.

The monkey, now missing all four of its arms, was but a punching bag. It had only taken him a second to accept his fate when Garou harshly kicked It’s dead weight into the shrine’s empty lake outside. The air was bitter in his lungs, a caution for winter to come, as he watched the monkey melt under the depths.

The singeing of the scratches and the various other injuries he had yet to treat became more prominent in his enervation. He knew the cat was still there, observing how he would fare against a tyrant with a bo-staff, but those eyes were simply observant than they were anxious. Twin verdant orbs studied the irritated hunter.

“Go on,” Garou shooed with a wave of his hand, “get.”

The feline simply meowed in response. It was a quiet sound, but it was inquisitive enough to gingerly saunter toward his legs and nuzzle against his shin.

“did ya not hear me??” Garou barked. Apparently the cat didn’t, given how eager it was to flop over his shoes. The fat bastard practically thundered a purr when Garou’s hand tried to nudge him off.

After multiple attempts to send the black cat on his way from whence it came, he opted to simply carry it out of the forest and back into the town square. It’s head tucked under his chin as he searched for a possible pet shelter as it purred within his arms. It wouldn’t last long being under his care, especially if monsters were suddenly interested in sparring with him.

“Mochi!!”

He raised a brow when he saw someone practically jump out of their car and run after him. For a moment, he assumed—rather, he hoped for it—they found a mochi stand. Yet, when their gaze flickered toward the black bundle, he knew what the price would be.

As the feline mewed, the person’s hands hastily plucked Mochi out from Garou’s willing arms. Their brows slanted as they peppered kisses along the cat’s face, “oh my god, I was so worried!”

At that point, he was already well on his way. His hands drowned in his pockets as he made note to get a lint brush for the residue fur.

“Hey, thank you so much for—“

It was within that pause he anticipated it: the sudden recognition of him being the proclaimed hero hunter. The man who sliced Blue Fire’s hand from his olecranon and made a jab of his use with flamethrowers. He had already readied his verbal arsenal.

“—you’re hurt!”

Oh hell no, he wasn’t going to fall through to this.

“ ‘m fine,” he had to be.

Unfortunately, the person seemed to be less than obligated to believe that. They momentarily stooped down to set the black cat by their feet. What concern stained their doe-like demeanor was accented with a deliberate extension of their hands.

Despite his verbal protest, Garou made no attempt to pry himself away from their scrutiny. It was invasive, bothersome to no extent, but he saved himself the embarrassment by securing his hands along their wrists. Their hands were warm, much warmer than the adrenaline he would find in his furor.

“I said: ‘m fine,” his baritone was coarse, rough with a Hakata dialect and he could only furrow his brows. To find solace was to refute it, as well intended as it may be. Gingerly did they withdraw by his private request.

What should have been the end only prompted them to suddenly retrieve their shawl they had wrapped around their shoulders, “Here,” they said as the warm wool was draped over his broad shoulders, “For getting Mochi back.”

“You don’t have to.”

“No, but I want to.” They said as they tucked their scarf along his neck. Given how silly his hair looked with its twin prongs, they practically suppressed the urge to chuckle, “it’s honestly the least I can do.”

He wouldn’t lie, it was a nice scarf, but leisure often came with future repercussions. How soon would he discover that they were a wealthy donor to the Heroes Association. He offered a small simper toward them, “...thanks.”

As long as he hounded after hunters, there would have been no means of quiescence within his accessable grasp.

“Don’t be a stranger next time,” they informed him when they collected their cat in their arms, as they retreated to their car, they called out from over their shoulder as they climbed in, “and rest easy.”

There should have been urgency to the change of his mind. How he would have been eager to call them back and tell them he would like to see them again. Solace was sought, to give him a moment to rest, but what was to gain from that when he hadn’t even finished halfway? Placing only twenty-five percent of effort was something the likes of his peers would do, to be adequate with just “enough” instead of what was satisfactory.

Solace was found, but he refused it.

Garou could only muster a gruff, “g’night” to them before he turned on his heels and sauntered off. He never glanced back at the owner’s car as he head back into the forest. Isolation was the only company he could ever afford.

#one punch man #opm #what kendall writes.#garou #Garou OPM #character study #I polished it up!!

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raveneira · 6 years ago

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I realized something

Im currently in a debate with someone on twitter about SasuSaku/SasuKarin I wont go into details but it basically revolves around Karin as a character vs Sakura as a character and Sasuke’s relationship with team 7/Taka etc

During this debate, I had to do a ton of research on certain things to refresh my memory and argue my points which yes, unfortunately, involved going onto SK blogs

But in doing so, visiting several SK blogs, seeing different SasuKarin posts and their arguments for it, not just on Tumblr but in plenty other places like youtube Instagram other sites on google etc and I noticed a pattern

Majority or I should say ALL the SK fans arguments that I SEEN [of course Im not speaking of the entire fandom only the part I SEEN]

Everything regarding SK although they ‘claim’ to care about Sasuke and his feelings, I noticed a pattern in every single post and argument made by them

NONE OF THEM actually talk about Sasuke’s feelings

Lemme elaborate, the pattern that I saw constantly when speaking of SK and why they should be together etc it all comes down to one thing, or I should say, one person

Karin

Everything I saw was about KARINS feelings, about KARINS backstory, about KARINS horrible childhood and trauma

Basically, the main argument for the pairing is all about Karin, nothing to do with Sasuke at all

Let me elaborate further, to put it in simple terms the arguments and reasoning basically boils down to pity

Thats right, the very thing they accuse Sasuke of getting together with Sakura for is the EXACT THING they use to argue for KARIN

I’ll go even more in depth so you get the full grasp of the BS and the hypocrisy

They think Sasuke should be with Karin because she loved him, she was selfless and only wanted him to be happy, she stood by him even in his darkest moments, Karin and Sasuke have similar pasts so she can understand him better, Karin grew up being used and abused and Sasuke was the first one to show her kindness, Karin loved him unconditionally, Karin deserved love, Karin deserved to be happy, if together they would make really OP kids, the Uzumaki and Uchiha need to reunite again, Sasuke wasnt aware of Karin's feelings to the full extent they actually were so he couldnt properly respond

Do you see the pattern? none of this directly talks about Sasuke, it all revolves around Karin

Let me ask you, which part of those arguments actually mentions Sasuke’s feelings for Karin? in which point do they mention Sasuke’s pov at all? I had yet to encounter one

The most I found was that he respects her, he chose her, he saved her from Bee, thats literally it

Everything else is just all about Karin's feelings for HIM not the other way around which is all based around pity

Sasuke should get with Karin because of how hard her life was, how tragic her life was, how selfless her love was, how much shes done for him, how much shes suffered, Karins been used and abused since she was a child she should be happy with Sasuke who also had a traumatic childhood, Karins Uzumaki genes mixed with Sasuke’s Uchiha ones would create a really op kid, its so sad how Karin never moved on she truly loved Sasuke she should have got a happy ending with him instead of Sakura who was just out of pity and fanservice

The irony is astonishing, it all boils down to Sasuke should get with Karin because of what SHES been through and how SHE feels for him and how bad THEY feel for her because ‘her life was so terrible, she deserved a happy ending’ which is just utter bullshit and quite frankly disgusting

So its ok for Sasuke to be with Karin out of pity for her horrible life just to give her a happy ending they think she ‘deserved’

But not get with Sakura out of pity for her feelings for him and hurting her how he did

I see pitys only ok when it involves the character/pairing you prefer, I see all that talk about SS not caring about Sasuke’s feelings was all bullcrap

Its funny to me how SKs arguments revolve solely around Karin's feelings for him yet SS argues both sides and the feelings and relationship and development of Sakura AND Sasuke together

But when it comes to SK its all about Karin and what she deserves, when it comes to SS its about what THEY deserve and how Sakura AND Sasuke feel for eachother, its not a one-sided argument

I also find it partially sickening that one of the main arguments for SK is Karins genes, keep in mind these people supposedly care about Karin and feel sorry for her messed up upbringing being used and abused for her power, yet you condone using her in this pairing just for her Uzumaki genes mixing with Sasuke’s to create an OP kid, that is beyond disgusting

This messed up argument actually reminds me of the storyline of Maburaho which I’ll post here for those who have never seen it

Kazuki learns that he is a descendant of most of the world's greatest magicians from both the eastern and western worlds. Even though he has a feeble spell count, his offspring has the potential of becoming a powerful magician.

The male protagonist, Kazuki, is a second-year student from an elite magic school, Aoi Academy, with serious social problems, and because he has a low spell count of only eight spells, most of the other students, especially the girls, would not notice him. At the beginning of his second year, it is revealed that he is descended from not only the most powerful of eastern mages but the most powerful of western mages. Having both powerful bloodlines fused into one body means that despite his low spell count, he is capable of wielding nearly omnipotent power. He is, therefore, the most powerful character in the series.

Basically, the MC Kazuki is seen as a loser because he can only use his magic 8 times and obviously isnt very popular with the ladies, however once its revealed that his genes are super powerful and that his child would be one of the most powerful mages in the world, all the girls suddenly want the D and are constantly pursuing him trying to get his genes

It’s the same for the SK fandom, they look down on Sakura because of her average status and glorify Karin as superior because of her superior genes thus making for a much stronger offspring when combined with Sasuke’s

So, bottom line, when it comes to SK its all about pity, Karin's feelings, Karin's genes, her deserving happiness and Sasuke should just reciprocate just to make Karin happy since she had a crappy life

Sasuke getting with Sakura out of pity is something I never wanna see again from SK, they have no room to talk about pity hooking up nor falling for someone's looks, nor do they have the right to claim they're more of Sasuke fans than SS

Of course they can still say this and feel how they wanna feel Im not trying to control anyone, Im just saying that from now on when I see those arguments Im gonna view them in a whole new perspective and see it for the hypocritical bullshit it actually is, especially when they claim to care about Sasuke yeah thats a riot lol

Anyway thats the end of this mini-rant I guess, should be obvious Im not directing this at the entire fandom just the portion of it that I’ve seen, its honestly pathetic and makes them look like not real Karin or Sasuke fans

It’s similar to the NS argument that Naruto should have gotten with Sakura because hes the MC and he deserved her etc, but genes are never a part of it so SK is arguably worse in this regard, its just a disgusting way of shipping two characters you claim to like

Pity, what one character deserves, who has better genes, how bad someone's life is so they deserve to have what they want in the end whether that person likes them back or not just give them the happy ending you think they deserve

Yeah, thats terrible

#Anti-karin #anti-sasukarin #mini rant #all this back and forth on twitter has gotten me involved with a whole lota SK bullshit again and i just had to vent #after all this back and forth and research im practically a pro with sk which is not something i like being #but i pretty much know all i need to know about the pairing #all the tiny details etc #so excuse me if i see a little peeved recently with all the anti karin posts lately #now you know why #the discussion is still going on on twitter as i write this #so the anti posts are basically me venting my frustrations and findings here that I cant do on twitter #limited characters etc you know #so sorry for the spam but if you dont like it then just block the tags

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hoodoo12 · 6 years ago

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A Second Summons

Demon Rick is insidious. He was first brought to this plane here. This is becoming a series.

SFW, but minor language and some unsavory descriptions

⁂

There was never any flash of light or noise to herald its arrival. It was difficult to draw a breath for a moment, because the air tended to get a little displaced, but it was nothing that lasted long enough to be a concern.

The candle flames, like canaries in a coal mine, were your indicators of relative safety. When each of them grew again as oxygen returned, you took a breath too.

You’d called the same demon. Knowing its name made it less taxing to bring the ritual to the objective of summoning him, and less taxing was helpful right now.

It crouched in the middle of the circle, as it had the last time it was called to this earthly realm. On all fours, it lifted its blazing eyes to you and lifted its lip in a silent snarl as its twin tails gave the same rattlesnake warning you’d heard before.

“Again?” it growled.

Its opening gambit was a surprise. You’d have expected it to gloat and make some snide comment on how you couldn’t get enough, how you couldn’t stop thinking of it, how you needed it . . .

Maybe you were expecting stereotypical human male preening and posturing.

And truthfully, it wouldn’t have been wrong.

The beast shifted its position as if restless or uncomfortable. Your gaze skipped over it and you realized that it did not look well. Its ribs were prominent. Skin was stretched over those bones, as well its hipbones. Its cheeks were sunken. Many of its talons were broken or split; on several digits they were missing altogether. Some of its fingers looked broken too, bent into unnatural positions. When it moved again, either unnerved or becoming agitated by your silence and your stare, the flickering light caught cracks in its horns that hadn’t been present before.

You also noticed that the symbols branded into its hide on its upper arms and abdomen were crossed with thin weeping wounds that could only have come from a whip or other talons.

It looked ill and beaten. It was nothing like the confident, dangerous beast you’d met last time.

“What do you want from me?!” it shrieked, startling you.

When you remained silent, trying to organize your words in your head, it wailed and thrashed in its confines and prostrated itself before you on the scarred wooden floor.

“Look what you’ve done! Look what you’ve wrought!” it screamed at you.

With its head down, you were able to see that its back from shoulders to waist had also been marked with the same type of wounds that decorated its front. There were also larger, more wicked injuries here, looking as though they were made to eradicate the arcane symbols on its skin. Those were crusty as if healing, but the thinner ones still wept ichor, and you could just barely see movement in them. You guessed there were maggots in the festering wounds, eating him.

“You’ve done this to me! You’ve stripped me of my power! You’ve made me prey! You used me and then sent me away to be tortured!”

You would have laughed at the irony and hypocrisy of its words, if it wasn’t so pitiful and in so much pain.

It lifted its golden eyes to you. They held no tears, because demons could not cry.

“You brought this on yourself,” you finally replied.

The demon hissed, but it seemed more in agony than anger.

“You knew the conditions. I was clear, and you agreed to them. I required your tongue; you decided to fuck me. That was never anything that I voiced.”

“You liked it!” it spit, but there was more than a hint of whine in its tone. It curled into itself, a little.

“Yes,” you admitted quietly. Then, even more quietly, as if the words were difficult to bring from your throat. “That’s why I called you back.”

Maybe you hadn’t been physically beaten, but since the night you’d summoned him, you’d been mildly nauseous and slept fitfully. Sunlight seemed dimmer, flatter, making every day like looking through a hazy filter. The nights were so black it was like a solid mass. Food had no flavor. Other people became chattering monkeys and you could barely stand to be near their insipid trivialities. There was a dull, constant ache in your lower belly, and you struggled against your baser instincts.

So you meticulously re-drew the circle and the correct symbols on your ritual floor. You’d completed it carefully, thoroughly, and didn’t hesitate to use the bone blade to slice open your forearm again, to drip your own blood into the circle, just like before.

As you did, that ache in your belly migrated downward, to your groin, where it was a combination of sweet expectation, and phantom pain.

The Demon Rick you’d laid with had been stripped of its power, like you’d predicted. The curse it voiced to you--that you’d never be satisfied with another--was true as well. It haunted your splintered dreams.

Something deep inside you compelled you to call him back. It was that steady, relentless urge that had you re-create the ritual. So here you were now, face to face with it again.

The beast before you stilled as it processed your statement. A new expression, one that bordered wonder, eased the lines on its face.

“You liked it,” it repeated, in a different tone. Marvel.

“Yes,” you agreed again.

The demon rolled its forked tongue in its mouth as it rolled this information in its mind. Finally, hesitantly, it said,

“I . . . I liked it too. When the Hellfiends whipped me, when they maimed me, when they set biting worms on me to burrow into my flesh, when they repeatedly castrated me and fed me my genitals, when they skinned me and flayed my muscles . . . when they took their pleasure in the torture and in my body, there was always one hidden spot in my mind they could not reach.”

It paused, and dropped its voice to finish in a whisper, like it was shamed, “They couldn’t reach the thought of you. The thought of you . . .”

Its voice faded out without completing its sentence.

Stunned, you couldn’t answer.

Lifting its head again to look directly into your eyes, it continued. “They tried to scourge you from me. They could not.”

There was such pain. You could see it physically on the demon you’d summoned. You knew it suffered mentally, because you did too. You’d used it, it used you, and now you were both tainted, to use its word. It with the essence of your humanity; you with the quiddity of its demonic nature.

You were both outcasts now.

In your silence, it curled into a ball on the wooden floor. Its tails wrapped around itself, feline-like. It looked exhausted and pathetic.

You knew better than to be taken by a ruse. It was still dangerous, it would still revel in dragging you back to the nether region that it resided. It would trade you to its Masters to be free of the torture they’d dealt it, and gleefully laugh and join in tormenting you--

--wouldn’t it?

It admitted it enjoyed what you’d experienced together. It admitted it couldn’t renounce you. It’d been made impotent by the intimate contact it had with you; its power had been peeled away by beings more evil than it because it had abased itself taking mutual pleasure with you.

You shifted a little, in your position outside the circle.

That snapped its attention back to you.

“Don’t send me back!” it pleaded, as it had previously. This time there was a distraught quality to its deep voice. “Please, please, I beg you! Look--look! I am on my knees before you, do not send me away--”

It went beyond simply kneeling before you. It threw itself down, groveling, its hands caught behind its lower back to demonstrate there was no threat from them, its belly exposed, its legs spread. Its head tipped so far back that it had to be painful, offering you access to its throat. It showcased vulnerability by presenting you each tender spot on its wounded body.

Continually stunned by this turn of events, you thought quickly. It could be a trick, but it was a risky one; the bone knife you’d used to open a vein could easily be used against it. You hurt, but it suffered. It suffered so much at the hands of its Masters that it was willing to die here, on the cold earthly realm, than be sent back to them.

“Rick,” you finally said, making your decision.

It cringed, but stayed exposed.

“Recite these words,” you ordered.

Although it had no clue what it may be repeating or what effect it may have, it meekly copied what you said. It didn’t take long for it to recognize what the ritual meant, however, and as it did its voice grew stronger and it spoke more clearly. It remained in the awkward position it contorted itself into while it obeyed, however.

When the moment came to provide blood, it did not hesitate. It further slashed open its abused chest, and collected the fresh ichor into the palm of its hand to smear over the drips you’d made inside the circle. You also directed it into drawing new sigils in specific spots on the floor.

By the time it was done, its strength had drained again. It looked weaker than before.

You took a deep breath. This was the moment of no return. Lifting your arm, holding your palm up but not crossing the chalk containment you’d created, you invited it to take your hand.

Its eyes flashed. In relief? In victory? You’d find out soon enough.

The beast lunged forward. You were expecting that, and held your ground. It hesitated for a split second as it reached the chalk, obviously expecting a barrier, but you hadn’t tricked it. Its hand cleared the circle and grabbed yours.

It looked astonished. The talons on its feet scrabbled for purchase on the floor to launch itself forward. It did, knocking you backward in its newly minted desire to break free of its confinement, but it collapsed, weak as a kitten as soon it left the small area you’d called it into.

You caught it and held it closely, even as the weight of it pressed you to the floor.

It opened its jaws and took you by the neck; you stiffened involuntarily because even if it were dying now, as its last act it seemed determined to kill you too.

But the sharpened teeth pressed against your skin never met. It held you like that, for a moment, as if to prove it could tear out your throat, then let go. Its tongue caressed away the imprint its teeth left on you. It whimpered something you couldn’t recognize as words, although you inferred their meaning: It was grateful.

It was hot and heavy, laying atop you. You were trapped between it and the floor, and you felt safe.

#fan fic #sfw #Rick Sanchez #Demon Rick #Rick/reader #a girl and her demon

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meltdownwillbeawesomethisweekend · 6 years ago

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“It wasn’t even really a couples costume as D was J/oe, the person and she was S/ansa the character. But when do these people make sense? I doubt she really knows the difference” -ajw 🙄 Holy Irony!! they are the ones who don’t know the diff between C and Kurt or between D and Blaine. Or that the 100s of people they accuse of various villainy ... aren’t characters in their fan fix but ... real people. Hypocrisy at its finest. Plus how dumb do you have to be not to get that couple costume?

The (lack of) self awareness is so beautiful with them. They attribute every character traits of Blaine and Kurt to Darren and Chris (with a touch of their own immaturity, mean girl attitude and hate in the mix, their C and D really are assholes when you think of it) but yet… I’m really astonished by that.

CC Land is a marvelous town full of anger, hate and meltdown due to anxiety caused by something they put in their own faces. Where hypocrisy, lack of logic can be seen as the greatest quality. I mean in CCLand everyone is an asshole the second they don’t insult or hate on Mia Swier after all. They even succeed at playing the victims when they attack directly his friends, and his friend retaliate (very nicely and politely contrary to them).

That couple costume was awesome. And so much something I’d see Darren do. It’s dorky and nerdy, but smart and funny. It’s out of the box thinking, and cute. That man’s brain is fascinating. Guess thinking out of the box is something they are unable to do, we just need to look at them the second someone doesn’t follow societal norms …

#crisscolfer #you are so surprising in your shit #I'm often wowed by the way you can cricumvolute and come back to that #Anonymous

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companionhell · 7 years ago

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Hmmm...How about companions react to the SS pushing them out of the way and taking a bullet for them, only having known them for a few days or so (it luckily doesn’t end up being a fatal shot for Sole, but might have been for the companion).

I’m so so sorry, but I left Strong out of this, because I couldn’t think of any possible logistics that would involve a super-mutant possibly being killed but would leave the human Sole alive. Besides, it’s difficult to push aside someone who’s eight feet tall? If you really want me to, I can try my best, but I figured it wasn’t a deal-breaker haha.

Cait: Shock dissolving, Cait slowly got up, approached Sole, who was wincing and clutching their shoulder. She felt a strange concoction of emotion, between relief and gratefulness and regret and a deep sadness that the only person who valued her enough to take a bullet for her had ended up doing it. And she couldn’t express that, not without tearing up, so she settled for frustration: “The hell did you think you were doin’? Are ya daft?”

Sole chuckled weakly, masking a hiss of pain. “A little, maybe. Nearest doctor is Diamond City, and that’s a few hours out of our way. Can you grab a Stim-Pak out of my bag for me?” Cait did, injecting it into her new companion, pausing a minute before cuffing Sole across the back of the head.

“Don’t do that again,” Cait said, searching for a reason for her strange attachment. “Sticking with you is the only chance for caps I got. If you kick the bucket, I got jack shit.” Sole smiled, but Cait wasn’t confident it wouldn’t happen again, and that, for some reason, scared the shit out of her.

Codsworth: Somehow, without looking, he knew what happened, and guilt flooded him. He quickly dispatched the remaining two raiders, severe damage notwithstanding, and rushed to Sole. They were sitting, pressing a ripped-off vault suit sleeve against their wound, easily identifiable because much of the surrounding fabric was soaked with blood. “Sir/mum,” Codsworth said, knowing that if he could cry he would be right now. “Are you…?” He moved his attachments uselessly, feeling helpless and hopelessly afraid.

“Codsworth,” Sole coughed, leaning to look at their Pip-Boy. “It only grazed me. Don’t think it punctured anything, but I don’t have any Stim-Paks. Look, according to this thing, Diamond City is fifteen minutes away. Hurry and fetch the doctor for me?” Codsworth’s reactor whirred into overdrive as he flew towards Diamond City, dodging another group of raiders and past the guards, nearly knocking over a little girl selling newspapers. He couldn’t convince the doctor to leave the city, but carried back with him Stim-Paks galore, which he convinced the man to give him on credit.

“Sir/mum,” he said, injecting two Stim-Paks into their arm and experiencing a nearly-indescribable wave of relief as Sole began to breathe easier. “Oh, please don’t do that again.” Codsworth’s voice broke. “I lost you for two hundred years… please don’t die on me now, sir/mum. I don’t think the old nuts and bolts could handle it.” That was an understatement.

Curie: Something crashed into her and she nearly tumbled into the floor, finally noticing the danger. She looked up at Sole, who smelt like burnt hair but still somehow lodged some well-placed bullets into the enemy’s skull, until the damned thing collapsed against the wall.

“Oh, mon dieu!” Curie screamed, collecting herself before rushing over to Sole. Their hair was indeed singed, as well as part of their left ear, leaving a raw, red burn that Curie panicked at the sight of. Oh, she truly wasn’t used to this world, she thought as she fussed over Sole, dabbing purified water and antiseptic onto the wound. If someone as brave and considerate as Sole could be injured in the pursuit of her protection, perhaps she wasn’t ready for the outside.

Curie applied a bandage and met Sole’s eyes. “Merci, Sole, but please don’t risk yourself like that,” she cried, trying to awkwardly give them a hug with her Miss Nanny arms. “Oh, you worry me.”

Danse: There was a loud clank as Sole stepped in front of him. “Shit,” they grunted at the impact, the tip of their minigun whirring. A shower of bullets rained down on the raiders, and after a few moments, all five were dead. Danse was still taken aback. Sole turned to look at him, and he gaped- there was a large dent in the center of their power armor helmet, near the nose, in which a bullet had lodged itself. “You alright?” they asked Danse, their voice sounding strangely nasally.

“It wasn’t necessary to risk your well-being to guard me, soldier,” Danse answered sternly, though he was actually feeling a strange mixture of guiltiness and astonishment. He shouldn’t have let his guard down enough to allow that to happen, but Sole’s quick thinking had saved his life- and doubly proved their suitability for warfare.

“You should invest in a helmet that covers your face, then,” Sole quipped. “Besides, I’d trade a broken nose for you getting a bullet between the eyes any day.”

Danse didn’t know how to respond. Though as an officer, he inspired respect in those under his command, he had never heard such a sentiment expressed before… not for years, anyway. “Thank you,” he said, somewhat awkwardly. “I appreciate it.”

Deacon: Deacon eyed the blood now seeping through Sole’s sleeve. A decent chunk had been taken out of Sole’s arm, which they now used to sift through their bag, finally finding a Stim-Pak. “Hey, good thing it hit me,” Sole said, injecting the Stim-Pak into their injured arm. “If you hadn’t moved, it would’ve gotten your chest. Wouldn’t want you dying on me during the first mission.”

“That’s gotta hurt, though,” Deacon responded. “You okay?” When Sole nodded, he smiled, but found himself thinking. He usually ran missions alone, rarely taking a Railroad member along with him, so having someone take a shot for him was… an interesting feeling. It made him question who, if anyone, he’d do that for- and whether Sole was just that kind of person, or if he’d done anything to earn it.

Dogmeat: There was the loud noise of the gun going off, and Sole made a harsh noise, shooting the bad man in the head before doubling over, clutching their thigh. As they rifled through their bag, Dogmeat cautiously approached, smelling the blood on his new companion. He licked their hand apologetically, being sure to sit by them until he knew they were okay.

Hancock: Sole shoved Hancock out of the way, and the bullet tore through their shoulder. Sole simply gritted their teeth and fired a barrage of their own bullets at the Courser, until the damn thing lay still. “I’ve got Stims in my bag,” Sole said, clutching their shoulder. “Mind helping me out?”

“You got it,” Hancock said, injecting a Stim-Pak into their arm. “Christ, you okay? Shouldn’t be throwin’ yourself in the line of fire like that, even for a handsome ghoul like me.”

Soul sighed with relief as the Stim-Pak entered their bloodstream. “Yeah, I’ll be fine. Rather my shoulder than you, though. Way you were sitting, that bullet would’ve entered through your hat and left out your neck.”

Hancock nodded. “You’re right. Thanks, my man/sister.” He continued to dwell in his thoughts, though, considering why the hell a smooth-skin who he started traveling with a few days ago would risk their life for a chem-loving ghoul from a bad neighborhood. The incident certainly boosted his trust in their partnership; if they would take a bullet for him on day three, he had no idea what day three hundred would look like, but he sure as hell wanted to see it.

MacCready: MacCready dropped his head for a moment, shoving more ammo into his gun, barely finishing before being knocked over by a blow to the side- Sole. “Hey, the hell was that?” he grunted, winded, before noticing the wound in Sole’s arm- where his head had been only second before. He turned, shot a few Gunners, turned back. The wound was still there. Shocked, he kept shooting, helping Sole out until they were in the center of a circle of corpses. Sole stood there, panting, the both of them silent until MacCready tossed a Stim-Pak at them. “Here.”

Sole injected it. “I have my own, you know. Don’t gotta waste yours on me.”

MacCready wasn’t sure how to respond. He was frustrated with himself for lowering his guard, for forcing someone else to have his back, but also grateful and confused and a little angry at Sole for putting themselves in danger. He sighed with purported irritation before answering. “Still can’t believe you did that.” He shook his head. “Stim’s least I can do, I guess, even though that was completely crazy.”

Sole chuckled. “Well, MacCready, I paid a decent amount of caps for your services. I’m not throwing that away if I can avoid it.”

He couldn’t really argue that comment without hypocrisy, but he had to try. “Well, it was stupid anyway. But… thanks. Appreciated.”

Nick: The Assaulton’s bullet missed Nick completely, instead grazing Sole, who winced before finally putting the Assaultron out of its misery. Nick immediately turned to Sole, whose face was quickly becoming covered in blood. “Alright,” he said, trying to project calmness through his alarm and pushing a Stim-Pak into Sole’s hand. “Stay with me. You’re going to be fine, but you need that Stim. Now.”

Sole injected the Stim-Pak and trying their best to smile. “Pretty sure it only nicked me. Head wounds just bleed a lot. Sorry for pushing you, by the way.”

Nick laughed disbelievingly, but a hint of humor worked its way in. “You can’t stop being noble, can you? I… you sure you’re alright?” Sole nodded. “Thank you. Really. But maybe just warn me next time, instead of getting your own face in the line of fire?”

He joked to dissolve the tension, but he was really rather stunned. It took a unique kind of person to risk their life for a beat-up synth detective with a penchant for irony, especially after only a few days of working together. Sole was a special one, alright. Nick already felt fonder of them, if a bit irritated by their near-eagerness for getting themselves killed.

Piper: She recoiled in shock from the weapon being fired right next to her, almost instinctively expecting pain, but none was delivered. She opened her eyes to see the threatening raider dead- and Sole clutching their leg. “Easy now, Blue,” she said, rushing to help them. “You okay?”

“Yeah, I will be, after a Stim,” Sole said, grabbing one from their bag. “Damn raider still managed to shoot me after I kicked his legs out from under him. Though since that bullet was meant for your forehead, I can’t say I’m not relieved.”

Piper smiled genuinely, pleased to see the budding friendship. She pissed off more people in the Commonwealth than she’d like to admit, and she’d taken a liking for Sole, so she was glad to see it was reciprocated- even if in possibly the most drastic way possible.

“Well, thanks, Blue. Though maybe cool it on your unending generosity, ‘kay?” Piper ruffled Sole’s hair. “Can’t have the most interesting source in the Commonwealth die on me.” She let a hint of concern out in her last comment, then dropped it, though tried her best for the rest of the day to keep Sole off their leg as much as possible.

Preston: He cried out when he saw his new acquaintance jump in front of him to take a bullet meant for his stomach, but couldn’t stop them in time. Seeing Sole down, he tried his best to rid the immediate area of remaining enemies- luckily, as there were only two raiders left, they were down pretty soon.

Preston leaned over Sole, quickly assessing the wound- the bullet had taken a chunk out of their side, and though it didn’t appear to have hit any vital organs, there was a lot of blood gushing out. “You still with me?” he asked. Seeing Sole nod, he bandaged them up, then injected a Stim-Pak into them. “Easy. You’re gonna be okay.”

Sole smiled weakly. “Good. Wouldn’t wanna abandon the Minutemen after only a few days of helping.”

Preston laughed despite himself. “You have a one-track mind, you know that?” He paused a minute, furrowing his brow. “Thank you, Sole. That was… incredibly brave of you, but, well, I’m already in your debt, what with the rescue from the Museum of Freedom. No need to worry me like that.”

He deliberately kept his tone light, but underneath, he was feeling a strange mix of emotion. Preston was absolutely ecstatic to have found such a generous and self-sacrificing individual for the Minutemen, having lost all light before meeting Sole. But there was also an intense guiltiness there, the weight of knowing that someone he admired had been injured for him.

X6-88: He winced at the impact of bullet and Sole’s flesh, knowing that it would have been his neck had Sole not pushed him aside. “Damn, that got you. Hang in there for a minute.” X6 disposed of the hostile, some worthless gang leader, and knelt down next to Sole, who was already rummaging in their bag for a spare Stim-Pak.

He waited a moment, watching Sole inject the Stim-Pak into an artery as the blood dripped down their face- he knew that it had only grazed them, and that head wounds bled disproportionately, but the sight still wasn’t pleasant. “Do you think you’re okay?” he asked cautiously.

“Yeah, probably,” Sole returned, lightly touching the wound. “Didn’t want the Institute’s best Courser biting it on the second day.”

X6 didn’t show it, but he was surprised. Some had shown concern for his well-being before, of course, but mostly as scientists hoping a beloved computer would never sputter out- Sole’s generosity seemed genuine, and that was new to him. “Thanks,” he said curtly. “But don’t do that again. You’re Father’s parent- you shouldn’t be risking yourself like that.” He presented his concern as purely professional, but there was a note or two of real feeling in there, too.

#tw blood #tw injury #tw violence #fallout 4 #fallout 4 companions #fallout 4 companions react #cait #curie #codsworth #danse #deacon #dogmeat #hancock #maccready #nick valentine #piper #preston garvey #x6-88

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calebyap · 6 years ago

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Mark’s Gospel: God’s Own Kingdom

Kingdom Introduction: Good News Arrives

The arrival of a new kingdom: “repent and believe the gospel”. This man Jesus has great authority over spirits, illness, including leprosy, and most shockingly in Mk2, forgive sins (2:10). This is the reason why He calls sinners to come to Him (2:17). 3 rounds of questions surround His followers in ch2: offensive inclusivity, true nature of fasting, and who is Lord of the Sabbath. Of the crowd, He calls 12 to be with Him (3:13-15), and the contention of whose Spirit is this new kingdom, thus introducing the blasphemy of the Holy Spirit (3:29), which also separates His true family from His earthly family that doesn’t get Him (3:34-35).

Kingdom Dawing: News Spreads, Creeping Outward

Jesus’ teaching is focused on the parables, which instruct about the kingdom of heaven (4:11) and He urges His disciples to truly hear them (4:24-25). The kingdom parables are of seed growing to harvest, and like a small mustard seed. These are reinforced by more miracles over the sea, and over the demoniac, over deathly illness, and even discharged from His garments. The response to this is unbelief (6:6) in Nazareth, which prompts Him to send out His disciples out in their first assignment (6:7), alerting the ears of King Herod (6:14) and leading to John the Baptist’s death. Jesus goes away to a “desolate place” (6:31) and there, provides for the five thousand and walks on the water to comfort His disciples. More confrontations with the Pharisees follow as He exposes their hearts (7:21) and outward hypocrisy, and expands His outreach to the Gentiles like the Syrophenician woman. Bread and leaven describe the intensifying conflict between Him and the Pharisees and Herod (8:14), as questions swirl about seeing clearly (8:23) the nature of His identity and divinity (8:29).

Kingdom Wrestling: Understanding The Roman Cross And Jewish Resurrection

Only at this point does Jesus talk about the coming Cross and resurrection (8:31) and what it means for His followers. [Blind man at Bethsaida sees clearly but in stages] More revelations follow as He is transfigured before the inner circle of three (9:2) and another healing which involves a plea for faith takes place. Jesus begins to teach about faith in Him (9:23-24) as the second prediction of the Cross and resurrection occurs, despite them not understanding. Kingdom humility is taught to His disciples as another response (9:35), and personal holiness is another (9:42-43). More confrontations with the Pharisees take place on the topic of marriage and divorce, children in the kingdom of God, wealth and possessions — and the cross and resurrection are foretold again. This time, service is mandated for those who be great, as Jesus’ own death shows us (10:45). Here Blind Bartimaeus identifies Jesus asthe Son of David (10:48), just before Jesus enters Jerusalem (ch11).

Kingdom Coming: Jerusalem’s King Appears

The triumphal entry follows (11:9), and the fig tree accounts (11:12-14 and 20-25) are important bookends about the nature of faith and forgiveness, which also stress for us the authority of Jesus (11:28). More teaching follows in the parable of tenants, paying taxes to Caesar, the resurrection and the great commandment — all which stress the character and requirements of God. Over this, Jesus foretells the destruction of the temple, and the signs of the end, which are confirmed by the eternal words of Jesus (13:31). This authoritative teaching is too much for the chief priests and scribes, who plot to kill Him and Judas is enlisted to betray Him.

Kingdom Crushed: Betrayed, Battered And Buried

Poignantly, He is anointed for burial at Bethany. (14:8). The Passover is the final meal of the fellowship, and laced with betrayal (14:21), as He institutes the Lord’s Supper, or the sign of the new kingdom (14:25). Betrayal is the theme of the Gethsemane scene (14:42). At His Jewish trial, His crime is found as blasphemy when He affirms His authority (14:62), and His Roman trial, the King of Jews is traded up for the insurrection its Barrabas as Mark records His royalty in great irony (15:16-20, 26, 32). Jesus is forsaken by God (15:34) and dies. We are told Joseph, a Sanhedrin member was seeking the kingdom of God and buried Jesus (15:43).

Kinqgdom Shock: Hope Beyond Belief

After His death, the resurrection is abrupt, shocking and scant of details, and full of fear and astonishment (16:8). The testimony of the witnesses is full of disbelief (16:12, 14). His followers are commissioned to go out to all creation (16:15), and He ascends in power and glory as His followers declare His message everywhere.

#mark #faith meets life #bible reading #kingdom #disicpleship

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onpaperintofilm · 7 years ago

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Julie Christie The most honest and revealing of actresses, she speaks a language of her own that we instantly understand. 1 STEPHANIE ZACHAREK 06.12.2001•9:06 AM Al Pacino was once asked in a Playboy interview what actress he'd most like to work with. His answer: "Julie Christie, because she's the most poetic actress." "Poetic" is the best possible word to describe Julie Christie. If every great actor embodies an essential paradox, Christie's is that she's both tigress-direct and fawn-subtle, often at the same time -- the cross section of haiku and a sonnet. You find yourself watching in wonder to unravel the quiet but sometimes ferocious mystery of her performances, from her shallow social climber in John Schlesinger's 1965 "Darling" to her shrewd but ferally tender madam in Robert Altman's 1971 "McCabe & Mrs. Miller" to her fragile Gertrude in Kenneth Branagh's 1996 "Hamlet." Many of her characters are, on the surface, crisp, forthright, almost businesslike, but there's always a soft layer of vulnerability beneath her fine-boned beauty. She's naked even when fully clothed. Christie was born in India in 1941, where her father ran a tea plantation. She went to school in England and Europe, eventually enrolling in the Central School of Music and Drama in London in 1957. As a young professional actress, she did stage work and had a regular role in a British TV series, "A for Andromeda," in the early '60s. In 1963 she appeared in Schlesinger's drab working-class comedy-drama "Billy Liar," and although it wasn't her film debut, she grabbed the attention of movie audiences and critics. The story of a young man, played by Tom Courtenay, who retreats into a fantasy world to escape his unglamorous life, "Billy Liar" is leaden and vaguely smug; we're made to feel beaten down by the monotony of Courtenay's life, so that by the movie's disheartening conclusion, we're well primed for self-congratulation: "You see, we knew nothing would work out right in the end." But Christie, as the vibrant young woman who represents the last shred of real-life hope for Courtenay, brightens the movie whenever she appears. Her character has no depth or resonance, but she's pure light. As the sunny, fearless girl who appears seemingly out of nowhere to tempt Courtenay to freedom and fun -- freedom and fun that he has difficulty allowing himself, at least in real life -- she's like a vision of everything the '60s were, at their best, to become. It's supposed to be tragic that Courtenay can't partake of them, or of her. But when he and Christie part at the movie's end, you barely feel sorry for him. Her smile, dazzling at the age of 22, scotches the final effect of the movie: We're left thinking, How could the boy be such a schmuck to let her go? Christie was flying high by 1965, appearing in two major films: Schlesinger's "Darling" (for which she would win an Academy Award) and David Lean's "Doctor Zhivago," in which she played Lara, the tragic heroine. But "tragic heroine" isn't quite the right phrase for what Christie does in that picture. The term implies histrionics, or at least some sort of submerged melodrama. Christie carries the core of the movie's sorrow -- and that means the sorrow of revolutionary Russia, as well as her own -- not just in her hopelessly blue eyes, but in the set of her jaw. She's stalwart, brave, reliable beyond compare, and still, she suffers. What Christie doesn't do is turn the performance into an exercise in masochism. Before she even played one, she proved she had the heart and soul of a Thomas Hardy heroine -- a woman who was made to bear sadness but retain her inner dignity at all costs. But before Christie would tackle Hardy, she put an entirely different sort of woman on the screen: shallow, clever, earth-quakingly gorgeous and determined to be a star regardless of the emotional cost to herself and those around her. In "Darling" Christie played Diana Scott, a fashion model who hooks up with a brainy TV journalist (Dirk Bogarde) only to end up ditching him for a cold, dashing figure who can introduce her to more of the "right" people (Laurence Harvey). The story is supposed to be a morality tale, a snapshot of swinging '60s greed and corruption, but Schlesinger layers on so much heavy-handed irony that it's really more of a cartoon. I'm not sure what the movie looked like to audiences in 1965, but in 2001, it's all too easy to watch it and decree with a shiver that, yes, those '60s people were all too dreadful. There's something more than vaguely distasteful about the way "Darling" cooingly reassures us it's better to be conventional, "normal," because you're more likely to end up a moral human being that way. It's numbingly facile -- no deeper than an air kiss. The thing that's amazing about "Darling" is the way Christie takes a chalky caricature and turns her into a human being. She unintentionally undermines the movie: While you're supposed to be tsk-tsking over her behavior, you see that the same gears that drive her manipulativeness also throw off blazingly intelligent sparks. Christie swaddles Diana's matchstick frailty in heartlessness, but she knows it's a transparent cloak. As Pete Townshend sang not long after, in a song that had nothing to do with Christie but everything to do with the hypocrisy that "Darling" tried so hard to expose, "I can see right through your plastic mac." In "Darling," Christie, the most honest of actresses, doesn't even bother to do up the buttons. When "Darling" became a hit, both in the U.K. and stateside, Christie, even more so than most movie stars, began to represent more than just the parts she chose and the way she played them. She represented the spirit and style of her era, but not in a way that was forgotten in a month or two. Even today, Christie still stands as the actress of the '60s, the way Clara Bow was the "It" girl of the '20s. It had not only to do with her talent, nor even with the fact that she was English. (To be English in the '60s was coolness itself.) She seemed to speak a language of her own, a language her contemporaries instantly understood, in the way she carried herself and the way she dressed. "What Julie Christie wears has more real impact on fashion than all the clothes of the ten Best-Dressed women combined," Time magazine decreed in 1967, and for once, Time was right. Captured in fashion photos from the era, Christie paints even the most ridiculous clothes with dignity. In pictures from the late '60s, she's the model of droopy elegance in haute-hippie garb. Just a few years earlier, in a mid-'60s fashion shot by David Bailey, we'd seen her looking serious and gorgeous in a dress of shimmery paillettes, their silliness offsetting her sun-kissed gravity. From the mid-'60s to the mid-'70s, Christie was a major presence in popular movies. In 1967 she played that Hardy heroine for real in Schlesinger's "Far From the Madding Crowd," a picture that captured the bleak beauty of Hardy perfectly. As Bathsheba Everdene, a plucky, self-sufficient landowner who becomes enmeshed in the love of three different men, Christie again balances that graciously composed façade with an innocence that's buried deep; she shows a kind of cautious openness to the world around her. What makes her Bathsheba so moving is that no matter how many trials she faces, she never seems to be on the verge of cracking. Instead, she lets you see, with little more than the flicker of an eyelid or a reserved smile, how painful it is to persevere, and to bend. An extraordinary cast joined Christie, including Terence Stamp and Alan Bates, but the movie was rejected by the same audiences that loved the supposedly with-it quality of "Darling." "Far From the Madding Crowd" is a picture that has never quite received its due; it ranks among Schlesinger's best work, as well as Christie's. Christie racked up an astonishing number of movie credits through the late '70s, among them François Truffaut's "Fahrenheit 451" (1966), Richard Lester's "Petulia" (1968), Nicolas Roeg's "Don't Look Now" (1973) and Warren Beatty and Buck Henry's "Heaven Can Wait" (1978). She has worked fairly steadily since then, although she hasn't always been in the spotlight. Notoriously guarded about her private life, she's the kind of actress who resurfaces now and then in a terrific performance, and you ask yourself where on earth she's been. In 1997 she appeared opposite Nick Nolte in Alan Rudolph's "Afterglow," for which she earned an Academy Award nomination. In 1996, she played an aging but still incontrovertibly sensual Gertrude in Branagh's "Hamlet"; it was one of the most remarkable performances of her career. But my two favorite Christie performances, four years apart, seem like spiritual counterparts to each other. They also, as it happens, feature the same costar, Warren Beatty, with whom Christie was romantically involved in the early '70s. It seemed that once Beatty and Christie -- who reteamed for a third time in 1978's "Heaven Can Wait" -- locked in to each other's natural rhythms, as lovers do, there was no turning back. They're one of the most natural, effortless movie pairings ever. In both Altman's "McCabe & Mrs. Miller" and Hal Ashby's 1975 "Shampoo," Christie is the tougher one, the woman who faces up to everything that her male partner just can't. In "McCabe," she's Constance Miller, a brothel madam who sweeps into Presbyterian Church, the frontier town run by John McCabe (Beatty), ready to get down to business. There's something lustful, but not sensual, about the way she sits down at the town cafe and orders up "four eggs fried, stew and strong tea." It's the equivalent of a Wild West power lunch. She eats it like a man or, more specifically, like a convict, shoveling the chow into her gob with one hand as she hunches protectively over the plate. McCabe watches, enchanted and a little abashed. He has fallen in love. On the other hand, the only time Mrs. Miller succumbs to sensuality is when she sets herself adrift on opium: Her eyes soften, and their gaze reaches out as if to embrace an imaginary lover. She's much less yielding with the shambling, stuttering, heartbreakingly decent McCabe, who becomes her lover. He pays for the privilege, of course. She wouldn't have it any other way. Mrs. Miller wears the pants in this tale, and disguised as a sweeping skirt, they're that much more threatening. Her jaw line -- that superb jaw line -- is like a ship's anchor; her hair is aquiver with tiny ringlets, as if hooked up to their own private energy source. She's the kind of woman even a tough man would steer clear of, which is what makes her moments of tenderness with McCabe so lovely. At one point McCabe comes to her quarters, distraught and trying to hide it, muttering something about how he's never been so close to a woman before. You can practically see Mrs. Miller's own guarded vulnerability welling up inside her, and she's less able to bear that than she is McCabe's weakness. Her eyes soften just barely as she cajoles him into bed: "Hey -- why don't you just get under the covers, huh?" Mrs. Miller knows McCabe better than he knows himself, but she knows herself best of all. That's why the film's final image is so haunting, and so troubling: After McCabe's death, we see Miller propped up and floating into an opium dream, a slight smile playing across her lips. She doesn't know he's dead, but their separation is final nonetheless. He's gone, and he's taken her with him, figuratively speaking; she's never coming back. It's as if her heart, brittle by nature, has broken into two clean pieces, cracked at the hinge like a busted locket. She's as surprised as anybody that it could have happened. Christie's character in "Shampoo," high-class gold digger Jackie, is in many ways softer than Mrs. Miller. Mrs. Miller has worked so hard at cultivating a tough shell that she's forgotten how to be tender; Jackie yearns to be soft toward the man she loves, Beatty's philandering hairdresser George, her ex-boyfriend, but her sense of self-preservation demands that she harden herself toward him. Christie's performance in "Shampoo" is one of the most mournfully luminous things ever put on film. Her vulnerability courses through the movie like a barely audible heartbeat, even when, or especially when, she's trying to treat George indifferently. Her beauty is so cool in "Shampoo" -- her hair is a subtle ash blond sweep (no garish Tiffany-gold tresses for her), and there are times when her lips curl into a crocodile smile that's almost predatory. But when she and George fall into a discussion of his restless habits, and he tells her bluntly, "I don't fuck anybody for money, I do it for fun," you have to watch Christie's face carefully for the crestfallen look that flickers across it. Suddenly, it's gone, replaced by her usual crisp composure. Christie is the sort of actress who reveals more of herself in what she hides than she does in any broad gesture or expression. In one of her most remarkable moments in "Shampoo," we don't even see her face. But we can read it even so. She and George, inching toward a reconciliation, find themselves alone in a darkened bathhouse at a swinging party. He has confessed to her, in words that we desperately want to believe, that she's the only one he loves, that he can't imagine growing old with anyone else. We see her drinking the words in cautiously, as if she doesn't dare let herself believe them. Not long after, just as she and George have begun making love, his current girlfriend walks in on them. George leaps up to run after her, leaving Jackie behind in the dark. She isn't, of course, in total darkness. She sits up, and we see her from behind, a naked back that's less like a body part than a lithe sliver of light. But it's a piece of light we can read like a book, a sensual curve in the darkness. With her back to the world, Christie betrays a wealth of feeling that we perhaps couldn't bear to look at in her face. The curve of her spine speaks of resignation, and one last, major disappointment in love. You could call it artful composition on the cameraman's part, and without a doubt that contributes to the effect. But Christie, like all great actors, understands the truth that bodies tell. There's inexplicable sadness in the curve of her back, and flexibility, too. But for that moment, she's simply the woman who's been left behind. Her back is a rune that spells goodbye.

Salon 2001, STEPHANIE ZACHAREK

She was my first big actor crush. Oh what a beauty. To this day! Enchantingly beautiful and wistful and like light itself.

#julie christie

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opedguy · 5 years ago

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Biden Accused of Digital Rape

LOS ANGELES (OnlineColumnist.com), April 30, 2020.--Accusing 77-year-old former Vice President and Democrat Party presumptive nominee Joe Biden of digital rape while working as a 22-year-old aid for Biden in 1993, 48-year-old Tara Reade now faces a backlash for coming out of the closet with her sexual assault story. While Biden’s campaign has denied the charges, Reade finds herself as many other rape victims with so-called #MeToo Movement sympathizers taking sides largely for political reasons. Democrats all agree on getting rid of Trump in 2020, believing, among the large group of Democrat candidates, 22 to be precise, that only Biden has a shot of beating 73-year-old President Donald Trump. Biden’s closest Democrat rival, 78-year-old Bernie Sanders, found out the hard way after impressive wins in Iowa, New Hampshire and Nevada, that Democrat voters concluded that only Biden had a shot of beating Trump in November.

Now Reade makes what are shocking, horrifying accusations about the former Senator and Vice President, who’s spent his career fighting for women’s rights, though his conduct heading the Judiciary Committee Oct.11, 1991 defending allegations of sexual harassment against Supreme Court Associate Justice Terence Thomas left much desired. Biden sided with Thomas’s lead GOP defender Sen. Arlen Specter (D-Pa.) discrediting Hill. Hill, now 63, has spent her career defending her reputation after getting trashed in the Senate to approve Thomas as Supreme Court Associate Justice. Now the tables are turned, with Biden in the hot seat, not knowing yet how to proceed with Reade’s accusations. Unlike Hill where there was scant evidence of her sharing stories with other witnesses, there are plenty of friends Reade told her story at the time Biden’s campaign all read the same talking points, that Reade is entitled to her experience.

A former neighbor of Reade in Morro Bay Lynda LaCasse recalls Read telling her in 1996 about her story of Biden raping her digitally while working for the Senator in 1993. She complained that her career was ruined after filing a complaint, swiftly given her walking papers by Biden’s staff handling personnel matters. “I do remember her telling me that Joe Biden had put her up against a wall and put his hands up her skirt and put his fingers inside her,” LaCasse said. Public records show that Reade and LaCasse were neighbors in the 1990s. Another former co-worker in the California State Assembly Lorraine Sanchez also recalled Rreade telling her she was sexually harassed by her former boss in Washington. Reade’s mother in 1993 called the Larry King Show, sharing her daughter’s experience of having “problems” working in Washington, not naming Tara or Biden, nor did she go into any detail.

Reade said today that she’s willing to take a lie detector test or testify under oath or in any House of Senate Committee. “Vice President Biden has dedicated his public life to changing the culture and the laws around violence against women. He authored and fought for the pass and reauthorization of the landmark Violence Against Women Act. He firmly believes that women have a right to be heard—and heard respectfully. Such claims should be diligently reviewed by and independent press. What is clear about this claim: It is untrue. This absolutely id not happen,” said Biden’s deputy campaign manager Kate Bedingfield. Bedingfied’s statement has been parroted by Sen. Elizabeth Warren (D-Mass.), former Secretary of State Hillary Rodham Clinton (D-N.Y.). House Speaker Nancy Pelosi (D-Calif.) and former Democrat governor candidate Stacy Abrams (D-Ga.), all backing Biden.

Closing ranks to back Biden shows that whatever support Democrat elected officials give to the #MeToo Movement, it only applies to the Republican Party. No one can forget the vehement opposition Democrat Party officials to the nomination to the Supreme Court of Associate Justice Brett Kavanaugh. Kavanaugh was accused of attempted rape July 20, 2018 in a letter to Sen. Diane Feinstein (D-Calif.) by 53-year-old Christine Blaséy Ford who said she was 15-years-of-age when Kavanaught assaulted her in some murky location in suburban Washington, some 35 years before. Kavanugh categorically denied the charges. But the entire Democrat Party caucus, including members of the Senate Judiciary Committee, said they “believed Dr. Ford,” including former Vice President Joe Biden. Those same Democrats that believed Ford in 2018 now disbelieve Tara Reade in 2020.

Calling Democrats out for utter hypocrisy when it comes to Biden, Sen. Majority Leader Mitch McConnell (R-Ky.) expressed the irony. “At the very leas, it’s pretty obvious that the same people who were outraged about allegations—unproven allegations against Justice Kavanaugh when he was in high school—seemed to have little or no interest, or certainly not as much interest in suggestions of improper behavior by an adult who’s in the Senate,” McConnell said. When you look at the mental gymnastics to defend Biden, it’s astonishing. Sen. Kristen Gillibrand (D-N.Y.), a former Democrat presidential candidate, readily hounded former Sen. Al Franken (D-Minn.) from office Jan. 2, 2018 over far less allegations. “I believe that women deserve to be heard and I believe they need to be listened to . . . “ said Abrams, sticking with Biden now that she’s on his VP short-list.

About the Author

John M. Curtis writes politically neutral commentary analyzing spin in national and global news. He’s editor of OnlineColumnist.com and author of Dodging The Bullet and Operation Charisma.

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gyrlversion · 6 years ago

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How the Republicans Built a Presidency Above the Law for Donald Trump

Attorney General William Barr Photo: Brendan Smialowski/AFP/Getty Images

Yesterday, attorneys for President Trump made an astonishing argument in federal court. Congress had no right to look at Trump’s tax returns, they argued, because it had no right to investigate or even expose matters relating to law enforcement of the White House. The judge asked whether this meant episodes like the Watergate hearings were an unconstitutional exercise of power by Congress, and Trump’s lawyer conceded they might have been.

Trump’s official position is that Congress has no business looking into whether the president has broken the law. When you combine this position with the long-standing Department of Justice policy that it cannot indict a sitting president, and Attorney General William Barr’s position that the president is entitled to shut down any investigation he considers unfair, you have built a wall of legal impunity for the president.

There is an abstract argument for decriminalizing disputes between Congress and the president, and funneling these issues into the political sphere. Rather than charge the president with crimes, the argument goes, his critics can expose them to the public and Congress can choose to hold impeachment hearings — or, failing that, allow voters to render the verdict.

But Trump is notably attempting to shut off Congress’s power to expose corruption and wrongdoing, too. The administration is making blanket arguments against Congress’s ability to subpoena witnesses and documents. Barr himself refused to answer a question from Senator Kamala Harris as to whether he had been told to investigate anybody, and then refused to appear at a hearing held by the House the next day. All modern presidents have tangled with Congress about the scope of its investigative reach, but none before Trump have completely denied the legitimacy of this function. Trump’s claims that Congress cannot investigate him because it’s not “impartial,” and that its alleged motive of harassing him disqualifies it, do not merely quibble with particular subpoenas or topics. He is dismissing all investigations run by people who aren’t his allies (which, of course, means all investigations).

The most benign explanation for this audacious claim of untrammeled executive power is that Trump has embraced, or been embraced by, the ideology of William Barr. The attorney general has advocated sweeping authority for the Executive branch dating back to the first Bush administration, where he was warning against “legislative encroachments” by Congress. Tom Hamburger’s profile of Barr explains how he has long stood at the forefront of the legal movement to establish presidential supremacy, a worldview that happens to dovetail conveniently with Trump’s utter disdain for any limits on his prerogatives.

Hamburger also points out as an aside that Barr has not always maintained this position with perfect consistency. During the Clinton administration, the president was hounded by independent counsel Kenneth Starr, who began by looking into Clinton’s land deals as governor of Arkansas, and wound up charging him for lying under oath about a sexual affair. Starr’s probe was widely considered so abusive it prompted a change in the law authorizing an independent counsel.

But Barr, despite his putative belief in presidential authority, did not see it that way. He signed a letter insisting an independent counsel “should be allowed to carry out his or her duties without harassment by government officials and members of the bar.” (The “harassment” faced by Starr came in the form of criticism by Clinton’s supporters, a comically mild measure in comparison with the campaign of obstruction undertaken by Trump against Robert Mueller.) The man who today defends Trump’s right to shut down an investigation because he considers it fake news accused Clinton of having an “improper purpose of influencing and impeding an ongoing criminal investigation and intimidating possible jurors, witnesses and even investigators.”

At the time, Starr’s investigation had attained the status of holy crusade among Republicans. Conservative intellectuals routinely declared that “the rule of law” required not only protecting Starr’s infinitely broad mandate but impeaching and removing Clinton for perjuring himself about his affair. Starr himself built a cult of personality that nearly matched the status commanded today by Trump himself. One House Republican unironically composed and sang an ode to the party’s idol on the House floor. To the tune of “Twinkle Twinkle, Little Star,” he sang, “Twinkle, twinkle, Kenneth Starr, now we see how brave you are …”

Starr leveraged his fame to win the presidency of Baylor University, where he presided over a rape scandal so comprehensive and sickening it forced his resignation. He has remade himself again as a Republican legal pundit. These days he can be found attacking Mueller for “special counsel overkill” without any trace of irony.

Both parties tend, to some extent, to take opportunistic positions on the powers available to Congress and the president depending on which branch of government of they happen to control at any given time. The Republican Party does not have a monopoly on this brand of hypocrisy. But the radical inconsistency of its positions is surely unique. Republicans don’t merely swing back and forth on executive power like a pendulum, they race from one extreme position to the other.

Under the Obama administration, Republicans expressed a mordant libertarian terror of executive authority. Remember the scare campaign against “czars”? The “czar” is a colloquial term for an Executive branch position that coordinates action on an issue, like drugs, an infectious disease, or reading. President Obama used this informal method about as often as his predecessor, but Republicans seized upon it as an authoritarian plot. House Republicans sued Obama over his czars, and Representative Steve Scalise likened him to a “dictator.”

Republicans conducted endless, redundant probes of various conspiracy theories, refusing to stop when they were debunked. House Republicans conducted six investigations into Benghazi alone. In the fall of 2016, Jason Chaffetz, head of the House Oversight Committee, boasted that he had already teed up “years” of investigations against the presumptive next president, Hillary Clinton.

When Trump surprisingly won the election, they toggled back immediately from redundant conspiratorial investigative overreach into total cover-up mode. A handful of Republicans complained faintly when Trump declared he could unilaterally spend money on a border wall even if Congress didn’t approve it. They have stood behind virtually every other Trump stonewall, including his extraordinary refusal to release financial information even while he continues running a private business empire with massive conflicts of interest. Imagining how Republicans would react if Obama had attempted any of the various Trumpian abuses has become a too-easy game for the handful of disillusioned critics on the right. If only the czar hysterics knew!

This is one sense in which Trump’s authoritarian impulses place him squarely within the mainstream of his party, rather than, as figures like Joe Biden have called him, an outlier. Trump, like his party, simply refuses to recognize the legitimacy of sharing power. Power in their minds is unitary: unquestionable when in their hands, illegitimate when wielded by the opposition. Trump grew naturally out of, and fit comfortably within, the party of Starr’s and Barr’s.

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