#the staples in this one were not aligned so just pay the edges of the two page photo no mind please thanks

[in-death-we-fall]

Parallel Lives

Kerrang 923, September 28 2002

In Slipknot, Joey Jordison gets to rage. In the Murderdolls, he gets to rock. In both bands, he shits in public…

Words: Ian Winwood Photos: Roxy Erickson

Never let it be said that the Murderdolls lack the capacity to surprise. It’s Thursday night, the penultimate date of their sold-out tour of British clubs, and the band were due onstage 10 minutes ago. Getting a band like this to do anything on time is like turning an oil tanker around, so they’re running late. Which means that the 500 people packed inside Bristol’s Fleece club are just going to have to wait.

Joey Jordison, on the other hand, cannot wait. Opting to change from ugly-men-without-make-up to ugly-men-with-make-up not in the venue’s intimate and inaccessible dressing room, but in their tour bus, the Murderdolls have, for the past 45 minutes, been saying “Excuse me” and “Could you pass the hairspray/lipstick” and getting dressed into stage clothes that have seen less washing powder than the Turin Shroud. It’s like playing Twister with Max Factor.

And it could be worse. Joey Jordison – five feet not very many inches tall, even in ridiculous stage boots – needs to ‘go to the toilet’, and he needs to do this in the ‘I’d leave that for 10 minutes if I were you’ sense of the term. Which is unfortunate, considering that ‘No solids shall be deposited in the tour bus toilet’ is appropriately Rule Number Two in the rock ‘n’ roll code of the road, second only to ‘Do not blow the bus driver’s brains out with a .45 Magnum as he’s hurtling down the motorway at 120 miles per hour’. For Jordison, looking quietly concerned, this is a problem. Think, think, think: what to do?

Joey Jordison decides to resolve his predicament by performing a bowel movement on the pavement, in the street.

You did read that correctly.

“Man, I just took a shit in the street,” he says, almost skipping with joy and pride.

Perhaps to celebrate such a commendable achievement, one of the Murderdolls – and, let’s be honest, aside from Joey Jordison, they all look the same – decides to smash a pint glass. The jar arcs through the air, hitting the cobbled floor with a smash that is, strangely, as satisfying as it is entirely redundant. Then another glass takes flight. Then another, then another. There isn’t much whooping and there isn’t much hollering, but there is plenty of debris.

We’re standing outside a pub, next door to the Fleece. The landlady leans out of the doorway.

“Could you stop that please?” she asks.

“Go back inside lady,” says vocalist Wednesday 13, winner of this week’s stupid name competition. “Go back inside and no-one will get hurt.”

Five minutes ago Wednesday was giving serious consideration to urinating on a Puddle Of Mudd fly poster. He decided not to because the band, as people, are “cool”.

The Murderdolls are now walking toward the stage door.

“Hey, you know about American football right?” asks Eric Griffin, the bass player. Eric has missed a part of the tour after his father died, but now he’s back. “Well in American football this is called a drop-kick.”

Eric throws a pint glass from his hand and tries to kick it. The glass spins from his boot and smashes six inches away.

He adds: “Although it’s not a very good drop-kick.”

Inside the venue, the crowd have heard the intro tape and are starting to cheer. Outside, the band are going inside.

Please welcome, from the United States of Stupidity, The Murderdolls.

The Murderdolls have a song called ‘I Like (sic) To Say Fuck’, which is just as well, because they say fuck all the time; they also have a song called ‘Let’s Fuck’ which is not just as well, if you’re the one in line, because they’re all as ugly as fuck.

Onstage at the Fleece, the band say the word so many times that if they were to keep a swearbox they could, at the end of the tour, purchase a country. So it’s, “Here’s a fucking song for you, Bristol,” and “Are you tired of hearing all the fucking shit on the radio, Bristol?”.

In case, heaven forbid, you get bored of the word “fuck”, The Murderdolls do spice it up and throw it around with the odd “motherfucker” as well. They’re inventive like that.

They’re also, on a night like this, at the very core of their element. When the album, ‘Beyond The Valley Of The Murderdolls’, is boiled down and fried up in a hateful hall before 500 loving people, you’re seeing this band as they were intended to be seen. It’s here that you can view the parts of the Murderdolls that are A Good Thing, such as the schlock-punk shtick that recalls bands such as the Misfits and the Necros. This is also the place to see the parts of the Murderdolls that are A Bad Thing, such as them revisiting the era of hairspray and shiny guitars that epitomised the glam-metal years.

The Murderdolls will try to guess a woman’s cup size by feeling her breasts. It’s worth asking: what is the point of the Murderdolls?

“Just to have some fun,” says Joey Jordison. The guitarist – for this group at least – sits in the upstairs lounge of his band’s tour bus. Adjacent to him is Wednesday. Before the tape recorder is switched on, a request is made that the whole band are questioned, but Joey, quietly, won’t allow it. Make of this what you will.

“I get all my angry shit out with Slipknot, so this is something else that I can do. And I have fun doing it. We may not be the most serious band in the world, but that doesn’t really matter. That doesn’t mean that this can’t mean something to me just the same.”

For a band that aren’t serious, by the way, Joey Jordison chose to meet this question in serious tones, and with some immediacy – ready with an answer, almost leaping in with his response.

Would you like your audience to be serious about liking you?

“Yeah, I suppose I would.”

Joey Jordison didn’t actually make an appearance today until 8pm, fearing that he’d contracted a fever after standing in the cole – straight after his band’s set – in Manchester for three hours signing CDs and body parts for his fans. Later in Bristol it would seem that this is no more than a chill, but his earlier absence means that his bandmates have to endure the mind-shrivelling tedium that is the afternoon before a show without him.

Wednesday and guitarist Acey Slade are upstairs in the Fleece’s dressing room, talking small and killing time. Wednesday is attempting to fit brown plastic holsters to his trousers, in which he can hold the blue plastic pistols that will spurt water into the crowd later tonight. Slade – the funniest and most impressive member of the band – is looking through photographs taken in Germany. He says the word “cool” a lot. Wednesday has a bastardised image of Colonel Sanders on the back of his jacket. Kentucky Fried Chicken is his favourite food, he says, with the humorous delivery of a serious sentiment. Although if he lived in England he would open a chain of fast food franchises called Kentucky Fried Fish And Chips.

Wednesday is from Louisiana (sic). Acey is from Pennsylvania.

But you’re based in Los Angeles, right?

“Fuck no,” says Wednesday.

I thought that’s where you all lived.

“We don’t really have a base,” says Slade.

Is that because you’re not a proper band?

“Fuck you,” says Wednesday.

The Murderdolls take this well. The Murderdolls, fittingly, know how to smile.

This is Joey Jordison’s band. He laughs and jokes along throughout the evening – and his humour and tolerance of a piss-taking journalist is more impressive than many – but, in subtle moments, his demeanour betrays a seriousness and focus that is hardly disguised. He is acutely aware of how he wishes to be portrayed although, strangely, he appears more concerned with visuals than words. He applies his make-up on three separate occasions for the photographs that partner this piece. The last time he has to do this, at 1am, he doesn’t appear overly thrilled. He has a quiet word with Roxy Erickson about what she can and can’t shoot (admirably, she opts not to fall in with the conspiracy).

In conversation, conversely, Jordison is almost slanderously unguarded. He wants to make it clear than our own Josh Sindell, in his review of the Murderdolls’ set at the Whisky A Go-Go, was wrong to say that Kerry King left early out of disdain, but rather had to leave for LAX airport. Then he says that while the other eight members of Slipknot were furious with K! Dep Ed Jason Arnopp for the things he wrote in his Slipknot book, this was only because they knew that what he wrote was “true”. He’ll also tell you about how he fucked-up his voice by mixing two different batches of cocaine together earlier in the tour. And how, on the road with Slipknot in America, he walked in to the Clown’s dressing room and emptied his bowels right into the rubbish bin. Right there in the room.

Why on Earth did you do that?

“Because he was fucking with me.”

Is there tension in Slipknot?

“No.”

But then he’ll say this. And he’ll say it with some joy and no disguise.

“We had more people at our gig (in Los Angeles) than Stone Sour did.”

Yeah, but Stone Sour are selling more records in America than you are.

Joey Jordison nods his head and curls his mouth into the thinnest, and cruellest, of smiles. Quietly he says, “At the moment”.

Are you sure there’s no tension in Slipknot?

“Yes.”

In the pub next door to the Fleece, there is something approaching mutiny. It’s 11:50pm, and the Murderdolls left the stage a quarter of an hour ago. Four men in their 40s are arguing about the merits – or otherwise – of the band. They all went to the show, but only half of them enjoyed it. You’ve got to move with the times, say the defenders. They weren’t even playing their instruments, say the detractors.

Listening to this is the landlord. He manages to be friendly despite glowing incandescent with fury. It was his glasses that were smashed by the band, and it was his wife who Wednesday instructed to go back inside so that “nobody would get hurt”.

The landlord also thinks the Murderdolls are the worst band ever to have performed next door. So furious he was with the incident, he confronted the Murderdolls’ tour manager and, threatening to summon the law, elicited an apology and £50 in compensation without hesitation or complaint.

Rock ‘n’ roll.

Just round the corner, the Murderdolls are milling in the street, signing autographs for the 200 people who have braved the chill and missed the last bus to talk to them. They will stay there for two hours. Then they will board the bus and, knowing nothing of the furore left behind them, sleep in their bunks and wake in another town. And there the Murderdolls will emerge to laugh and bullshit their way through another day.

[renaroo]

Cass Cain vs the Bat Family for the last slice of Alfred's pie. "Is that a challenge?"

A/N: This became a more Batfam entirety kind of story and then a commentary on the madness of quarantine in my own family using Uno as a proxy. Regardless it was a lot of fun to do.

Four Walls and Attitude 

Oracle places her hand against the map behind her. What was once a black and white scaled model of Gotham is now glowing a radioactive green with shades of green depending on the island, the neighborhood, and even the street.

Everyone, including Batman, stares in awe of the projection.

“In other words,” Oracle says, looking sharply over her glasses, “there is absolutely no way we can operate like normal without causing things getting worse.”

Silence spreads quickly throughout the cave. Most of them don’t even know what to make of the information.

Finally, giving voice to the general shock, Nightwing finally says, “Wow. Corona killed Batman.”

“It did not, the rest of you are staying in the manor,” Batman concludes, leading to an eruption of disagreement.

“Did you not pay attention to what I just said?” Oracle demands. “It goes for you, too, Bruce. No one in this cave can leave without it causing a major public health challenge. We patrol too many areas, cross-contaminate with each other too often, and, worst of all, we have immunocompromised family members of our own to worry about.”

It was an intentionally vague statement, but it doesn’t stop the meaningful glances toward Alfred and Red Robin.

Red Robin crosses his arms angrily. “I resent that statement.”

“Maybe keep better track of your spleen,” Red Hood snorts.

Black Bat is uncertain, shifting on her heels. “What do we do?”

“Social distance and adapt,” Oracle answers easily, straightening her glasses. “It’s possible to fight crime without punching people, you realize. That’s my entire M.O.”

The other vigilantes look at each other warily.

***

The size of the manor was enough reason on its own for them to make it their main base of quarantine. There are obviously more than enough supplies, more rooms than any of them could use independently, and access to equipment and the cave should emergencies arise.

Not to mention, the vast majority of them live there already.

Stephanie calls her mom, Barbara messages the Birds of Prey, and they all find solo activities for the first day, only really intersecting at the library, the kitchen, and the entertainment room during chance encounters.

That seemed to be a good call. And when there is a need for some social interaction, it’s almost always in their usual social groups however they naturally lie.

No one sees Bruce but that seems pretty par for the course.

It isn’t until the third day that things get slightly more challenging.

Stephanie, Duke, and Cassandra enter the mini-theater room with a giant tub of popcorn. The lights are off, but the projector is running and the main couch is occupied by Dick and Damian.

“Oh, didn’t realize you guys were in here,” Duke says sheepishly.

“SHH!” Damian hisses at them.

Dick arches back enough to look at the trio over his shoulder. “No problem, we’re watching Planet Earth. Want to join?”

Stephanie and Duke look at each other with mirrored grimaces.

Cassandra squints at the screen. “No,” she answers for them. “How long?”

“We’re marathoning,” Dick shrugs. “Started about an hour ago—“

“SHH!” Damian snarls at them again.

“We were hoping to watch a movie,” Steph says. Her gaze falls more on Damian than Dick, since he is no doubt the one to appeal to. “The Breakfast Club, it’s a classic. You’d like it.”

Duke looks at them all skeptically. “He would? Really?”

“Cass, you know there’s a different television set,” Dick says, pointing to the floor below.

“Tim’s playing,” Cass says in response, her hands holding up an invisible controller as she mimes Tim’s thumb movements.

“There’s a million places you can set up a laptop,” Dick continues to plea.

That earns a crossed look from Stephanie. “So? What do we need to do? Start putting signup sheets in all the rooms? Just share the projector with us after Planet Earth switches episodes.”

“No,” Dick and Damian say in unison.

The trio leaves the room angrily and, within the hour, clipboards with signup sheets begin being mysteriously adhered to all of the main rooms.

***

Jason has made it a point, nearly every day, to remind everyone that he will be the easiest adjusted to quarantine because he is the only true introvert.

The number of times the words introvert and isolated have left his mouth climb so high that, in secret, everyone is beginning to doubt the truth to them. If he is an introvert to the exponential extremes that he professes, surely he would not need to keep finding where everyone else is hiding to let them know it.

He has an alternating list of Zoom calls he is on each day. Hangouts he makes himself, making a point to inform the others quarantined to the manor than they are not invited to it.

The list of who is invited to it seems to grow by the day.

Kyle Rayner, Donna Troy, Ryan Choi. Then Roy Harper, Koriand'r, and Jade Nguyen. Then Artemis, Bizarro, and Miguel Barragan. Out of nowhere Duela Dent, Rose Wilson, and Suzie Su.

It’s halfway into the second week and Jason has the audacity to come into Tim’s room, pull off his headphones, and ask him if he’s bored.

“You know what I think,” Tim says, more than a little irritated. “I think you’re actually not an introvert. I think you’re not an introvert and you’re taking out your need for social contact out on the rest of us.”

Jason considers his comment, then breaks the expensive Beats in half before walking out the door.

***

Alfred begins making many desserts.

It starts with requests. Of course he will make whatever meal or whatever treat is asked of him, because it is nice to have all his loved ones safe, secure, and in the same location for once. Many of the desserts aren’t even difficult.

Then, somehow, they morph into bribes.

Despite the fact that Alfred has remained tight-lipped about his exact age for all these years, the quote-unquote children insist that he is too old to venture out of quarantine. Thus he must stay in the manor and rely on them to stock the pantry.

This doesn’t seem altogether terrible until it becomes obvious to Alfred that whoever he sends out will only get the foodstuffs they desire and not any of the important staples Alfred puts on the list.

Thus, the trades begin.

He can’t make his famous flan without evaporated milk. He positively will not make ginger layer cake without wine poached pears. And how can they snack on peach and pistachio tarts without honey?

Before Alfred has realized it, he has created monsters. Sugar craved, bored little monsters.

He puts a limit on the sweets he will cook in hopes of focusing instead on cooking favorite meals, but it’s too late.

Even Bruce is checking in on the kitchen at odd hours, looking curiously under the cake plate.

And cutting back the number of sweets Alfred is producing through the week also leads to another unforeseen circumstance.

They begin competing for what sweets are left.

***

Bruce looks in disbelief at the screen. Then he looks at the others. Then back to the screen.

“I distinctly remember us being on episode four,” Bruce says in a voice that edges on Batman.

“Last night, yeah,” Duke agrees, helping Alfred with everyone’s drinks.

No one else seems to find fault with the statement and are waiting for Bruce to continue. They pick at their independent devices lazily, only half attentive to any one thing.

It’s very dissatisfying considering the huge inconsistency that Bruce is detecting on their streaming service.

“Why is it saying that we’ve watched all the episodes already?” Bruce demands, voice sounding more hurt than he meant to let on.

Dick and Barbara simultaneously look up from their phones, toward each other, then back down. The others don’t even bother breaking their concentrations.

“You finished the entire series without me?” Bruce presses.

“Father,” Damian finally speaks up, sounding exasperated, “it is impossible to properly view things with you.”

Bruce squints at his youngest. “What does that mean?”

“It’s not just you, Bruce,” Stephanie says quickly, trying to smooth things over. “I can’t watch shows with my mom either.”

“Boomers just don’t know how to binge-watch,” Tim cuts with the final blow, not even looking up from his laptop.

Leaving the room in spite of protests, Bruce decides he is never going to watch the end of the show out of spite.

***

Cassandra has apparently made it a habit to not let others see her walk through doorways. As a result, she seemingly appears in rooms more than she enters them. Or, at the very least, she acts as though she just always has been and it is the other party who is intruding on her space.

As a result, it’s not altogether shocking when Duke looks up from his newly prepared plate and is met by his sister.

She is staring at his plate more than him.

“Oh, hey, Sis,” he offers her all the same. Then, instinctively, he shifts his shoulders to somewhat create a barrier between his plate and her. “What’s up?”

“Apple pie,” Cass announces as if it answers everything.

“Mmhmm,” Duke replies cautiously.

“Last piece?” she asks, her eyes gleaming.

“I’m sure Alfred will make another,” Duke says, then, slowly adding, “eventually.”

“Mine,” she snaps.

“No, you don’t even eat yours with vanilla ice cream!” Duke argues back, almost turning his back on her completely. “Just eat some of the cookies.”

“No!” Cass says, quickly shifting to be more aligned with the treat. “You eat them.”

“Cass, I got here first!” Duke snaps back, hooking afoot around the leg of the nearest chair. “Fair and square.”

“It was my pie,” Cass hisses. “I’ll take it back!”

“Is that a challenge?” Duke asks.

He sees her lunging and immediately kicks out the leg of the chair as he flips over it.

Cassandra is quick as ever and easily somersaults off of the falling chair to land over Duke’s shoulders. Her force is enough to send Duke’s body tumbling forward, but his body has proper instincts. He holds up the plate of pie above all else while using his free hand to find new ground, twirl his body out, and roll his head forward. Cass tumbles off his shoulders.

She hits the counters, but not before kicking off her shoe and sending it flying for Duke’s face.

He twists enough to lighten some of the impact, but the well-aimed shoe sends Duke into a tailspin.

The pie hits the floor with a sickening thud.

The siblings look crestfallen toward the prize, then each other.

Then they get angry.

By the time Barbara and Alfred burst onto the scene to break things up, the fight has utterly devolved and grown to the size of five Wayne heirs, three of which had no idea what the initial fight was even over.

Jason filmed it and sent it to everyone in his extended Zoom call list.

***

They are at each other’s throats. It turns out the Manor doesn’t have enough rooms.

Even Alfred’s treats are not enough to soothe the tensions anymore. Any little thing can set them off. So they spend the rest of the week finding solitary activities, barely communicating with words anymore.

Finally, some wounds begin to heal when Stephanie speaks to a room of others on their Switches.

“Hey, does anybody have an island with cherries?”

They play in harmony again, comparing villagers in hushed tones and sharing patterns for clothes.

Momentarily, there is hope that the peace will last forever, to the rhythm of island music and Blathers’ gibberish words.

It gives them twenty-seven hours of peace and nothing more.

***

“This absolutely will not work,” Barbara sputters as she pulls up to the table.

The others look at her with mild surprise, but they’re already seated. Jason is shuffling in preparation to deal. The arrangement from his left on is Stephanie, Cassandra, Barbara herself, Dick, Duke, Tim, and then Damian.

Damian is flanked by Jason and Tim. And only Barbara sees what the problem with this is.

“I am looking at a public safety hazard,” Barbara presses. “Dick, seriously, you’re going to let them do this?”

He thinks about it. “It’s a learning experience,” he determines.

“You dealing in or nah, Red?” Jason pushes.

She glares at them all, certain this is purposeful on at least some of their behalves, but she crosses her arms. “Okay, fine,” she says.

Jason deals out seven to everyone. Once he puts the deck in the middle, he turns over the first Uno card — green three — and with his free hand reaches in his jacket pocket for cigarettes. The others are already playing while Jason looks slightly miffed if not panicked when he can’t find the pack.

Under the table, Barbara can feel the shuffle of a pack of cigarettes being passed between other members of the table.

Shockingly enough, Jason doesn’t say anything verbally, but his eyes are already glaring at Damian as the pickpocket.

Stephanie puts down green nine.

Cassandra green Draw Two.

Barbara draws two.

Dick puts down a yellow Draw Two.

“No fair,” Duke chuckles.

Tim puts down a yellow Reverse.

Damian narrows his eyes. “You think you’re clever, don’t you, Drake?”

Duke yellow eight.

Yellow four.

Yellow two.

Blue two.

Blue three.

Blue Reverse.

Damian glares at Jason. “Is this planned?”

“How can they plan Uno, Dami?” Steph asks. Blue one.

Blue seven.

Barbara looks over her glasses at the table. She’s lost track of the cigarettes. “Don’t underestimate these people, Stephanie,” she warns as the ends up drawing five cards before finally laying down green seven.

Green nine.

Wild Card. “Let’s go with,” Duke looks through his hand cautiously, “Yellow again.”

There is a suspicious twitch to Tim’s lips as he puts down a Draw Four. “Let’s go back to red.”

Damian releases an explosion of expletives and leaps to stand on his chair.

“Ah, it was a mistake, my bad,” Dick says, rubbing a hand down his face.

***

Bruce is stone-faced at dinner, strangely fixated on his plate.

It’s not overly concerning, Bruce tends to be in quiet contemplation on most days regardless.

He finally looks up, though, and glares at them all.

“I finished it on my own,” he informs them.

They all stare back.

“Tiger King,” he clarifies. “They’re all guilty. But also. What the hell.”

Everyone collectively loses their minds again.

Alfred sighs and begins drafting a rotation for getting them all out of the manor more.

[yoongi-sugaglider]

The story of a Goddess and a Demi God,star crossed lovers whose story was lost to the complexity of history. The truth is they were wronged. All because of the jealousy of a brother. Can they escape their fate in a modern age? Can reincarnation allow her to finally reunite with the ones who loved her?

genre: angst ; reincarnation/Greek mythology au ; werewolf au

pairing: Yoongi x reader; ot7 x reader ; ft: Ateez

warnings: abusive relationship, physical abuse towards reader, vengeful ot7, inaccurate description of Ateez as aggressive (they’re sweet babies I swear! But Eomma needed a bad guy), fighting, character death, of age drinking (more to be added mayhaps?)

word count: 3548

tag list : @w1tchcraftt 

“Apollo!” 

The sun god glanced up from the arrows he’d been inspecting, grinning brightly as he watched his twin dance along the path leading away from the shoreline. Barely breathing heavily the young woman collapsed to his side, leaning her head against his thigh and smiling up at him as she watched his deft fingers wrap the stone arrow tips with the golden strands of his hair.

“I swear you’re going to go bald one day if you keep that up.”

He scoffed, nudging her side with his thigh and shoving her away as he held up a glowing arrow. “These are the strongest and most deadly arrows in all of Olympus. Surely one would want the most unbreakable of string in order to ensure and maintain that title?”

Artemis cocked an eyebrow at him, leaning back on her hands as she eyed the arrow waving in her face. “And that involves your hair how?”

“Why the hair of a god is the mightiest of mighty!” Apollo puffed out his chest causing the sun to radiate even brighter in response as he peacocked in front of his sister.

“I stand by my statement Apollo. Bald does not suit you. Surely there are others you could harvest string from?”

Apollo strugged, tucking the completed arrow into the ever filling quiver at his side before beginning his work anew. “Tell me sister dear, it is rare for you to visit the shore. Surely you’re off on another hunt?”

Artemis smiled, her gaze softening as she glanced towards the sky. The sun hung high in the sky above them, shining it’s life giving light upon the world. Just above the horizon hung the moon, barely a spot in the sky and yet seeming to seek out the light of her brother.

“We were resting. The hunt begins tonight, but Orion wanted to visit his brothers and swim in the sea.”

“You’re too soft on him Artemis. Allowing a half blood man to accompany you. The other Gods won’t take kindly to it if you continue this any longer.” Apollo frowned, eyes following his fingers as he wove feathers into one end of his current project. All the while though he watched his sister, watched the way her face fell at the mention of the other Gods.

“They can all rot. With the amount of women Zeus alone takes to bed I doubt my hunting companion has any bearing on whether I perform my duties or not.” The moon Goddess sighed, standing to her feet and brushing away the dirt and dust on her leather skirts.

“And what about me?” Apollo barely spoke above a whisper but Artemis caught the words nonetheless.

“We used to hunt together all the time Artemis. I am your twin am I not?” Apollo glanced up at his sister, eyes filled with a pain she’d not seen in him before, and another emotion, one she hoped she was misunderstanding.

“Brother dear.” Crouching before the golden God she cupped his cheeks in her hands, sending him a soft smile as she spoke.

“Nothing can ever change how I feel about you. Favored human or not you will always be my favorite hunting partner.” Her eyes danced between his, hoping he could hear the sincerity in her voice. “You will always be my brother.”

The strange emotion intensified,causing a moment of fear to wash over Artemis. Apollo stood, arrow gripped tightly in his hand as his gaze moved from her to a tiny black spot bobbing in the far off ocean waves.

“It’s not enough.” The golden God muttered. A rage filled him, tinged green on the edges as he raised the arrow before him.

Artemis stood quickly, eyes wide and panic causing her voice to waver. “Apollo?”

“I’ll not allow a human, demi or otherwise to come between us.” A golden light washed over them as Apollo plucked his brilliant golden bow from the rays of the sun. The arrow in his hand shimmered, turning to pure silver as he allowed the jealousy in his heart to take hold.

Drawing the string on his bow he knocked his arrow, shoving a screaming Artemis to the side and letting the arrow fly free.

In an instant the arrow found its mark and the black dot floating in the sea sank from view.

***

 “Hyung, your phone’s ringing.” Tae darted over to the cd player, cutting the audio and plunging the dance practice room into relative silence besides the sound of 7 heavily breathing men and the melodic tones of Yoongi’s own piano playing as it spilled from the speakers of his phone.

Yoongi shuffled past the collapsed forms of Namjoon and Jimin, choosing to ignore their weary and somehow grateful expressions as he snatched his phone up and held it up to his ear.

“Y/n?”

“Hi Yoongi, I’m not interrupting anything am I?”

Yoongi couldn’t help the wistful smile that teased at his lips. “No, we were just finishing up dance practice. Did you need something?”

“I kind of do actually. But if you’re busy I can call back later?”

A chorus of no’s resounded through the room. Despite him not having the phone on speaker the others had heard her no problem. She giggled on the other end, not paying it much mind as this was so very typical of them.

“Alright boys, sorry to interrupt dance practice. But I’ve got business to discuss with Min Genius. I’ll be borrowing him for about an hour or two.” 

The room went from a series of relieved sighs to cheering in a matter of moments. Yoongi smiled, hanging up the call after confirming the details of their meeting place, a coffee shop the two liked to frequent.

“Hyung!” Jungkook jogged over. A towel dangled loosely from his grip as he watched Yoongi pack his practice gear away.

“What is it Kookie?” Yoongi paused in his movements, giving the younger man his full attention.

“Just, I know what you’re thinking, and I just hope that you go a bit easier on her this time around.”

Yoongi shrugged, draping his gym bag over his shoulder and sweeping the blonde locks out of his eyes. “I can’t keep coddling this Kookie. If we don’t do something…”

“Hyung, we aren’t running out of any kind of time. I know it feels like it whenever a new lifetime begins but… we have the ability to be patient. It was bred into the 6 of us. I know it’s harder for you and I know you feel like the stakes are higher for you. And maybe they are. But we all love her.” Jungkook sighed, his voice lowering to almost a whisper. “Just…”

Shaking his head Jungkook turned away, obviously irritated with himself for not being able to express himself properly. Yoongi reached out, gripping his shoulder gently and turning Jungkook to face him.

“I know. I get it.” He gave his brother a soft smile, eyes creasing as he pulled him in for a hug. “I’ll try, okay? For all of us.”

***

The coffee shop was a crowded mess of humans and smells. Fresh brewing coffee and pastries warming beneath the heated lamps in the display cases. Yoongi chose a seat at the back, close enough to the rear exist to provide an easy escape and yet aligned perfectly to give him full view of the large front window and entrance.

He didn’t have to wait long though. The faint sound of the front doorbell jingling sounded over the dull murmur of the cafe’s patrons, drawing his attention to the radiant form striding towards his table. 

“Yoongi hi! Thanks for meeting me.” Pulling her messenger bag over her head she took her seat. No matter how many times he saw her, her brilliant smile never failed to leave him stunned for words.

“Your hair…” His whispered words barely reached her over the barista shouting out his order number.

Excusing himself quickly from the table he moved to the counter, taking a moment to collect his thoughts. She’d cut her hair, something she’d never have done before. He glanced back at her as he balanced the tray filled with their drinks and her favorite pastry. It now barely reached to her shoulders and the sight of it set off all sorts of alarms in his mind. Coupled with the sunglasses she had yet to take off despite the overcast sky outside and the fact that they were indoors set his thoughts racing and his blood boiling.

“Aish, thank the stars for you Yoongi.” She wiggled her fingers towards him as he walked back to the table,her fingers grabbing at the air like a child as he chuckled warm heartedly at her antics.

Taking her drink off the tray he handed it to her. She accepted graciously, inhaling the steam coming from the mug and releasing a purr like hum of pleasure . “Mmm.”

Passing off her pastry he placed his own order on the table before returning the tray and coming to sit across from her. “So, you needed to talk to me about something?”

“Ah, that’s right!” Dabbing her lips with a napkin she reached into her bag, pulling out a manila envelope and passing it over to Yoongi.

Delicate fingers flipped open the copper prongs, a smile lighting his face as he pulled out a sheaf of papers all stapled together with her name and the title of her latest book printed on the front page.

“You finished it!” He grinned, flipping through the pages and admiring her latest handy work as she looked on with pride and an unbridled joy.

“I managed to finish typing up the last chapter this morning.”

“So my advice worked? The writer’s block is gone huh?” He paused in scanning over the ending, eyes seeking out her own and finding her mouth full of pastry and a bashful look of embarrassment in her eyes at being caught stuffing her face.

Yoongi waited patiently as she chewed, smiling when she nodded and finally swallowed.

“Yeah! I didn’t even know binaural beats were a thing until you brought them up.”

He shrugged, carefully returning the pages to their folder and placing them on the table so that he could enjoy his coffee while it was still hot.

“Most people can’t handle them honestly. The tones can make them dizzy or nauseous if they don’t know what they’re getting into. But I figured you’d be able to handle it.” as he spoke his eyes glanced towards the entrance, always aware of the number of people entering and leaving the establishment and their proximity to himself and the woman sitting across from him.

As y/n continued to rave over her newfound writing aid he allowed his eyes to wander over her form. She still had yet to remove the sunglasses and despite the relative comfort of the temperature in the cafe, her long winter coat remained in place. His mind took note the beads of sweat forming on her nose, the way she winced when one particular hand movement caused  her arm to knock into the wall beside her and the way she flinched and allowed her body to tense up from the contact and what he could only assume were bruises on her arm that she was trying to hide.

He reached out, subconsciously seeking out her wrist and watching in rising anger as she jerked her hand away from the contact. The two stared down at his open hand on the table top, his gaze intense and burning and hers guilty and almost fearful.

“Yoongi I…”

“He’s been hurting you again hasn’t he?” His tone wasn’t accusatory. On the contrary his voice was soft, words gentle as he closed his hand into a fist and slowly allowed it to fall into his lap.

She lowered her head, focus pinpointed on her lap as her mind seemed to race for something to say.

“I…I um…it was an accident. He was angry and I really shouldn’t have pushed him. I just…”

“Y/n please.” He reached for her again, grateful when she didn’t flinch away from him this time and allowed him to carefully hold her hand in his loose grip. “You’ve got to see this is wrong. That what he’s doing to you is awful and that you deserve so much better than this.”

Whispered words followed her, a broken cacophony of lyrics spinning through her mind as she attempted to make sense of what was going on before her.

Yoongi watched her mind work, knowing that what he’d just said would either turn her against him or guide her back to the joyful woman he’d fallen in love with so many eons before.

“Y/n? Talk to me…please?”

She shook her head, eyes clenched shut as if not seeing him could drown out his words.

“No Yoongi…not this time. Not right now…I…I have to go…”

Standing quickly she grabbed her bag, flinching as the chair scraped loudly against the linoleum floor. She grabbed her folder and shoved it hastily into the bag, mumbling an apology and stepping away from the table, away from him. She threw him one last pain filled glance before she disappeared into the crowd and out the door.

He stared in despondence at the empty chair she’d just occupied. Once again she’d pushed him away. Once again she’d refused to hear the truth of her own reality. What would it take to get through to her? What would it take for her to see that he was only trying to save her from her own mistakes? From something that was basically killing her.

A growl escaped him, feral as the wolf within him. Fists clenched against cold unfeeling wood, claws threatening to break free and puncture the delicate skin of his palm.

He snapped to reality when the server came over, asking him to leave before his display of aggression chased away the timid customers around him. 

A nasty comment thrown over his shoulder later and he stood once more in the cold, unfeeling rain outside. Flipping the collar of his jacket up against the dripping wetness he turned towards his home, knowing the questions that would be launched at him, knowing the concern that would fill his brothers’ eyes as he told them that once more he’d failed to convince her. That once more he might have been moments away from losing her forever thanks to her hard headed determination to escape his unending concern.

“Hyung?” Jimin’s voice broke through the perpetual storm of his rage.

He glanced around, only just realizing that he’d made it home and now sat on the massive wrap around sofa in the living room of his dorm.

“Hyung did you hear me?” Jimin reached out a hand, eyes filled with sorrow for the stewing rage flowing off of Yoongi in waves.

Yoongi sighed, having to physically restrain himself from snapping at the young pup.

“Sorry Jimin. No, I didn’t hear you.”

“Ah..w…well the others are all at dance practice but…I could feel you were hurting and well I came home to sit with you…if…if you want?” The dancer reached his hand out, eyes seeming to plead with Yoongi to accept the invitation for a listening ear.

The wolf within retreated, gaining Yoongi a clear head that allowed him to reach for and clasp Jimin’s hand in his own.

“I…yeah. I’m sorry Jimin. I know how much practice means to you, I just…”

“She didn’t want to hear it again?”

Yoongi nodded, eyes closing as he leaned his head against the back of the couch. “I swear it’s like she enjoys living with all of that pain.”

“Now I highly doubt that.” Jimin chidded, lips pursed as he frowned at his weary elder. “She’s afraid hyung. Probably too afraid of what it could mean to be happy. Of what it could mean to finally be free.”

“But that doesn’t make any sense!” Yoongi raised his free hand to clench at the blonde hair swept over his forehead. “I mean who doesn’t want to be happy?”

Jimin patted his hand, mulling over his words for a moment.

“Well. She spent her whole life in pain. Even before she met us she’d rarely ever smiled, let alone had a moment where she could just exist and be a person right? At least that’s what I understood from what she told you.”

Yoongi nodded, tilting his head to the side to watch Jimin from half opened eyes. “Her childhood was fucked, teen years were trash, young adult years were shitty. Hell even now her life is a burning dumpster fire. That’s why I don’t get why she won’t let me help her?”

“Hyung… okay.” Jimin slid forward, eyes bright as a thought came to mind. “Do you remember 70 years ago when that cult invaded our territory and no matter what we did to kick them out they just kept throwing themselves at our claws?”

Yoongi grunted, not quite following Jimin but deciding to play along anyway. “Yeah, those religious freaks even had Joon baffled.”

Jimin nodded, a slight grimace coming over him as he continued. “The problem with them was that they’d been brainwashed right?” Yoongi nodded. “They’d been basically forced to live and work and act a certain way until they basically didn’t know anything else other than what their leader told them was the truth.”

“Yeah, I remember. That sick fuck had them convinced we were demons come to eat their babies or some shit so we ended up having to wipe them all out because they just kept coming back with new recruits n shit.”

“Yeah…well basically she’s going through the same thing.”

“What?? There’s no way. I’d know if she had joined a cult!”

“Hyung, focus here.” Jimin chuckled, patting his elder on the shoulder as he’d sat up in a rage and was now squeezing the blood flow from Jimin’s hand.

“I don’t mean she’s joined a cult. Okay look. When she was a kid you said her mom used to beat the crap out of her right? Not to mention the fucked up shit her ex did to her right?”

Yoongi growled at the memory of her telling him that exact story, remembering the deadness in her eyes as she told it as if it’d happened to someone else and not her.

“Who the fuck does that to their girlfriend??” Yoongi jumped up from the couch, tugging at his hair as he began to pace restlessly.

“She told you what her mom would do right? Telling her she wasn’t allowed to think of herself as pretty, not allowed to be selfish by asking for things and always being forced to put her younger brother and sister before her own needs right?” Jimin watched Yoongi’s restless movements, noticing the shadow of his tail and ears beginning to form.

“Yeah. And then when she got with that dumb shit from podunk nowhere he did the same shit to her, beating her and calling her all kinds of names and putting her down all the time…”

“She’s been hearing her whole life she’s not worth it. Not worth the joy, not worthy of being happy. Hyung…hyung!” Jimin had to shout to regain his elder’s attention. Yoongi’s head snapped to him, eyes glowing a golden honey as his canines sharpened and his claws began to twist and bend his fingers into strange shapes.

“She was brainwashed. Just like those cult followers her psyche was warped and twisted to believe these lies to the point that anything else that’s actually the truth sounds like some made up fantasy that could threaten her very wellbeing.”

As the truth began to dawn on Yoongi his form began to waver, melting back into the soft human form of a dejected man trying his best to understand and save his best friend, the love of his life…his soulmate.

“I…fuck…” He collapsed back onto the couch beside Jimin, eyes glazed as he stared up at the ceiling. “I…how did I never realize?”

“Because you were so busy being angry for her that you didn’t take the time to see the bigger picture, the whole picture.”

“J..Jimin…what do I do?”

Jimin’s heart twisted at the sound of Yoongi’s voice. The sound of a broken man searching for a way out of this pit of despair.

“If this were a human I’d tell you to give up on her and move on but…”

“You know I can’t. You know who she is…who she was…”

“I know hyung. And we all feel it, just as much as you do. But…well she found you first. It’s always been that way.” Jimin reached for Yoongi’s hand, pulling it into his lap and rubbing his thumbs gently over the elder man’s knuckles.

“We’ll figure this out hyung. Knowing what we know now I bet Namjoon hyung has an idea of what we can do to help her. We just gotta be patient okay?”

Though the newfound knowledge weighed heavily on his mind he nodded along to Jimin’s words, finding himself far too exhausted to think, let alone argue any further.

                                                       Chapter 2

[jemej3m]

Random au idea I had but will never work on but you might enjoy: Andrew is Kevin's bodyguard. Neil is hired to kill Kevin. (in my mind it was also a fantasy au because that's what I'm writing atm but it could work either way tbh idk)

i love this idea!!!! if you’re looking for something similar, with old courts and alliances, i can recommend @gluupor‘s version here!! its amazing 

but ur wish is my command lmao so heres 2000 words on neil and andrew with the assassin/bodyguard trope lmao

*

Neil eyed the gun with mild distaste. He knew Ichirou liked the finality of the gun, the fear it inspired in one’s eyes, but Neil just thought it was messy. 

Efficient, sure, but loud. And cumbersome. And so obvious you’re holding a gun. 

He had knives instead. 

Like father like son, his mother said scathingly. She was long gone, having taken his father right down to hell with her, but that left Neil with a criminal empire and his father’s shoes to fill. 

“Get rid of Kevin Day.” Ichirou had said, lounging in front of a fire. Neil had been seated next to him, taut and rigid, like he always was around Ichirou.

Neil wasn’t insane enough to ask why, but Ichirou soldiered on anyway. 

“My father wanted him as an asset but I see him as a loose end. I had to get rid of Riko because of that man and my brother’s jealous tendencies: He knows too much.”

Neil remembered that. He’d handed Ichirou the gun. 

“He’ll be dead within a month.” Neil promised, trying to not let his voice betray how husk-like he felt. 

*

The first problem he encountered was: Kevin Day was loved publicly, and for good reason. 

Whatever. Neil would poison him and he’d be dead before the weekend arrived, with slow-acting Ricin to put distance between Neil and Kevin’s soon-to-be-corpse. 

That would be, if Neil could even get remotely close to Kevin. 

But he couldn’t. 

He’d commandeered the neighbouring flat to Kevin’s, among the gorgeously glittering glass scapes of New York City. He lived here, too, but it was never in the metropolitan area. He lived on Ichirou’s estate with was further north, or spent time in his Baltimore jurisdiction. 

Becoming Kevin’s new neighbour was relatively simple: He’d simply sent the old woman an invitation to an eternal retreat up in Canada, after looking at her search history (he never wanted to look at an elderly woman’s search history again). She packed up her bags, and Neil slipped in easily, paying the first three months of rent up-front and bypassing the security checks for such a prestigious living space with his new alias: Neil Josten. 

He liked the name Neil. Sue him. It was more comfortable to wear than Nathaniel.

It was upon moving into the apartment that he realised: Kevin Day was never alone. He was with his fianceé, Thea Muldani, who looked as equally adept in militant training as she was in Exy. He was surrounded by his team or the press. 

Or, as Neil reluctantly discovered, he was being watched by Andrew Minyard’s careful eye. 

A quick search on Minyard revealed many things. He’d been a Doe, he’d been to juvie, he’d been involved in multiple cases on child sexual assault as a witness. This wasn’t public information: This was just Neil’s awfully good technological ministrations. 

He also had a degree in criminology from Palmetto, which was where Neil assumed he and Kevin grew close enough that Kevin would trust his protection to Andrew. 

Context was great and all, but Neil couldn’t figure out a way around Minyard for the life of him. Sometimes, when they went out clubbing to a downtown establishment called Eden’s, he would disappear for ten minutes. It was an impossible window, seeing as Kevin was never alone. 

Neil decided the only solution was to grow close enough to Andrew that he could gain the man’s trust and slip around him. His habits were routine, and he took his smoke breaks on the balcony that aligned with Neil’s. 

So every morning, Neil would be leaning on the railing with a cup of coffee and a cigarette. Every morning, Minyard would slid open the door, and step out. He usually wouldn’t even look in Neil’s direction. No cordial good morning, not even a nod. 

Neil would have to catch the man’s interest. 

He’d been lucky in that his father had kept his scar-making to Neil’s torso. If Neil’d face had been disfigured, he’d be too noticeable as an assassin. He had recognisable features as it was: His red hair and blue eyes were recognisable as it was. 

So he wore an over-sized t-shirt that slipped off his shoulder and showed the worst of his scarring: a puckered bullet wound with an arc of a knife-blade through it for good measure, and the imprint of a clothes iron on his shoulder. Both were bright red against his skin and impossible to miss. 

A phone was jammed between his shoulder and his chin as he took a drag from his cigarette, hearing the door slide open. 

“…No, don’t be fucking stupid. No one can know about this. Can you imagine how much scrutiny I’d be under if they found out who it was? They wouldn’t be able to bring me down but I’d have a hell of a lot of work to do to avoid that. No, I have to go. Don’t fuck up whilst I’m gone.”

He threw his phone onto the ottoman and let out an aggravated huff, stamping out his cigarette on the railing. He shook his pack and found only a lighter, throwing the empty cartridge over the balcony with faux-frustration. 

“Quit being dramatic.” Came a voice to his right. 

Neil glanced to where Minyard was standing at the near-edge of the balcony, offering his pack. The two balconies were close enough that Neil could reach out, remaining hesitant, to take one. 

He lit it and brought it to his jaw, as was habit. “Thank you.”

“You’re wasting the nicotine.” The man insisted, with a detached gaze at Neil’s shoulder. 

Neil rose an eyebrow, pulling the shirt’s neckline up and over his scars to cover them once more. The man let his gaze flit from the shoulder to Neil’s face. “I’m more of a passive smoker.”

“Pathetic.” Minyard muttered. “You owe me a whole pack.”

Neil grinned. “Seems like a bit of a steep price.” 

“Interest rates are a killer.” He mulled. “I’m expecting it tomorrow morning, or I’ll hike the debt up to two packs.”

“Seems reasonable.” Neil let the smoke curl over his tongue before breathing it out through his nose. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning?”

“I’ll finish that if you won’t.” Andrew gestured to the coffee in Neil’s other hand. 

“Black and bitter? Not many people have my taste.”

The man made a scathing noise. “You’re a detriment to the human race.”

Neil put the cigarette between his lips and gave Minyard a two-finger salute. “See you tomorrow.”

Minyard hummed. 

Neil slid the balcony door shut behind him and grinned to himself. This would be fucking easy. 

*

Andrew didn’t know who Kevin’s (and by proxy, his) new neighbour was, but he was intrigued. By the sounds of the phone-call, he didn’t seem so noble, and neither did the curl to his grin. He owed Andrew for the cigarette which meant he’d see him again, and would be able to assess him once more. 

Kevin had slept like a black-out drunk after getting home from his away game, almost collapsing onto the couch. He hadn’t actually gotten black-out drunk for years, but sometimes Andrew wondered how someone acted like such a hangover without a single drop of alcohol in their system. 

He’d woken at six, as he usually did, feeling more than a little sleep-deprived. After a light workout on the rowing machine and breakfast in front of the TV, he took his coffee outside. 

There he was again. Andrew would be lying if he said the man wasn’t absolutely blessed in the appearance department, but it’d be entirely inappropriate to get with someone he’d have to see regularly after the fact. 

The man smiled from behind his mug, wearing a tight wife-beater and sweatpants that hung deliciously low on his hips with a dressing gown thrown over the top. No scars were on show, barring the slight raised bump across his hip that the tightness of his shirt revealed. 

“Here,” He said, throwing the pack at Andrew despite being probably 15 storeys above the ground. “I took one. Cash exchange percentage.”

Andrew scoffed. 

“I’m Neil, by the way.” He offered. “Neil Josten.”

“Andrew Minyard.”

“Thought so.” The man sipped on his coffee. Neil Josten. An ordinary name for such an eccentric person. “Didn’t want seem like a creep and start gushing about Day’s stats when we hadn’t even introduced ourselves yet.”

“Don’t you dare.” Andrew grunted. “I hear enough from the man himself.”

Neil laugh was a singular huff, twisting his face into something more gleeful. He leaned his elbow on the railing, facing Andrew with his head in his palm. “You’re not an Exy fan?”

“Over-exposed, you could say.” Andrew wanted to figure out Neil’s intentions. Not many continued to talk to Andrew, not when his resting gaze was somewhat murderous. What had Nicky once said? Bored murderer. Andrew would kill you and probably yawn whilst doing so.

“I gave up on pursuing it a while ago for more…” He cocked his head to the other side. “Lucrative occupations. But it’s still good to see a game every now and then. What are you, his boyfriend?”

Now that was an obvious question. “Bodyguard. Fucker seems to attract just as much bad attention as he does good attention. I’d rather throw myself off this balcony than date that mess of a human being.” 

Neil laughed again. He didn’t have a coffee or a cigarette: He’d come purely for conversation.  

Interesting, Andrew mused. 

*

Neil was getting bored, and the time constraint he’d set himself was coming to an end. He’d been living next to Kevin and Andrew for three weeks now, and Ichirou would be expecting some form of results in a few days’ time. 

Neil had met with Andrew for evening smoke breaks rather frequently, though mornings had become staple. Tonight Neil had offered a cigarette, self-rolled with a relaxant mixed into it so that he’d sleep heavily and let Neil do his snooping. 

When midnight had passed, Neil pulled his hood up and his scarf over his nose, swinging from his balcony onto Andrew’s. With a soft snick! the lock came clean under the ministrations of his picks and he slipped inside. 

He thought the place would be like Neil’s: Neither Kevin nor Andrew really seemed sentimental, or materialistic. 

Neil was horribly wrong. There was an old couch that looked like they’d hauled it from their college years all the way through to now. A knitted blanket throw was across the back cushions, facing the television. A gas fire-place had various photos on the mantelpiece, including Kevin proposing to Thea, Kevin and an older man who had to be his father and someone who would have looked like Andrew if it weren’t for the quiet smile hugging a heavily pregnant woman. Neil realised Andrew had a twin: Another photo of him showed Andrew, his brother, and a taller man with a darker complexion and a wide grin to contrast the twin’s blank faces sat toward the edge of the photo collection. 

It was odd, seeing how one’s life could expand to so many others. There was an odd sensation at the pit of Neil’s stomach: He grit his teeth and continued to the bedrooms. 

One was locked, the other wasn’t: Neil was right in assuming Kevin’s was the unlocked door and walked into his room. 

He was asleep, sprawled on his bed with his sheets wrapped around his waist. His fianceé was lying next to him, curled into his side with only a bra on. Neil wasn’t fazed: He’d killed people in far less favourable conditions, like that corrupt debt tycoon who’d hired Neil as a prostitute and welcomed him in only a leather harness. And when Neil said only, he meant only. 

Neil looked around the room. It was small, relatively neat, with large windows and an ensuite bathroom. He could stage an overdose: Kevin did have an alcohol problem in college. It seemed like the only viable option, seeing as Kevin was a world-class athlete with no recorded cardiovascular problems, no other drug abuses or suicidal tendencies. 

Neil sighed. He wished Ichirou would give him simpler jobs sometimes. He supposed that was his designed purpose: What was the point of sending out your incredibly precise and professional assassin to knock heads when their talents were best sharpened by intricate puzzles, forcing them to be as elusive as shadows in a crowd?

Neil brushed his fingers along the dresser, ignoring the photo hung on the wall of Kevin and Thea, not smiling, but completely vulnerable and open when looking into one another’s eyes. 

Neil wouldn’t lie and tell someone this job wasn’t isolating. He just didn’t have a choice. 

I don’t have a choice, He repeated to himself. I don’t have a choice. 

A shift on the mattress caught his attention. He glanced over: Thea was blinking up at him, rubbing one eye. 

“Andrew?” She muttered. “Is that you?”

Neil said nothing, slipping out of the room and out onto the balcony once more, retreated back into his apartment. 

He’d have to ask Ichirou for more time. He needed a better plan. 

*

Andrew seemed irritated the next morning when they met up again for a smoke and lazy conversation. 

“Are you alright?” Neil asked. 

Andrew sent Neil a scathing look and said nothing. He went through his smoke too fast and drained the coffee: Neil handed him another cigarette, free of relaxant this time. “Did you see anything of interest last night?”

“Not that I can recall.” Neil leaned a little closer. “Have you checked cameras?”

“Nothing.” He said sourly. “Kevin’s infantile lover-girl swore she saw me in their room last night, but I was dead asleep all night. If anyone had been walking around the apartment I would have woken up.”

“Interesting.” Neil said, hiding his smile behind his mug. “I’ll let you know if I ever notice something out of the ordinary.” 

Andrew nodded. 

The rest of their routine meeting passed in silence. 

*

im gonna write a p.2……how many times have i said that over the past few days lmao im a mess

[minisception]

Initial Impressions of the Black Legion in Codex: Chaos Space Marines (2017)

The short version?  It’s all about this guy.  A Despoiler for every season.

Ok, so, we’ve seen previews and spoilers for the Black Legion, and for the new Chaos Space Marine codex in general, both official and unofficial:

the official Warhammer Community legion focus article

rules spoiled by Winters SEO on youtube

points changes spoiled by Miniwargaming on youtube

There might be a minor stat or point difference that the previews missed, or a rule change or stratagem here or there that managed to go unspoiled, but for the most part, we pretty much know what we’re getting at this point.  So, at first glance, where does that leave our beloved Black Legion, the arch-enemies of the setting?  Perhaps I’m being uncharacteristically optimistic, but actually I think we’re going to be in a pretty good place.

Look at these idiots with all their different weapons.  Don’t they know the Black Legion uses bolters and only bolters?  That guy in the front gets it.

To get the negatives out of the way, I'm on record as despising our legion tactic.  The leadership buff is fine, but the other part is only usable with rapid fire weapons, which for CSM means bolters, lasguns, and plasma guns only, making this a very narrow tactic.

A tactic that only works on rapid fire isn't so restrictive for loyalist marines, since most of their units only come with bolters by default, and they have at least two decent rapid fire special weapon upgrades, but for chaos marines many of our units don't have rapid fire weapons at all (including black legion staples like possessed and berserkers), and many of the units that /can/ have rapid fire weapons have the option to trade them for close combat weapons, so trying to use this tactic means /taking away/ options that are already there, which is literally the opposite of what Black Legion are about.  Further, fluff wise we're aggressive and like to get stuck in, if our tactic was going to favor anything, it should have been the melee builds that this tactic specifically discourages.

Black Legion bikers, a saving grace for our terrible legiontactic?

And I still don't think it's any good for anything apart from maybe bikes and maybe infantry horde (and even then exclusively led by abaddon, never without him ever).

Bikes get a nice points drop in the new book, they’re armed with rapid fire weapons AND melee weapons by default so you can take advantage of the tactic while still playing them aggressively, and they have a set advance distance so you don’t have to give up a bunch of their firepower to use the tactic only to end up rolling a measly 1″ advance move.

And big hordes, of cultists in particular, don’t ride rhinos anyway.  With Abaddon to keep them in line, the hit penalty isn’t as bad, and you aren’t going to suffer the huge losses from morale that large squads invite.  This could work particularly well with the new ‘tide of traitors’ stratagem.  The enemy killed 30 of your 40 man cultist blob?  For two cheap command points (which Abaddon will courteously provide himself), remove the 10 that are left and have the entire unit of 40 walk back on from any board edge.

I wish the official cultist models looked like their design in Dawn of War

But even for the units that can make best use of it, I don’t think this tactic is particularly good?  I mean, rapid fire weapons are good for the double tap.  You should never want to give up half your firepower AND take a penalty to hit on the other half, just for d6 extra inches of movement.  So the tactic is really only worth using if you're outside of rapid fire range to begin with, which means you knock out maybe one round of shooting with it per game?  Not even one, if you go second against an aggressive enemy (far more common in 8e than 7e), or if you use transports.  Or are fast like bikes.  And heaven help your shooting if you're stuck targeting something that imposes an additional penalty to hit, or benefits from cover.

60 bolter buddies using this tactic, even with abaddon to help, will inflict less than four wounds on average against marines in cover or smoking rhinos.  Alphas or Raven Guard in cover will take even fewer.  120 cultists don’t fare any better.  If the extra shooting you get from that one round while advancing at long range does so very little, why bother in the first place?  The sort of army the tactic most benefits would have been better off with some other benefit, like the night lords trait which would protect the units with a shrouding effect while they close into range, or the iron warriors tactic that helps those shots injure things in cover once they do get close enough to rapid fire.

So, a handful more wounds caused on the way in, maybe, and only if you're building that specific kind of list - rifle armed horde infantry led by abaddon.  deep strikers?  you get nothing.  build for melee?  you get nothing.  in a transport?  you get nothing.  msu?  you really probably shouldn't.  I don't personally got time for that.

$10 adds up fast if you’re only using 3 models, and you want 120 of them

And while a cultist horde with abaddon using this tactic and the cultist stratagem to replenish losses sounds nice, but it's kind of prohibitively expensive, since there is no multipart cultist box where you can build all the models with rifles.  The cheapest rifles come is three mono-pose models in a box of 10, and those three are going to start looking very repetitive if you try to build huge units out of them.  And cost a lot.  At 3 for $10, you're looking at more than $250 for 80 of them.  And with a new starter box out, the DV cultists are less common and less cheap on the secondary market.

Anyway, yeah, I don't like the tactic, don't think it's good, don't think it's a good fit for our legion, and don't think the particular builds it encourages are a great way to go regardless.

- HOWEVER -

“I feel like being positive and optimistic for once!” “Start your post with a several thousand words of pure negativity.”

Despite not liking our legion trait AT ALL, not on its own and not for the Black Legion in particular, I’m still pretty happy with the list overall.

I love that command trait - especially with the melee-leaning builds that I prefer for Black Legion.  Sure, it's situational, in that it only works against imperials, but the Black Legion more than any other CSM force should be all about hating imperials, and since warlord traits are chosen at the start of the battle, you can just pick something else if you aren't playing against an imperial army.  Probably unholy fortitude.  Abaddon is always stuck with it, but he has so much else going on that you'll hardly notice if one of his many amazing abilities isn't working in  a given game.  Point is, the command trait is fluffy as heck, which matters the most to me.

I knew him, Horatio.  He was a weak and pathetic fool.

And I love the stratagem - Re-rolling ones to hit is redundant with character auras from lords/abaddon, but also lets you spread out a bit without worrying about losing those re-rolls.  In particular, you can play the deep striking terminator plasma spam game without paying for a babysitter, which frees up your Abaddon I mean your warlord to support the body of your force.  And with the slaaneshi stratagem that plasminator game is more deadly than ever - just 5 terminators can put out 20 overcharged plasma shots on the turn they arrive, re-rolling ones thanks to the black legion stratagem.  Sure, that's three whole command points spent in a single maneuver, but it's a maneuver with the potential to break the back of an opposing army in a single devastating round of fire.

The artifact I'm not as enamored of - d3 mortal wounds is, frankly, just not enough for a one use item - but then again basically every generic artifact is built for melee.  If you're running a lord or exalted champ, then you should be giving them one of the artifact weapons, no question, since for some stupid reason we don't get master crafted weapons.  But what if you aren't?  Sorcerers apart from tzeentch don't care for any of the artifacts, and even then we have better options for psykers than smite.  Slaanesh and Khorne daemon princes like their respective aligned artifacts, but nurgle can't use theirs and for tzeentch, again, we have better options for spells than smite.  So if you're running a lord or champ, or a daemon prince of khorne or slaanesh, then the eye of night is garbage; but if your army doesn't have any of those (your HQs are, say, Abaddon plus a sorcerer; or Abaddon plus a warpsmith, or a nurgle prince casting shroud on possessed, or w/e), then d3 mortals once per game is still underwhelming, but it's better than nothing, I guess.  A warpsmith could use it to knock the last couple wounds off a knight that survived a use of the killshot stratagem, or something.

I still think it should have targeted a point on the field, hit everything within 3" of that point for d3 mortal wounds, with vehicles suffering d6 mortals instead.  And, even more than that, I think we should have gotten something else entirely.  If they were going to bring back an old BL relic, I would much rather have seen a new and improved version of the spineshiver sword, or the last memory.  And I think a named suit of terminator armor would have been a lot cooler than any of that.  Or a return of the Kai gun would have at least gone well with that legion tactic I don't like.  but whatever.  Point is, I may not like the Eye of Night, but I don't think it's completely useless.

But back to more positive notes, I love abaddon himself.  the extra command points, combined with some absolutely glorious stratagems, make him too good to pass up in any game big enough to afford him.  Abaddon alone is the biggest boon granted to the Black Legion in this codex, and on his own he makes this subfaction a force to be feared.  On top of his already impressive qualities from the index - reroll all failed hit rolls for nearby black legion units, in both shooting and assault; automatically pass morale for all nearby black legion units; his own highly impressive offensive and defensive stats and abilities - he’s now 13 points cheaper (one point cheaper for each Black Crusade) AND comes with two extra command points if he’s your warlord.  With the many impressive stratagems this book has, those extra points are absolutely golden.

The Warmaster in all his dark glory, now with game rules to match!

Altogether, Abaddon is a fantastic warlord, and in particular a fantastic fit for the Black Legion, since his abilities are so versatile that they can support literally any way of fighting.

Want to walk up the field with a bunch of rifles like the tactic thinks you should?  Well, Abby does that, rerolling misses to help with the hit penalty, keeping your cultists from running, and will pay for a use of tide of traitors to replenish losses.

Want to play a backfield tank-based gunline?  Abby will keep your cultist screens in place, pay for a couple killshots for your predators, and his re-roll to hit aura will make sure those deadly shots don’t go to waste.

Want to run a transport-based assault rush?  Throw Abby and an Exalted champ in a land raider with some berzerkers or possessed, support with some rhino-mounted melee-armed CSM squads and a couple maulerfiends or heldrakes and ram your army down the enemy’s throat, wrecking face with re-rolls to hit and wound from your character auras.

Want to run a deep strike assassination run?  Drop abby with some termie sorcerers, warptime him into position, buff up his offense and defense, and watch him eviscerate even the most intimidating enemy warlords, and laugh as your opponent tries to deal with the rampaging Despoiler in their midst while the rest of your army moves into position unopposed.

No matter how you’re running your Black Legion, They’ll always fight longer and harder when the Warmaster’s personal favor is on the line.

Don’t forget everyone else!  The Despoiler can’t have ALL the fun

And while that’s kind of it for Black Legion specific stuff, there is a lot to be said for the general changes to units and points values in this book, even if those changes aren’t Black Legion exclusive.

The point changes are all more than welcome, especially the 60+ point discount on defilers, a unit narratively associated with the Black Legion even if they aren't exclusive to them on the table.  The bike discount is also very nice, particularly as they're one of the few units that I think might be worth using the legion tactic with, though I'll need to look into re-converting my melta-bikes into plasma-bikes.  The Lord of Skulls discount is huge, actually making it a real contender with knights for lord of war slots.  I may have to start saving up for one.  The fist discounts are great for our champions and terminators.  Points drop on cultists is great if you want to try to run the lasgun-spam cultist horde with Abaddon, though again I find that prohibitively expensive in terms of real world munny. 

The daemon forge stratagem is very nice, particularly alongside the discounts for defilers and lord of skulls.  The veterans of the long war stratagem is fantastic.  The fire frenzy stratagem is great for helbrutes, though unfortunately it isn't written with the keyword type face, so it probably doesn't work with forgeworld dreads like I had first hoped.  The spell familiar stratagem isn’t too impressive for regular sorcerers, but is fantastic for aspiring sorcerers in Rubric squads.

Double wounds on possessed is great.  Double the firepower on Obliterators is too, especially if you give them the Mark of Slaanesh to shoot twice on the turn they deep strike.  The new equipment options for Plague Marines are great, letting you build them as a melee beatstick in addition to the medium range attrition game they were already decent at.

The aligned psychic buffs and stratagems are particularly great, and, as already mentioned, not only does abby help you pay for the stratagems, but you can also stack all those buffs on the despoiler, turning him into an absolute monster.  Usually they'll be better on a unit, but if abby's about to throw down with a particularly scary mofo - say he's about to solo a primarch - then the ability to 'redirect all power to the despoiler' will be more than awesome.

What's that rowboat?  you want a piece of this?  Sure, sure, let me just have my three sorcerer buddies give me shrouding and fnp, boost my invulnerable save, negate yours entirely, give me +1 to hit (I know I still miss on a '1', you buffoon), and, why not, throw a couple mortal wounds on you before we start; then with stratagems I'll heal up any damage I took previously, shoot you twice with the talon of horus, and then lay into you with 12 talon of horus attacks and 2d6 drachnyen attacks (plus extra attacks on every 4+ to hit thanks to that prescience), re-rolling to hit because I'm so cool and re-rolling to wound thanks to the khornate exalted champ rounding out my 'one advisor of each alignment' cheer leading squad.  And if by some miracle you're still alive, that champion also re-rolls all to-hit and to-wound rolls, and they're carrying a murder sword with your name on it.

Ha ha, fun times.

WE ARE RETURNED!   DEATH TO THE FALSE EMPEROR!

Black Legion isn't the best legion out of this book.  It just isn't.  That honor probably goes to Alpha Legion, with several of the others in line before us.  Heck, if you aren’t fielding Abaddon we’re probably tied for last place with the Word Bearers.

But I'm ok with that - who cares if other chaos armies are stronger, so long as the Imperium is getting their tails kicked in?  Even if we're not the best, and even if I hate our tactic, I still see a lot of good things and a lot of potential for us in this codex, both in terms of general Chaos Marines rules and Black Legion rules in particular.  As for how to use those rules?  Well....

I'm not sure what the best overall build for Black Legion will be yet.  Honestly, I hope there isn't one, because versatility and variety is what we're supposed to be about.  Telling your opponent you play Black Legion shouldn't tip them off to the kind of army you play, which is the biggest problem I have with our legion tactic.  Though again, I think the tactic is weak enough even for the few builds of the few units that can benefit from it that you can probably safely ignore it and build whatever anyway.

And while Abaddon is so good that I think people will take him, if anything, a little too often, he's so super versatile that fielding him shouldn't pigeon hole you into a build.  The only units he doesn't pair well with is dark apostles and generic lords, since he renders their various auras irrelevant, though, as with our stratagem, they do let you spread out a bit.

Abaddon the Despoiler, from Codex: Abaddon the Despoiler (2018)

All in all, I'm pretty happy, despite hating the tactic and finding the artifact rather lackluster.  Honestly, if I could change just one thing it wouldn't be either of those, it would be to give the exalted champ an option to take terminator armor, so that he could deep strike with Abaddon.

Well, I'd change that, and I'd change Abaddon's model.  His rules are so good in this book that it really is a crying shame that he’s still stuck with that tiny old 2nd edition model.  That said, it's not too hard to convert a decent Abaddon model out of the generic plastic terminator kit.  That’s what I did:

And while a new official model would of course put this conversion to shame, I’m fine running it for another year or two while I wait.

And if you play in an independent store instead of a GW shop, you can always use this third party model:

wargameexclusive dot com/shop/chaos/chaos-master-of-crusade/

Which is actually really nice.  Even though I’m happy enough with my conversion, I’d probably replace it with this guy if I didn’t play in a GW store half the time.

.............................

And with that, I’m done posting about the new codex for at least a week or two.  I’ve spent far too many hours over the last week hanging on every preview, combing through every spoiler video, ranting and debating about the legion trait, trying to arguing down people who seemed to be overrating the stuff we are getting, trying to build up people who seemed depressed about the stuff we aren’t getting, and writing out big huge posts of all of my thoughts and feels, whether here or on the bolterandchainsword forum or in the comment section of BoLS and natfka articles, and as a result I’m far behind on all sorts of other things I meant to be working on, including getting some of my models painted to play with the new book.  So it’s time for me to take a break.

I’ll be back in a few weeks.

[nofomoartworld]

Hyperallergic: A Floating Noise and Drag Club Celebrates San Francisco’s Lost Underground

La Sucias performing aboard the Noise Club (all images courtesy of Robert Divers Herrick)

SAN FRANCISCO  — As a huddle of adventurous art-seekers stood at the edge of the San Francisco Bay under the first full moon of 2017, a glimpse of purple neon appeared in the darkness ahead. A small white yacht twinkling with lights — the Noise Club — came into focus, and a booming voice called out from the water: “Come aboard!” We shuffled across a bridge of floating platforms, adjusting to the soft swells of the sea as we unmoored ourselves from the comforts and constraints of the city. We were about to embark on Attention! We’ve moved., a night of noise music and drag performance on the ocean concocted by Oakland artist Constance Hockaday and San Francisco experimental art space The Lab, in conjunction with — and conceived as a subtle resistance to — the first Untitled art fair in San Francisco.

Once aboard The Empress of Sausalito, attendees sipped complimentary cocktails and sat on leather couches circling a carpeted dance floor lit up by a rainbow disco ball. A MacBook glowed atop a short Corinthian pillar playing dancehall. The atmosphere was a bit campy, not unlike that of a high school dance or a wedding reception, which seemed to increase our distance from the shore.

A view of the Bay Bridge from aboard the Noise Club

The night would prove delightfully surreal throughout, featuring the explosive feminist noise reggaeton of La Sucias, the eerie percussive summonings of Voicehandler, the kitschy electro-drag of Kevin Blechdom, and a sculptural synth ritual from MSHR. But first, host Dynasty Handbag (the drag persona of artist Jibz Cameron) took the stage in an awkwardly draped leotard, blazer, and wide-brimmed hat. “We’re gonna have some noise bands, which just means garbage music by failed artists probably from Portland,” she began, grotesquely rubbing her belly. “I know you’re wondering: Am I gonna make some gentrification jokes? No, because it’s all over. Nothing matters.”

Dynasty Handbag (Jibz Cameron) hosting a night aboard the Noise Club

With that, the boat set sail.

Meanwhile, at Pier 70 in San Francisco’s long-industrial Dogpatch neighborhood, art collectors milled through a maze of white walls erected inside an ancient warehouse to celebrate the VIP opening night of UNTITLED. The fair is the latest development that contributed to the New York Times deeming the Dogpatch “America’s Next Great Art Neighborhood” earlier this month. The piece mentions many galleries housed inside the newish art complex Minnesota Street Projects but pays no tribute to the rowdy history of underground performance and artmaking that took place in the Dogpatch long before the area became desirable. Warehouses there were the testing grounds where storied mechanical performance-art pioneers Survival Research Labs reverse-engineered robots to blow each other up; unsanctioned venues such as Tire Beach hosted punk bands, costumed noisemakers, and the like; while vagrants formed floating shantytowns on the water.

Neon purple lights setting the mood aboard the Noise Club

All that character has gradually disappeared, along with much of San Francisco’s legendary underground, as the city continues its metamorphosis into a playground for the wealthy. And many in the local art scene who align with a DIY ethos see the new outpost of the Miami Art Basel art fair staple as yet another symptom of that change.

That’s why, when asked to contribute a booth to the fair, The Lab director Dena Beard said she would do so only if she could invoke echoes of San Francisco’s underground while paying artists who wouldn’t otherwise be invited. “I said, ‘Instead of a booth, can we have a boat?’” Beard told me. “‘And on that boat, can we have everything that’s cool and wonderful that has been exiled from San Francisco because of gentrification and the transformation of the city because of the market?’”

Hockaday was a clear choice for the project, being the local captain of everything “nautically naughty,” as Beard put it. The artist’s past work includes All These Darlings and Now Us (2014), a peepshow aboard sailboats in the bay featuring performers from shuttered San Francisco worker-owned strip club Lusty Lady and famous Latino gay bar Esta Noche. The idea: If there’s no space left for queers and sex workers on land, let’s take to the water.

Kevin Blechdom (Kristin Erickson) performing aboard the Noise Club

For Attention! We’ve moved., Hockaday curated a lineup meant to ensure that the spirit of Pier 70’s past endures — with a queer and feminist spin. Most of the performers were people who once lived in the Bay Area but have since relocated, and nearly all of them recently lost friends in the tragic Ghost Ship fire in Oakland. On the VIP night I attended — for which tickets were $160 — there was also an unspoken promise that two disparate ends of the art world would converge in uncharted waters at a time when the question of whose art is valued by patrons feels especially relevant.

To some degree, that ploy worked.

MSHR was first to play, masterfully manipulating analog synthesizers to produce light audio feedback by wielding colored bulbs and laser-cut Plexiglas sculptures that resembled circuit boards. It sounded — and felt — like a spaceship exploding amid a relentless barrage of laser attacks.

MSHR performing aboard the Noise Club

Afterward, I met a group of blazer-clad men standing by the bar. One, a venture-capitalist, told me that his friend had misinformed him about the event. “All he told me was that it was part of the art fair and that it was on a yacht,” he said, swiping a message on his Apple Watch. “This was not what I expected, but that was actually really cool.”

Ultimately, Hockaday’s intentions are not to trick her audience, but to instill a new sense of possibility. Framed as a form of resistance to gentrification and the UNTITLED art fair, the project is imperfect. But Hockaday’s inventions can be more accurately thought of as experiential forms of philosophical inquiry. For her, escaping the limits of land helps us imagine how we might also transcend the social structures that confine us.

Voicehandler

In a conversation with Interview Magazine about the project, Hockaday said, “I’m finding that in urban areas, urban infrastructure informs what we can and can’t do with our bodies. In the same ways noise clubs or industrial wilderness existed in the city as spaces [where] we took risks, the water can be that place now.”

Through Attention! We’ve moved., Hockaday imagined a future for the Bay Area’s underground that wasn’t bogged down by the limits of infrastructure. And during the non-VIP cruises ($35) that took place throughout the weekend, the boat was filled with art-scene devotees joyously dancing at a time when many are still reeling from loss. The momentary island seemed to draw out hope for survival by carving a sense of place for those left behind by the “progress” in San Francisco.

Aboard the Noise Club, at least, the denizens of DIY and the underground were the unlikely stars of the art fair.

A neon embellishment installed by Constance Hockaday on the yacht she chose for her Noise Club

Attention! We’ve moved. took place January 12–14 as part of the first edition of Untitled art fair in San Francisco (Pier 70, 420 22nd Street).

The post A Floating Noise and Drag Club Celebrates San Francisco’s Lost Underground appeared first on Hyperallergic.

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[treeyo]

It was an itinerant permaculture teaching and project installation company, a brand identified with being on the move.  I made the conscious choice to not go on with this lifestyle for many reasons. Rather rooting into community and long term intensive site development is the goal.  This holistic vision has kept me put in Northern Kentucky since 2017 September other than a working holiday this past fall/ winter to my familiar Iberian roots.

Arvid scything at Sekier, Slovakia for hay storage

Canal in Argentinian drylands

Papaya circle planting, Dominican Republic, 2012

Winter in Southern Spain

Josse and myself doing free consulting/ design work, Southern Portugal, 2017

Malaysian Aquaculture

Teaching

What once was my staple, teaching, has now dwindled down consciously and due to lack of interest in my local market for current offerings.  I tried to run a weekend PDC this again winter but that didn’t work here in the Cincinnati tristate region.  I did get to teach here at the lake on the topics of food forest and forestry in the Year Long PDC run by Braden Truth and the Cincinnati Permaculture Institute.  It really is a

Treasure Lake Zone 3 Planting with Year Long PDC group

passion of mine to teach and always nice to show off the work you have been doing for nearly two decades in the forest (more on that below). It was a great group and we did get some work done in a zone 3 area I have been developing including last falls earthworks.  The space has been evolving since 2014 and will take its next evolution in the upcoming day class with Abby Artemisia in our event called Planting Abundance on May 18th.  Unique offerings like this is what I will try as I work my way into other avenues of teaching, rather than the globetrotting PDC circuit.

https://treeyopermaculture.com/permaculture-design-courses-pdc/herbal-walk-and-permaculture-planting-with-abby-and-doug/

Abby did interview me for a podcast as well and I got to talk about my passion of Paw Paw’s.

https://soundcloud.com/wander-forage-wildcraft/wfw-ep-4-meet-doug-crouch

I will also be offering workshops at the Whippoorwill Festival in July in Kentucky and rumor is I might be starting to teach at University of Cincinnati’s horticulture department for Permaculture.

Treasure Lake

The fall last year, 2018, was brutal with the continued heat and non stop event planning and all the work and maintenance that comes with that.  I then left for Europe as soon as we closed for the season and finally took a breath to work on another passion; writing.  After spending three months in Iberia I cracked on with my beloved winter forestry work that I among calling Active Forest Management and launching a new movement around that.  The cutting of non natives and natives to make way for the understory paw paw and spicebush, the continuing to plug up streams with rock dams and woody debris, small and large diameter, and felling trees for mushroom innoculation.  This year I worked with one of my closest neighbors who has a shining example of 1/2 acre permaculture, Daniel Biedenbender, on the mushroom inoculation.  We removed quite a few box elders in the aforementioned zone 3 space that we are developing. The logs this time are at his fathers house down the road by a few miles as resources are starting to not be so boundary centric in the building of community here in Petersburg, KY. This winter work is great prep for getting the physical body back in shape for the looming busyness of spring. Much of that spring time has been devoted to nursery work again with the Cincinnati Permaculture Insititues Growing Value Nursery having a spillover/ secondary location here at the lake.  It’s fun work, but tough on the body indeed and honestly I am glad it has just a few more hours of work to be done to resettled for the season. Alongside of that I have been sprouting hundreds of Paw Paw seed from selected fruits from last years harvest.  Fun stuff as I put together elements of my own nursery as well.

Cincinnati Permaculture Institute Nursery at Treasure Lake, almost finished

Community sharing, bag of Morelsfor sharing Wine Caps

Hauling plants to Growing Value Nursery

Paw Paw seeds in Pots

invasive after cutting

invasive before cutting

One rock dams, expanded and built up this winter

Sprouted Paw Paw seeds, these ones were actually planted out directly the field

non native bush honeysuckle cut

Spicebush in flower

Speaking of mushrooms, our King Stropharia beds that were inoculated in May and June of 2018 came thumping along with honestly more mushrooms than we could handle (and now a second flush is happening).  Emphatically by the bag full we have been harvesting them! I had never grown them before and will be better prepared for selling next flush.  For now we have all been eating lots of mushrooms around here since again the morel season hasn’t been great and these mushrooms keep us satisfied.  Part of those beds are also part of a western hedgerow on the edge of Annie Woods Dark Wood Farm market garden.  All the plants are super thriving which is a great sign to know that these mushrooms can be cultivated along with perennials like fruit trees, berrybushes, and perennial veg.  I definitely did have to pull the wood chips and fall leaves away from the trunks of the plants as the wine cap mycelium is indeed very aggressive. I have planted in more currants, Jostaberry, and gooseberry to finish filling out the space.

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Western Hedgerow

Wine Cap Mushrooms

Wine cap harvest

Wine Cap Mushrooms, ready tone cooked

Wince cap cut in half

Wine caps in grow bed, abundance

The other hedgerow, on the north end of the market garden, originally planted in fall 2017, continues to expand.  Everything is looking great, even the pear I had to whack back just above the graft after the deer rub got it as there was a miscommunicationabotu fencing when I left to Europe in the fall.  oops.  These nuclei are great to see displaying the small scale intensive principle for sure. And being full on growth during this warm and wet spring it is chop and drop time of course as well. Furthermore, I am now dropping in a few more layers of the food forests hedgerow as I developed the anchors and guild herbaceous plants and now adding more fruiting bushes like currants, Aronia, and more.  I have also expanded both east and west with more fruit tree nuclei, Japanese plum and Asian Pear, which meets up against a back stop that my grandfather had built for his dreams of having a softball diamond here.  It had become junk pile over the years but some hard work has it ready for vines, I do believe hardy kiwi it is. Maybe Akebia, decision has to be made today, ha. Oh and some hoops too!

South Hedgerow

Blueberry guild after chop and drop

Blueberry guild before chop and drop

Sheet mulch fro Asian Pears

Guilding with comfrey

Individual Tree planting terrace

Shiro Plum addition

Asian Pear additions

chop and drop in hedgerow with mower and bag

Nucleus planting, guild and berry bushes and nitrogen fixers

The businesses of Treasure Lake have also been a backdrop ongoing conversation and evolution with the owners, my father and my two aunties.  So we decided to shut the pay fishing lake, campground, and the bar other than our Tuesday Night Ping Pong and Friday night Open Jam (now turning into Sunday afternoon instead of Friday), which are quite communal events.  The culture of camping and the pay lake and the event production of music shows honestly had become toxic with people simply over doing it and not respecting the land (not everyone but a few rotten apples do spoil the bunch).  Unfortunately people live in excess, I once was there and am no saint, although quite sober these days.  Anyway this allows me to have more time and space to dedicate to projects here on the land and elsewhere and build community further.

Pong jam

Community

The biggest journey of living in this economically depressed rural area during tough times in the states other than for the wealthy is indeed building community. There is a small group of us, but it is expanding as the roots are put down further.  Running a bar at the lake does generate tips and rather than take it all for myself, i simply use it as a tree planting fund.  So both the local Biedenbender homesteads, Daniel and Colleen and Josh and Maddy, have received big donations of plants to make their homesteads more robust and our community more resilient.  Our network extends beyond this but these are the folks I work with the most in my local area. I also am working with my longtime event production co manager, Bryan Schaffer and we will soon get his pear trees in the ground that were also donated through the tips for tree planting program. Furthermore, I of course work with Annie Woods and her Dark Wood Farm market garden that is still on the land as well.  There are still next steps and people are constantly asking about moving to this area since it is only 30 minutes from downtown Cincinnati, Covington, and Newport, our tri-cities on the river. Also I continue to make my trips two hours south to continue building community with the Berea crews it is my respite.

Backyard Permaculture elements at Daniel and Colleens, vine trellis, pathways, sweat lodge

Swim spot and Maddy and Josh’s

Mushroom log inoculation

Front yard terraces at Daniel and Colleens, to the left food forest

Rabbits raised by Colleen

Salamander at Jo and Mike’s in Berea, KY

The goats at Maddy and Josh’s

Lesourdsville

Another exciting opportunity I am working on is turning a normal park design into a permaculture landscape.  More on that one in the next blog as we are moving from vision and assessment phase into the conceptual design in this moment.

Lesourdsville in Monroe, Ohio, becoming anew park

There is a lot going onion life these days and big next steps are occurring in rooting, even if they are tiny.  Hint that was foreshadowing.

Treeyo Project Update:  Evolving through Rooting It was an itinerant permaculture teaching and project installation company, a brand identified with being on the move. 

[milorepairfrnc570-blog]

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Removing Existing Roofing Products

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jacks. Perhaps not each the nails will occur off at first and that's okay. Only Get the Job Done

Source

Attempt to open your doorway during a rain storm. Just put in them supporting your

Tarpaper underlayment will need to Get installed within the sheathing prior to

Just Continue in mind That Should They aren't in disrepair Then You Ought to abandon them

Diverters

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Windows, siding, plants and decks or except if the shingles have been removed off and

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Once you get everything Within Your house you'll Want to Begin moving

Old glue or caulk, pry up the nails and also pull away the mist. You will or

Chimney and in areas across top at which drinking water drains into certain

Same measures apply for organizing your roofing. They are vital and certainly will noticeably

Gutter Harm

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It stats to rain.

Source

To all those to become substituted. Be Sure That Your soffit port openings are cleared

Wondering why you're removing outdated roof stuff should you haven't started

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Tar-paper

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To give your contractors place to move new roof materials to and from the

Source

By itself. It won't hurt to just allow them be until time to get new ones is needed.

Of insulating material and scrutinize the inside of one's loft; you could need to re install

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Flashing

Start the Substitution procedure by eliminating Each One of the Previous shingles with a

Whether you choose to Employ a professional or set up the roof the

Wood could cause them to alter along with you also to have a leak, which defeats the

Underlayment

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Afterward the shingle installment process begins with the under-row layer.

Could install one? Well, they can. Your roofer Can Place a toilet port in your

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Roof.

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Flashing be sure to at all times utilize aluminum or aluminum flashing. The most Optimal/optimally way to

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The Drip Edge

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Have rotted subsequently replacing them is important. Implementing shingles on damaged

Probably quite dirty and unquestionably heavy therefore simply take your time.

Preparation Guidelines

Don'forget on your loft. Now you will need to pay most of items on your loft

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Cover the surfaces of the residences so the decreasing shingles don't damage

Chipped plywood that needs to be substituted; then you 'll wish to pay all furniture,

Tarps can be your best friend while you ready your roof. Perhaps not only is it

Source

The life of your shingles and roofing. A constant venting at the beginning

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Don't forget to completely fill out the difference between the freezing and the bricks.

Areas.

Assess Your Vents

Tarp, and sometimes better still, remove them so you don't even have to think about any harm

Before your brand new roof may Be Set up, it's crucial That Each One of the Aged roofing

Up, loosen the shape caps and then pull off the shingles and towards the roofing

From That Point, a number of other items should Be Taken out as a Way to Receive your own

However, environmental variables and quality of your roofing materials might play

time. They keep water flowing off your roof instead of on your face as you

Roof so that you never know what can get pumped loose in the approach.

Been removed.

Also, Were You Aware That Should You don't have a vent in your bathroom your roofer

Shingles

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bricks.

The nails inspected in order to make it's nonetheless feasible.

Underlayment fabric. Be Certain to cancel the shingles from Your under-row

All of the shingled roof space ought to be addressed in under-row newcomer tiles.

Substances be taken out all of the way right down to this current plywood. In the Event You 're

Roof to you.

The transition out of leaky roof into new roof.

Of each shingle row and at the summit of one's roof provides proper ventilation.

Seal the flashing to chimney bricks and other areas is touse a roofing caulk.

Separations afterward it's smart to go up ahead of time and get them removed and replaced.

Are achieved on very top and the cap is wear either over a port program or even without.

Roof or sealed and shut in with around stickers to prevent any water from

Roof replacement after a suitable review make sure that you simply take all the necessary

Possiblity to participate along the way if you're choosing somebody to replace your

Before start removing virtually almost any shingles.

roofing caulk. Remember to fully fill the difference between the flashing and also the

Methods of preparing your roof for an alternative.

Either left to right or to left with a staircase order.Once the shingles

Keep all roofing stuff jointly and allow you with the ability to walk

Before installing the underlayment and new shingles roofers will Want to

Additionally, it 's also a Fantastic Concept to park your own automobiles or ships down the street to be able

Any patio and garden furniture, potted plants, grills and anything else that will easily get

As with any harm timber under construction, if you detect additional parts of the timber

At this period You Would like to replace All the Needed pipes or vents onto the roof

First, you 'll Want https://www.bgremonti.eu to either talk with your roofer regarding present vents or understand what

Around safely and remain organized.

Installing Necessary Services and Products

If You Become Aware of runoff water Over-flowing your gutters often, dents or

Broken Wood

Frequently timesthe inside of your own home prepared as well. If you're Handling

[superloudcollectorpatrol-blog]

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The hogs that created America’s first urban working class

Gwynn Guilford, Quartz, July 16, 2017

On his first visit to America in 1842, Charles Dickens found plenty to ridicule--America’s money obsession, their manners, their tobacco chewing habits. But the biggest target of Dickens’ humor was New Yorkers. Specifically, their pigs.

Stepping onto Broadway, New York’s biggest commercial thoroughfare, Dickens encountered “two portly sows” and “a select party of half-a-dozen gentlemen hogs” among the brightly dressed ladies and a bustle of coaches. Even more than this strange sight of pigs roaming the city’s streets, Dickens was captivated by the free and easy swine lifestyle--a “roving, gentlemanly, vagabond kind of life.” Scavenging curbside trash in droves, New York’s wandering pigs were on “equal, if not superior footing” with humans--a model of self-sufficiency.

“They are never attended upon, or fed, or driven, or caught, but are thrown upon their own resources in early life, and become preternaturally knowing in consequence,” remarked Dickens in American Notes. “Every pig knows where he lives, much better than anybody could tell him. At this hour, just as evening is closing in, you will see them roaming towards bed by scores, eating their way to the last.”

He probably wasn’t much exaggerating. Though it’s hard to know exact numbers because no one was counting, during pig-ownership’s peak years, in the early 1820s, some 20,000 hogs roamed the streets of Manhattan, says Catherine McNeur, professor at Portland State University and author of Taming Manhattan: Environmental Battles in the Antebellum City. That works out to one hog per every five humans--about the ratio of cars owned by Manhattan households today.

This problem that so amused Dickens rankled New York’s leaders, real estate developers, and wealthier residents, who feared that parading pigs deterred tourists and investors. Pigs weren’t just dirty; they were also dangerous, disrupting traffic and occasionally threatening children, and were thought to spread disease. Well-heeled Manhattanites were fleeing across the bay to Brooklyn--grim tidings for a city that funded itself primarily through property taxes, says McNeur.

So why did pigs rule Manhattan for the first half of the 19th century--and what finally led the city to shed its swine?

The answers have to do with the alignment of interests of the city’s government and wealthier New Yorkers in strengthening bureaucracy and driving up property values, at the expense of poorer residents who owned the pigs. In this seemingly obscure history of New York’s pig woes lies the beginnings of conflicts America still grapples with today, such as gentrification, the extent of the government’s responsibility to its citizens, and the tenuous economic security of poor and working class Americans.

More than America’s other major trade hubs, New York was a city in seismic transition, thanks in large part to the opening of the Erie Canal in 1825. People from all over America and Europe swarmed into Manhattan, turning farmland and field into shophouses, tenements, and factories. Despite this urbanization, non-wealthy New Yorkers continued to raise hogs. In fact hogs were a crucial commodity in this teeming metropolis, reflecting the turbulent economic and social upheaval that accompanied this change.

As land to raise hogs disappeared, New York’s working folk came upon a simple solution: let the pigs loose on the city’s streets. There was good reason to do this.

Unlike chickens, cows, or sheep, pigs fit seamlessly into New York’s fast-urbanizing ecosystem. Hogs in general convert feed into meat more efficiently than other common livestock. And the city provided plenty of it; for much of the 19th century, even in wealthier neighborhoods, trash collection was virtually nonexistent. Piled with spoiled food, offal, and vegetal refuse, the streets of New York were one giant trough. Their detractors called pigs “walking sewers.” More accurately, they were self-sufficient protein machines that cost next to nothing to raise.

The city’s new and growing wealth was spread unevenly, and even in good times, laborers and artisans--many of them African-Americans and European immigrants--struggled to find regular work and decent wages, leaving them forever teetering on the brink of poverty.

For these families, pigs were a crucial social safety net--an insurance policy that paid out in bacon. A family short on food could always slaughter one of its hogs; preserved by curing or smoking, the meat could feed a household for a long time. Plus, pigs were a source of instant liquidity for a cash-poor populace. Since pork was a staple of the American diet, butchers were always eager to buy hogs.

For their owners, pigs offered economic security, but there were plenty of reasons to oppose the free-running pig custom. Wandering hogs spooked horses, caused carriage accidents, tripped pedestrians, and blocked traffic. Constant rooting destroyed street pavement. In a major anti-hog court case of the time, the prosecution charged pigs with attacking children, defecating on people, and “compelling” ladies “to view swine copulating in public view.” Pigs made the streets seem dirty, of course, but also diseased, catching the blame for the city’s frequent and lethal spates of cholera (mostly unfairly, it turned out). More banal maladies like headaches were pinned on pigs too.

For decades, pigs stained New York’s image. Many visitors besides Dickens ridiculed New York’s porkers. Tour guide books of the time offered tips to would-be visitors of where to avoid the pigs. Even other Americans looked down on New York since, thanks to tougher enforcement, cleaner streets, and dramatically smaller and slower-growing populations, other American cities were pretty pig-free (with the notable exception of Pittsburgh).

Wealthier Manhattanites were increasingly outraged about sharing their streets with pigs that sullied their city’s good name. Part of the issue was that crowding and disease in the southern reaches of the island were driving wealthier residents into more peripheral neighborhoods where pigs abounded. As class division sharpened, elite criticisms of pigs sometimes were barely veiled slurs against their owners and their supposed filthiness. Take, for instance, the New York Times article describing “shanties in which the pigs and the Patricks lie down together while little ones of Celtic and swinish origin lie miscellaneously, with billy-goats here and there interspersed.”

But notions of the purpose of public space were changing too. While pig-owners likely saw the urban commons as fair game for private gain--if they thought much about it at all--wealthier folks and city leaders were developing a different vision.

In the 1820s, the city of New York bought a potter’s field on the western edge of Manhattan, turning it into a military parade ground (that these days is known as Washington Square Park), a public space where volunteer militia could train. Suddenly, property values around the square shot up. Developers, speculators, and wealthy residents began spiffing up neighborhoods by chiseling tiny parks into the street grid--Union Square, Madison Square, Gramercy Park, for instance. Home prices climbed there too.

The park craze, McNeur emphasizes, was motivated by health as well as wealth. The medical experts of the day believed disease to come from miasmas, as dank, stinky air was known. Clearing parks and gentrifying neighborhoods helped cleanse the air of pig-stench. The city increasingly split between pro-pork and pro-park.

The pig-fan masses had less political clout than their richer Manhattanite opponents. (An imbalance worsened by an 1821 revision to the state constitution revoked voting rights from African-American residents, many of whom owned hogs or supported the swine status quo.) As a result, over the first half of the 1800s, the city banned pigs repeatedly. But though the city’s leaders agreed with the upper-class New Yorkers, the government itself was too poorly funded and organized to do much about it. What pig owners lacked in political representation, they made up for in numbers--and vehemence. Every time the city sent hog-catchers into poor neighborhoods, riots erupted, and assault of fists and spoiled vegetables that followed sent them fleeing empty-handed.

Unfortunately for the pro-pig masses, the drive to make a “modern” metropolis was already gathering steam. In 1845, the city finally established a professional police force. So when a nasty cholera epidemic swept the island in 1849--whipping up fears that the pigs were spreading the sickness--the police rounded up thousands of hogs and drove them north of the city. The construction of Central Park--a beacon of healthfulness hailed as “the lungs of the city”--in 1857 forced a lot of pigs even further north. By 1860, pigs were banished to the shantytowns and sleepy hamlets north of 86th Street.

Climbing real estate values was a crucial part of the equation. In order to provide services, the city needed better funding--and property prices buoyed that effort. While the elimination of pigs in the lower parts of Manhattan helped improve home values, the building of Central Park pushed gentrification into the city’s northern reaches. With piggeries driven out and the stink lifted, real estate around Central Park’s perimeter soared in value, boosting property tax revenues for the city.

An early and enduring feature of the hog debate was the idea that instead of hogs cleaning the streets, people should be doing the job--and the government should pay them. Implicit in this is the belief in government’s responsibility to protect public health by keeping the city clean. This vision came to fruition during the latter half of the 19th century, as the city invested taxpayer dollars in large-scale projects to clean water and curb epidemics, says McNeur. These efforts, which wouldn’t have been possible without government initiative, dramatically improved people’s health and quality of life.

This “jobs not hogs” vision also signaled a shift in how the city’s leaders viewed residents’ relationship to the market, notes Hendrik Hartog, history professor at Princeton University. The theme reflected a vision of “a city whose workers will be entirely dependent on a cash economy for their subsistence,” he wrote in a 1985 article in the Wisconsin Law Review. Having long lost access to land to grow crops and vegetables, the poor now lost their last source of food--and cash--that was not dependent on their labor. So how would they feed themselves? The city’s leaders probably assumed that economic growth would generate the jobs and wages necessary to buy food. However, Hartog notes, “a working class without its pigs would be that much more dependent on the market and employers.”

Hog ownership was the last vestige of economic self-sufficiency--a way of living that protected families from the market economy’s violent swings. It gave them a modicum of control over the value of their work by providing an alternative or supplement to wage labor. As Manhattan’s pigs vanished, a vast stratum of people emerged whose daily meals were dependent on what government and private companies chose to pay them. New York’s leaders might have thought they were kicking cholera, boosting tax revenues, and dodging more bad PR. But by getting rid of the city’s pigs, they also happened to make New York the home of America’s first urban working class. As McNeur puts it, “They suddenly had to make ends meet or move to New Jersey.”