#there's ALSO the. two posts i made. guns georg. (which then immediately led me to think about gunsmoke au--)

[blaiddraws]

I tried to imagine which other au I could fit dojoshipping into without it being cursed and the only one I could find was the ghost worm au. Imagine somehow he sticks around in the past for a bit and Zisu kisses his shiny metal head

hey check out this ask i got the other day

[thedefinitionofendgame]

I Love You, Baby

Sullivan X Andy one-shot | Rated M | Canonverse

A/N: Amidst my Surrera breakdown tonight after reading the episode synopsis for 4x16, I wrote this to settle my heart rate. I have no idea how the Station 19 finale will go, but hints about a Surrera baby are running wild, so this fic inspired by those and everything else *Rated M for non-explicit sex/TW regarding the mention of George Floyd’s death (briefly)*

•

You can read this work on ao3 and fanfiction.net as well

Written & cover by @thedefinitionofendgame (aka me)

The cover is split between 3 different sections, just because :)

Alarms blared and sirens wailed but Lieutenant Andy Herrera heard none of them. Her thoughts were too crowded with her husband’s voice. No, not the way he whispered sweet nothings against her skin in the early mornings or the outrageously sexy way his voice deepened when he fought with her over control in the bedroom. Instead, it was the things he had told her over the last few months when the whole world had flipped upside down. The coronavirus started which put enough strain on a marriage alone. Then Andy’s husband, Robert, and a member of her Station 19 family, Dean, had wound up in jail mainly due to the colour of their skin. Robert had even had a gun pointed at his head, as he rushed to his wife who had been shoved to the ground. Less than two months later, a man across the country had died claiming he couldn’t breathe, filmed for the whole world to witness and make opinions about. None of it made sense to Andy, but then again she didn’t see things in the same way she had just half a year ago before she married her husband.

She loved his eyes. They were kind and held so much emotion. She loved the way his hands held her face when his lips brushed hers, no matter how gentle or rough their kiss was. His firefighter-status fitness level was a definite bonus; his hands were way larger than her own but she liked that they fit around hers like a glove. These were just some of the physical features she loved about her husband. Not once did she think about the colour of his skin and how that affected her love for him. It simply didn’t, at least not in a negative way. Robert was her husband; the colour of his skin never made any difference to her one way or another. Until it did matter, although not in a bad way. Suddenly, he was a target and Andy was thrust into a world that didn’t see a kind and dedicated man when they looked at Robert Sullivan. They saw someone that Andy would never compare to her husband, all for the colour of his skin.

Our marriage is the only good thing in my life, he had told her. The only good thing was her. They both had no one else, no parents or siblings. Sure, they had Station 19 who were basically family and Andy’s aunt, uncle and cousin. But in terms of immediate family, it was just them. Robert’s comment had left Andy’s head turning. Maybe it was the truth in his words, maybe it was the desperation he had said them to her in. Maybe it was because Andy wanted more than just their marriage to be good in his life. And maybe it was a little bit of all three.

Whatever it was, Andy was sure the problems couldn’t be fixed with what she had in mind. Although her idea wasn’t rational, it was the only thing she could think of. Robert and her had talked about the prospect of it before but it hadn’t gotten farther than that. The question remained whether or not it would break them up or make them stronger. At this point, Andy wasn’t ready to find out.

Yet somewhere in the universe, a light shone. A spark was lit, a flame caught on and from there, it was an inferno. One thing led to another and soon a giant ball of fire was heading for the only good thing in Robert (and Andy’s) life. It was only a matter of time before it crashed into them, leaving nothing but a mist of smoke behind.

“Hey, are you okay?” Robert’s concerned murmur washed over Andy, as she slid back into bed next to her husband.

Andy nodded, desperate to feel the warmth of his skin against hers again. The early-morning air was cold and the firefighter wasn’t ready to get up yet. “Just had to use the bathroom.”

“Mhm.” An arm wrapped around her shoulders, making Andy feel safe. Home was wherever Robert’s embrace was. “Some long trip to the bathroom you took. Also did I hear you throwing up?”

Andy’s heart thumped in her chest. “No, why did you think that?”

“Thought I heard it. If you didn’t, it’s fine. Just wanted to check,” Robert pressed a kiss to his wife’s forehead. “We have ten more minutes until the alarm goes,” he informed her.

“So kiss me.” Andy’s reply was quiet but Robert reacted immediately. His lips moved from her forehead to her eyelids, her cheeks, her nose and landed softly on her lips. Andy shifted so that she was more upright, and Robert’s hands moved to cup her face. The kiss deepened, and the sheets soon ended up on the unoccupied side of the mattress.

Morning sex was something Andy hadn’t really indulged in during her hookups with Jack and Ryan. Sure, it was a better way to wake up than turning over and hitting snooze on the alarm but she was mostly concerned about not getting caught by her father or anyone else at the station.

The alarm blared, interrupting the couple’s post-orgasmic bliss. With a sigh, Andy pushed away from Robert and threw on his discarded Station 19 shirt from the night before. “Cereal good for you? I’m not in the mood for French toast which is the-”

“Only thing you know how to make for breakfast, I know.” Leaning back against the headboard. Robert put his hands behind his head and smiled at her. “You tell me every morning.”

“Hey, I’m just reminding you what you signed up for when you married me.” She threw on yesterday’s jeans (her own this time), leaving the room.

“I married you for other reasons besides my breakfast options!” Robert shouted after her. He heard her infectious giggle from the stairs, which made his smile stretch even wider. Andy was going to be the death of him, but he would happily go if it meant the last thing he saw was her. The thought was cheesy, Robert knew, yet that was the state the ex-battalion chief was constantly in around his wife. She brought out a completely different side of him that had been hiding for the years between his first wife’s death and him coming to Station 19.

His first wife was probably watching from whatever afterlife she was in, happy for him. A day didn’t go by that Robert didn’t miss Claire, but he knew she would want him to find happiness again. Lucky for him, Andy was the woman he never expected to fall in love with and he did anyways. He was a very fortunate man to get two loves of his life.

After stretching, Robert rolled out of bed and trekked to the bathroom. Water was splashed all over the counter, which made him shake his head. While his wife kept a fairly clean locker at the station, their bathroom had no idea. He grabbed a small towel off the rack and mopped up the small puddles, then turned on the shower. Taking less than two minutes to get clean, Robert had a towel wrapped around his waist and was brushing his teeth while observing himself in the mirror. Clearly all the workouts he had been doing recently to deal with the emotions he had been feeling were helping tone his figure. Raising an eyebrow at himself in the mirror, Robert let out a laugh. He felt a bit stupid, so he quickly turned off the light, rinsed his mouth in the sink and went to change for the day.

A pair of Andy’s socks showed up in Robert’s drawer, so he opened up her side of the closet to put them away. But before he could move, something solid caught his eye amongst the squishy socks. He was about to investigate, then realized it wasn’t his. It was Andy’s and if he looked, it would be invading her privacy. So he closed the drawer and went back to putting on his own clothes. Yet Robert’s curiosity was piqued and the wheels in his head were already turning with possibilities. A surprise for him, perhaps. Or many it was a female-related object, one that she clearly didn’t want him to know about. Or maybe it was a- “Hey Andy, do you own a vibrator?” The question escaped Robert’s lips before he could stop himself.

Robert had never seen his wife appear in their bedroom so fast. “Robert, what on Earth have you been doing in here?” She asks, alarm lighting up her face.

Feeling like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar, Robert admitted to what he had seen in Andy’s sock drawer. “Do you own a vibrator?” He repeated, once he had recounted his story to his wife.

Andy let out a huff of laughter, as she turned towards Robert. “Um, I did, before I married you. But it’s long gone, so don’t worry you don’t have any need to get your feather’s ruffled.” She crossed her arms. “Would you have been mad if I did own one?”

“No way, I would’ve suggested we use it to spice up our sex lives even more,” Robert told her.

Andy smacked her husband’s arm, before turning to leave the room again. “You need to get dressed because we gotta go in like fifteen minutes. I got out the cereal.”

“Okay, thanks.” Robert listened to his wife, and joined her in the kitchen for coffee moments later. He offered her the coffee pot, but she shook her head. It surprised Robert as Andy wasn’t one to skip out on caffeine.

Andy could tell her husband was starting to get a bit suspicious, so she made her exit. “Gonna change, then we can go,” she said in a rush, then jogged up the stairs to their bedroom again.

Shutting the door behind her, Andy leaned against it, before sliding to the floor. It was getting a little exhausting trying to keep their teeny tiny surprise a secret, especially from her husband. Not that she wanted to be keeping secrets, but this one was too big to tell him yet. Andy wasn’t ready for him to know. Unfortunately, keeping it from him went against the main slogan of their marriage: no more secrets. Robert had told her that on many occasions, always with a kiss on her lips following. This was an exception, or at least that’s what Andy told herself to make her feel better.

The young woman shed her clothes and put on clean ones, then grabbed her purse and a pair of socks. She turned the hidden object over in her hand once, before slipping it back and smiling to herself. “Baby, you ready to go?”

“Yep, and I have coffee for you to go,” Robert handed Andy the travel mug, which she dutifully took. Hopefully she’d be able to pour the contents down the sink when her husband wasn’t looking.

They got in the car and drove to work. The streets were pretty empty, as it was barely six-thirty a-m. Andy silently prayed people would stay safe today, making their job easier but also keep people living. It also meant Andy wasn’t taking big risks, something she knew she should avoid for the foreseeable future. Robert didn’t think anything was different, as he reached across the center console to take Andy’s hand. She smiled at him, and he pressed his lips to her fingers. They were stupidly in love without a care in the world.

Once they reached the station, the couple changed into their work attire and headed up to the kitchen for their second breakfast. Andy realized she conveniently forgot the travel mug of coffee in the car, and sighed with relief. Except the second they came around the corner, Ben was offering a second coffee to Robert, and extended it to Andy.

“I’m good, thanks Warren,” she said, avoiding Robert’s gaze and scurrying to sit with Maya and Vic at the table. “Hey guys.”

“Hey Andy,” Vic greeted her.

“We were just talking about Pru’s recent development in mobility,” Maya explained.

Babies, Andy thought, I can talk about that. “Is she still doing the butt-scootch thing?”

Vic nodded. “Yep. Dean’s been trying to get her to take a few steps because she’s more than ready. But she’s a stubborn girl.”

It would be awhile longer, but teaching a child to walk was something that thrilled Andy. “I can’t wait for that,” Andy accidentally burst out, before catching herself. “I mean, I can’t wait for Pru to start walking.”

“Same.” Learning back, Vic looked like a proud mother, despite the fact that Pru wasn’t her kid.

Maya waited a second longer, before pushing her chair back as the rest of the A-crew took a seat. “Okay, Montgomery and Herrera, you two are on aid car today. The rest of you guys, make sure the truck’s in tip-top shape.”

After a chorus of ‘yes-es’, the team spread out. Andy and Travis were called to a house regarding someone who choked on a piece of sausage (the Heimlich was performed swiftly and effectively), while the rest of the firefighters were sentenced to putting out a warehouse fire. A machine had caught a spark, which spread to all the wood materials lighting on fire. Not a great combination, yet Station 19 was prepared and managed to evacuate everyone in record time. Maya commanded the radio outside, as Vic, Robert, Jack and Dean did a final sweep. The aid care, with Andy and Travis inside, pulled up just as Maya was about to call her firefighters back. No one was hurt, but it was good to have the care on standby just in case.

The radio crackled, and Vic’s voice rang out. “There’s one more person in here! They’re trapped under a wooden shelf.” Static, then there was a muffled noise, before a shout could be heard. “Dammit!”

Instantly Maya had the radio switched on. “What happened?”

“The fire just lit up the entire back wall,” Vic reported. Andy’s heart beat loudly in her chest, as she feared for her fellow firefighters’ lives, and most of all her husband’s.

“Get the person stable, and then get out,” Maya ordered. “Gibson, Miller, what’s the status on the exit?”

“Clear. The direct path has nothing structural that could fall. But the smoke is thick. We need to start putting out the fire in the main area or else it has the potential to block off where we need to go,” Jack reported.

“Okay, good. Get out and you can help the other stations spray from the windows.” The warehouse luckily had a bunch of windows, which made access to the fire easier. Maya had had the windows smashed in earlier.

“Copy that.” Jack’s radio went muffled for a moment, then two doors opened at the side of the building. “Hey Herrera, Montgomery, nice of you to join us,” Jack said with a laugh. Travis nodded hello while Andy didn’t even look in Jack’s direction. She was too focused on whatever fate her husband had. Recently her emotions and hormones had been all over the place, leaving her wanting to cry one moment and incredibly turned on the next. Right now though, Andy was scared for her husband’s life.

“We got them!” This time it was Robert’s voice on the radio. “Heading for the exit.”

The seconds ticked away as everyone who wasn’t spraying water at the fire, had their eyes on the double doors where they expected Vic and Robert to emerge from. Maya was worried, and turned on the radio again. “Sullivan and Hughes, where are you guys?”

The only answer was static. Andy thought she head a shout but it was too muffled to tell. Then one door pushed open, and she rushed towards it. Vic called out, “Help me grab the guy!”

Andy held open the door as Vic stumbled through it towing a man behind her. She coughed loudly, as the smoke was incredibly thick. Robert was nowhere to be found.

While Travis did his job and checked over the man, Andy turned to Vic. “Where’s Sullivan?” She asked, remembering to use her husband’s proper title since they were at work.

Vic didn’t answer her. Instead she spun around and fixed her helmet back on her head. “I’m going back in there,” she said.

“No you aren’t.” Maya stopped her.

There was panic in Vic’s eyes. “Sullivan is still in there. A huge beam came down just as I was rounding the corner to the exit. Sullivan jumped back just in time, but we were separated. The smoke is so bad, and I had the guy with me. I could see the exit, so I thought I could just drop him off and the go back for Sullivan.”

“You left him?” Andy whirled on Vic.

“No, I couldn’t get to him. I had a civilian and I told him I’d go back. I have to go back,” Vic repeated to Maya.

“No. No one is going back in there.” Maya stated firmly. She picked up her radio and said, “Sullivan, do you copy?”

There was nothing, except for Vic’s voice apologizing. “I’m so sorry, I just couldn’t reach him and I had the civilian and-”

“Nothing. You made the call and it was what was necessary.” Maya attempted to contact Robert via the radio again, with no luck.

Suddenly, there was a huge crash and a section of the warehouse roof began to cave in. Andy watched in horror as smoke billowed out into the sky and there continued to be no response from the radio. “ROBERT!” A scream left Andy’s throat as she lunged herself towards the doors her husband was still trapped behind. Much to her dismay, both Maya and Vic lunged after her, stopping her from charging in after him. She struggled against the women but soon gave up. “Somebody do something!”

Maya shook her head sadly. “It’s up to him to get out, I can’t risk another firefighter. Andy, he’ll be okay.”

“You don’t know that!” Andy was practically in hysterics, which wasn’t like her at all. She was normally pretty put together, even when his life had been in danger before.

Jack came over and looked Andy right in the eyes. “I know he’ll make it out to you. He’s been a firefighter for a long time, and will be fine. Trust him.”

“Okay.” Andy’s voice was small as she nodded. Jack gave her shoulder a reassuring pat, then stood off to the side. He was worried about his friend because she was rarely this emotional while on a call. Sure, she had broken down from time to time, but it was rare for to lose it at the scene. Maybe she and her husband-it was still weird to say that after almost a whole year-had had a fight beforehand, and she didn’t get the chance to work things out.

Water continued to rain down on the building but the radio remained silent. Maya tried over and over to reach Robert with no response. The panic was just starting to settle in, when someone shouted that they saw movement through one of the broken windows.

Inside the building the air was thickening with smoke and Robert was losing air fast. But he had someone to fight for, well two someones actually. He was not about to leave his wife the way his first wife had left him. Claire’s death had almost killed him, and he would do whatever he could to save Andy from losing someone else. Up ahead, Robert saw the exit that separated him from the love of his life. With a last surge of strength, Robert burst open the doors and stumbled a short distance before he fell to the concrete. Cold, fresh air filled his lungs as he took in gasping breaths. He looked up and saw that the sky above him wasn’t smoke but clear and blue with the sun shining too. I’m safe, he thought. I’m safe and I'm alive.

Seconds later, two figures reached him. One was Travis, thrusting an oxygen mask into his hands for him to put on, and the other was his wife. Her arms engulfed him in a hug, and she practically lay on top of him on the ground. At first, Robert thought she was just happy to see him alive and well, then he felt her shaking in his lap. “I’m safe, it’s okay,” he told her, pulling back slightly so he could wipe the tears from her eyes.

“I thought I lost you,” Andy told him, as she pressed the oxygen mask to his face. Travis stepped back and gave them a few feet of space, as the rest of the group worked to spray the flames.

“You’ll never lose me, I’m too stubborn to die,” Robert reassured her.

Andy nodded, but she wasn’t convinced, She was just thankful he had made it back to her, and didn’t leave her all alone to raise their child. “I love you, baby,” she managed to get out.

“I love you.” His words echoed back and he hugged her tightly again. Moments later, Maya appeared at his side, and Andy moved to get up off of the ground. “Hey Captain Bishop, things were getting a bit toasty, huh?”

“Just a bit,” Maya rolled her eyes. “You okay Sullivan?”

“Fine.” The man in question had regained enough oxygen in his lungs and strength in his body, to rise to a standing position.

“You should head over to the aid car and rest; we can debrief later.” Maya glanced around, then leaned over to her fellow firefighter. “Hey, is Andy alright?”

Robert raised an eyebrow. “She’s fine, why?”

Maya sighed. “She acted overly emotional when you were struggling to get out of the building. I totally understand why, but it’s unlike her. I just wanted to make sure things were okay.”

“Oh, I understand.” Pausing, Robert hesitated how to approach the subject of why when he knew Andy didn’t even know he knew about her secret. “I’m sure she was just worried.”

“Right,” Maya said. She didn’t look completely convinced, but luckily thought Robert didn’t get questioned any longer. He made his way over to Travis at the aid car and got his head looked at. It was just a bruise, which would heal in no time.

The fire eventually died down and lost the war against the firefighters and water. Station 19 began to pack up, and Andy came over to give her husband a check up of her own, before getting back into the aid car. Vic apologized profusely to Robert for leaving him, and he told her that he would’ve done the same thing, had he been in her position. As Andy and Travis pulled away, Robert was leaning over to give Vic a reassuring hug; all was okay.

Once they got back, chores needed to be done, then people started heading to the showers or to crash in a bunk room. Andy slipped away and went back to the barn, swinging herself up to sit on the back of the firetruck amongst the many hoses. It had been a long day, even though it was barely eight o’clock. All she wanted to do was go to sleep, with maybe a little loving from her husband first.

Speaking of Robert, his voice carried through the barn as he spotted her. “Hey, can I join you?” He asked.

“Yeah,” Andy nodded, moving so he could come up too. She let out a loud sigh, and ran a hand through her messy curls.

Robert watched her, concern in his gaze. “Everything okay?”

“Today was a close call,” Andy began, looking at her hands instead of her husband. “I’m glad you’re safe.”

Robert wrapped an arm around her and pulled her close. “Me too.” There was a moment of silence, until Robert decided it was time to rip off the bandaid. But first, he needed to tell her something. “I love you, you know that?”

Pulling away, Andy snuck a glance at Robert. “Of course, silly. I love you too.”

“Good.” Robert smiled slightly, then bumped her shoulder with hers. “Then I just wanted to tell you that I know.”

Andy whipped her head towards her husband. “You know what.”

“I know. Don’t try to hide it any longer.”

“What do you know.”

“I know.”

“I know you know, but what do you know?” Andy was very stubborn, and was not about to show her cards first.

Robert, who gave into arguments like this with her more often than she did, sighed and told her: “I know about the baby. That you’re pregnant.”

“Dammit.” She looked back down at her hands. “I was trying to keep it a secret for a little while longer. How did you find out? You didn’t look in my sock drawer, did you?”

“No, I wouldn’t invade your privacy like that,” Robert reassured her.

“Then what was it?”

“Well you’ve been acting funny the past couple days. Avoiding coffee, being way more emotional than normal-which there’s nothing wrong with but it isn’t like you normally-and disappearing to throw up at the same time for the past five days. You deny it but I know my wife.”

Shaking her head, Andy let out a sigh. “I can’t keep anything a secret from you.”

“So are you pregnant?” Robert wanted his wife to say it, to confirm his theory.

“Yes, I’m pregnant.” Andy nodded.

Robert didn’t hesitate. He leaned over and pulled his wife into the biggest hug, then began to press sloppy kisses all over her face. She laughed, swatting at him lightly. “I love you so much,” Robert gushed. “And I love you too, baby,” he said, looking down at Andy’s non-showing belly.

Andy took his hand and placed it where their baby was growing inside of her right now. “You’re not gonna want to miss this, ever,” she said.

“Never,” he agreed.

They were quiet for a moment, just breathing together. Then Andy spoke: “Before you tell me to lighten my duties, I planned on talking to Maya later this week. We have a girl’s night in the works, and I need to tell her before she suggests we go to a bar for shots.”

“Didn’t even cross my mind yet, but I’m glad you knew what I was going to ask in the future,” Robert said with a laugh. He pressed another kiss to Andy’s lips, then looked all around him.

“What?” Andy asked, as she watched her husband.

“I was just thinking, this is where it all started. Right here in the barn, when I was introduced as the new captain of Station 19. Who knew that we’d be here now, married with a baby on the way?” He lay back, pulling Andy down with him, and they tangled themselves amongst the folded hoses, snuggled together like they had lay that morning before getting up.

Andy confessed, “Not me. I hated you for a good while, before I realized I was using hate to cover up what I felt for you.”

Robert chimed in, “And I told myself I wasn’t going to fall in love with a firefighter half my rank. Look where that got me.”

“You love me.”

“I do.”

“And we’re going to be good parents, right?”

“The absolute best. First thing we’re going to do is teach them Spanish. After English of course.”

“Okay. Only if I get to teach them how to make French toast because-”

“It’s the only thing you know how to make for breakfast.”

[365days365movies]

January 30, 2021: Mad Max 2: The Road Warrior

So, now that I’ve gotten through the first of these movies, it’s probably time to talk about the director of all four films, George Miller.

Miller’s an Australian director and medical doctor. Yeah, dude went to medical school, and in his last year there, started getting into filmmaking! Nice. He immediately came off as a budding director, and made his official directorial debut with his first film...Mad Max. Yeah. Very interesting guy. Today’s entry is his second film, and he’s since made films including Twilight Zone: The Movie, The Witches of Eastwick, Lorenzo’s Oil, Babe (yes, the pig one), Babe: Pig in the City (yes, the OTHER pig one), Happy Feet (not the pig one) and its sequel, Happy Feet Two. So, a pretty good filmography!

But throughout it all, Miller’s flagship passion was the Mad Max franchise, continuing with this movie, and eventually ending with Fury Road. And from what I’ve heard about these remaining two films, I’m in for a ride. Pun half-heartedly intended. SPOILERS AHEAD!!!

Recap

An elderly narrator brings us in, telling the tale of the Road Warrior, Mad Max Rockatansky (Mel Gibson). He speaks of the downfall of modern society, punctuated by increased savagery, and the takeover of gangs on the world’s highways. People are ruined and forgotten, and they lose themselves. And these people include Max, who’s wandered out into the wilderness since losing his family. Yeah, Jess from the last movie? Dead. Guess she wasn’t doing so great after all.

Max and his dog are on the roads of Australia, where things have definitely changed. Ho longer around any vestige of civilization, the Road Warrior’s driving the Interceptor, being chased by punks on motorcycles, led by Wez (Vernon Wells), a cray, screaming dude with a bike and a mohawk..

After the chase, Max happens upon a recently-wrecked truck leaking gasoline, a much treasured resource in this post-apocalyptic landscape. Wez leaves, having been defeated, and Max gathers the fuel and goes his way. He drives through the desert until finding a mini-helicopter (a gyrocopter, it’s called), abandoned on the ground. 

After taking care of a carpet python (Morelia spilota; don’t know the subspecies), he finds himself ambushed by the Gyro Captain (Bruce Spence), who holds him up for his fuel. However, using his dog, Max gets the upper hand. Frightened, Gyro tells him of a huge supply of fuel somewhere in the desert. He agrees to show him in exchange for his life. Max agrees, and does this.

Yeah, he tied a string to the trigger of a gun, and tied the other end to Dog’s bone. Fuck yes.

Gyro’s true to his word, and he takes him to an oil refinery in the middle of the desert. It’s being used and guarded by a gang of some kind. Max sets up camp, tying Gyro to a dead tree and spying on the gang. That night, many gang members leave the refinery, and return the next day. I should mention, at this point, that we start to see some of the crazy vehicles I love so much in Fury Road. Which, yeah, HERE for that!

Anyway, the bikers, including good old Wez, go after a guy in a tricked-out buggy, incapacitating him and...taking...his wife. Yeah, these movies are really leaning on that to vilify their bad guys, huh? First it was Toecutter’s gang and the young couple, and now it’s these random people. Not the best gimmick in the world, but...OK?

Well, Max goes down to take their gasoline, and finds that the man has lived. Max brings him back to a small settlement, where they take him in. Meanwhile, a child with a boomerang, called Feral Kid (Emil Minty), watches. Cool.

Max is taken into the settlement, where oil is being refined as well. The settlers definitely don’t accept Max, and are ready to take his car and oust him into the wilderness without fuel. And then, the bikers return. And there are a LOT of them.

These are the Marauders, and they’ve taken some of the settlers captive. They’d gone out, only to be taken captive by Wez and the others. But Wez isn’t their leader. No...no, that would be the Warrior of the Wasteland! The Ayatollah of rock-and-roll-ah! THIS...is Lord Humungus (Kjell Nilsson)!

...Am I in love with this movie? Holy shit, I might be I mean, LOOK at that dude! With his voice and his scraggly-ass hair and Jason mask, he notes that the settlers sent out sentries to find a truck, with which to carry their gasoline and take it out of the desert. And as this is taking place, Feral Kid pops up, throws his steel boomerang, and kills Wez’ right hand man. WHAT

YES. MORE PLEASE. Feral Kid’s boomerang is thrown at him, misses, comes back and severs the fingers of the hand of Humungus’ mouth of Sauron dude, Toadie (Max Phipps). Humungus tries to calm the throngs, Wez included, and ends up putting Wez in a Sleeper. He tells the settlers to “just walk away, and [he] will spare [their] lives. Just walk away.”

...Yeah, I love Humungus. And his inevitable death saddens me more than I can properly say. Anyway, the settlers start debating whether or not they should walk away, and Max uses a little music-maker that he found to befriend the Feral Kid. The leader of the settlers, Pappagallo (Mike Preston) tries to convince them to flee with their fuel to a safe place. They continue to argue, until Max interjects with an offer.

Max can get them the vehicle to carry the tanker of gas that they have, but demands as much gas as he can carry, and the return of his vehicle. They agree to his terms, and Max heads off into the night to get the truck from earlier, with gas canisters and Dog in tow. With a little help from Feral Kid, he escapes the notice of the Marauders waiting nearby.

He catches up to Gyro, who’s managed to break free of the tree (well, mostly), and is quickly caught by Max in order to carry the gas canisters for the truck. They get back to Gyro’s gyro, where someone has died after being bitten by his...nonvenomous snake. Yeah, these films haven’t shown very high knowledge of zoology, huh?

They take to the air in the gyrocopter, and easily fly to the truck from the beginning of the film. They get it started, and Max leaves Gyro behind, although he protests to this, and follows behind in the copter. And then.he drives past Wez, who’s still enraged after losing his partner to boomerang hit.

By the way, I didn’t mention this about the gang, but they’re literally all wearing what looks to me like leather bondage gear? Like...I’m pretty certain that’s exactly what that is; it’s pretty obvious. ESPECIALLY Humungus and Wez’s partner, lemme tell you. Just a note, as this change in visual tone and style is going to carry throughout the rest of the series.

The Marauders run Max down, and Gyro saves the day with his snake, throwing it at one of the cars chasing him. Max JUST makes it into the Settlement, but a couple of the Marauders make it in as well, Wez amongst them. He kills a Settler using his favorite weapon, HIS OWN HEAD (fuck, this movie rules), and makes his was through the compound.

Max climbs the top of the wall, and uses a flamethrower on some of the men. Feral Kid throws a boomerang at Wez, who runs off with the rest of the Marauders. Gyro also arrives, landing in the settlement. Pappagallo, in the process, is shot in the leg with an arrow. Unfortunately, the damage sustained to the truck will take 12 hours to fix.

The Settlers thank Max for his help, but that doesn’t mean he’s staying there. That night, however, Humungus retaliates, and strings up their captured settlers for all to see, torturing them throughout the night. Nobody will make it out alive, by his promise. 

For the time being, Max and Gyro are still in the settlement, waiting for their chance to leave. Gyro tries to sneak away with a young woman, but she opts to stay out of loyalty to the Settlers. Also, her hair looks like a Who from Whoville. It had to be said...it had to be said. Pappagallo berated Max for just leaving, rather than helping the rest of them and driving the tanker. Max shoves aside Feral Kid, and he takes off.

However, this is NOT the best move on Max’s part, as he drives RIGHT THROUGH the Marauder camp, and Wez isn’t far behind him. Using a NOS system (EAT IT FAST AND FURIOUS FRANCHISE), they easily overtake Max and run him off the road, DESTROYING the V-8 Pursuit Special, and injuring Max something fierce. Somehow, though, he manages to escape. But one of them KILLS DOG WHAT THE FUCK MAN

Max crawls away and escapes, but is found by...Gyro! Gyro picks him up with the copter, and takes him back to the settlement. He wakes up in a medical tent, still quite hurt. Pappagallo details the plan: use the tanker as a distraction to allow the others to escape. Max, although still injured, volunteers to drive the tanker after all. He doesn’t say exactly why, but he is now stuck there without a method of egress, and he’s the best chance they have. I’m going to choose to believe that he does it for Dog. JOHN WICK STYLE BABY

The time has come. On both sides, they head for conflict. Gyro’s air support, dropping bombs on them. But he’s quickly shot down. Meanwhile, the settlers get out in vehicles of their own, taking advantage of the distraction of the tanker. And once they’re all out…

Now, all eyes are on Max and the Marauders! With the assistance of Warrior Woman (Virginia Hey), Feral Kid, and a few more settlers, Max tries to outdrive Wez and his group. And a LOT of shit happens here, so do yourself a favor and watch this video!

Rebecca and the other two settlers die, leaving only Max and Feral Kid behind. A LOT of Marauders die in the process, and then Lord Humungus catches up. As they shoot out the tires, Gyro (still flyin’, baby!) and some of the Settlers show up as backup. And...yup, another video. Yes, really.

After ALL OF THAT, Humungus ONCE AGAIN goes the way of Toecutter, and is killed by a head-on collision with a truck. Said truck careens off the road, and Mac and Feral Kid get out. It’s then that we see that the truck NEVER had fuel in it! No, instead it was a decoy! It allowed the vehicles, which actually contained the fuel, to escape to the safe North, away from the gangs.

The Narrator comes back, revealing that he’s the Feral Kid, and that their new leader was Gyro! And the Road Warrior. That was the last they ever saw of him. He lives now...only in his memories.

And THAT...was The Road Warrior, AKA Mad Max 2. WHOOOOOOOO!!! Second verse, same as the first; epilogue at the end of the weekend! LET’S GO PART 3

January 31, 2021: Mad Max Beyond Thunderdome (1985)

[watusichris]

My Brilliant Career in Chicago Pro Wrestling: A True Story

Damn, I could have sworn I’d posted this 2015 Night Flight story, which remains the funniest thing I’ve ever written. Every word is true. ********** In the early 1970s, before Vince McMahon’s World Wrestling Federation (today World Wrestling Entertainment) turned professional wrestling into a pay-per-view cash cow, pro grappling was a wide-open game run by maverick regional promoters and catering to lunatic fans. I got to experience this incredible world intimately: For two years, I served as “publicist” for the promoter in one of the biggest wrasslin’ towns in the country, Chicago.

I was fresh out of college back in 1972, and returned to my old room in my mother’s apartment in Evanston bearing a seemingly worthless bachelor’s degree in English and no immediate prospects for gainful employment. Fortunately, my father believed in nepotism.

After a long career as a TV executive that had garnered him two Peabody Awards, my dad was then the general manager of WSNS, a Chicago UHF station that broadcast on Channel 44. It was a low-rent operation that my old man helped legitimize by securing telecasts of White Sox games. (He loathed Sox announcer Harry Caray, who would get hammered out of his skull while working in the booth, and rightly thought major league screwball-turned-color man Jimmy Piersall was out of his mind.)

Though such questionable WSNS programming as a daily late-night weathercast delivered by a buxom negligee-clad blonde stretched out on a heart-shaped bed was a thing of the past, colorful holdovers from the old schedule remained. And thus my dad called me one day to say he could get me some part-time work doing PR for Bob Luce, the local pro wrestling promoter, who mounted the weekly show All Star Championship Wrestling on the station.

Naturally, I was hired on the spot at my first meeting with Luce, who was something of a legend in Chicago sports circles at the time. Chicago Sun-Times columnist Bob Greene captured had him perfectly in a famous column in which every sentence ended with an exclamation point.

Stocky, florid of complexion, and as loud as his off-the-rack sport coats, the outsized Luce was the dictionary definition of the word “character.” You’d sit down with him in a restaurant, and the other diners would duck and cover. Constantly agitated and gesticulating wildly, his stentorian conversation was a manic torrent of hype and madness, punctuated by explosive laughter than sounded like a machine gun going off next to your ear.

Fittingly, before joining the wrestling biz, Luce had edited a tabloid, the National Tattler. Like the National Enquirer of that frontier era, the rag made its bones with totally fictitious “news” stories featuring lots of cleavage and outré bloodletting. At one lunch, to the very evident embarrassment of the neighboring clientele, Luce regaled me with the tale of one inspired Tattler cover story, which I will recount Greene-style. Imagine it at full volume: “I got this idea, see, for a story about a sex orgy! [He pronounced “orgy” with a hard “g,” as in “Porgy” of Porgy and Bess.] But it had to be a different kind of orgy! So I got my wife Sharon to take her clothes off and covered her with peanut butter! And we took some pictures, and the lights were HOT, and the peanut butter melted all over her! They were great pictures! We called it – ha ha HA! – ‘PEANUT BUTTER ORGY!’”

Luce had graduated to promoting pro wrestling events in Chicago and other Midwestern markets, in partnership with the American Wrestling Association’s star attractions, Verne Gagne and Dick the Bruiser, of whom more in a moment. (His sweet, funny, but definitely tough wife knew the business: She had wrestled under the name Sharon Lass.)

As the noisy host of All Star Championship Wrestling, Luce would interview the stars of his upcoming promotions, show footage of recent contests, and pump the next matches. Thrusting a finger at the camera in one of his windups, he would shriek, “BE THERE!!!” Ever the sales impresario, he also served as the show’s principal pitchman, appearing in tandem with some of his hulking charges -- and occasionally with special guest hucksters like former heavyweight champ Leon Spinks -- to spiel for a long line of sketchy local advertisers. They are among the greatest and most hilarious commercials ever made.

As Luce’s publicity rep, commanding a monthly paycheck of $200, I was charged with lightweight duty: writing and mailing press releases promoting the bi-weekly Friday night matches at the Chicago International Amphitheatre, assisting the WSNS camera crew at the gigs (sometimes by protecting their extra film magazines from flying bodies at ringside), and calling in the results of the matches to the local papers. (The last task proved to be the most onerous. I’d ring up the local sports desks late on the nights of the matches and harangue some half-drunk, bored assistant editor whose interest in the “sport” could not have been more infinitesimal. When I finally managed to get the Sun-Times to print the results of one match, I felt as if I’d qualified for a Publicists Guild award.) I also performed certain functions for Luce when he was out of town or too busy to handle them. One weekday afternoon I accompanied Superstar Billy Graham, later a big WWF name and a sort of proto-Hulk Hogan, to Wrigley Field, where he was interviewed by nonplussed announcer Jack Brickhouse between innings of a Chicago Cubs radio broadcast.

Every other week for nearly two years, I’d take the El down to the Amphitheatre, located on Halsted Street on the far South Side, adjacent to the old Chicago Stock Yards. (I held onto the job even after I secured a similarly nepotistic but full-time position – writing about cheap component stereo systems for Zenith Radio Corporation.) The antique, immense Amphitheatre had hosted big political conventions, auto shows, circuses, rodeos, and concerts by Elvis Presley, the Beatles, the Rolling Stones, and Led Zeppelin, but Luce’s dates at the venue, as you will see, attracted a distinctly different class of customer.

The pre-match staging area, where I’d meet Luce and the crew, was the Sirloin Room of the adjacent Stock Yard Inn, not far from the site of the old South Side cattle slaughterhouses. This is where Luce’s employees and pals would also convene before the night’s entertainment began to swill a couple of cocktails and shoot the breeze. It was a cast worthy of a Damon Runyon story.

Luce employed a bodyguard, a towering ex-Chicago cop named Duke, who had reputedly shot six men before being relieved of duty by the PD. He stood about six-four and dressed exactly like John Shaft. He emanated an aura of extreme menace. Once, when I asked him what he would do if someone actually started any serious trouble, Duke wordlessly pulled back the lapel of his full-length leather coat to reveal a shoulder holster bulging with a .44 Magnum.

The promotion’s bagman, charged with collecting the night’s cash receipts, was a diminutive cat everyone called Bill the Barber. I never knew his last name, but he did in fact run a South Side barbershop. He’d invariably show up dressed in a sport coat that looked like a TV test pattern and a skinny-brim fedora, with watery eyes that sometimes flicked nervously above his pencil-thin mustache. He kept a .38 strapped to his belt.

Many nights, a mysterious character referred to only as “Carmie La Papa” would put in an appearance. This elderly Italian gentleman was always treated with great deference and ate on Luce’s tab. I never found out exactly what he did. But he looked a lot like the mobster played by Pasquale Cajano in Martin Scorsese’s Casino, and I thought it wise not to inquire about his line of work.

There were also bona fide wrestling groupies, well-stacked, slightly haggard old-school broads who draped themselves on the bar, sipping pink ladies. One night, Luce leaned over to me in the Sirloin Room and said, in a whisper that could be heard 20 feet away, “After the matches, these girls and the guys go to a motel up in Prospect Heights, and they have orgies.” (Again, pronounced with a hard “g.”) The most popular of these was reportedly Gloria, a tall, pneumatic redhead of uncertain but rapidly advancing age; Luce confided, “She will do anything.”

The matches themselves were something to behold. I’d usually watch them in the company of WSNS’s young, jaded camera crew, from the dilapidated press box high above the ring in the center of the Amphitheatre. The crowd – thousands of poorly dressed, myopic, malodorous, and steeply inebriated men – was a product of what may be called the pre-ironic era of pro wrestling. There was no such thing as a suspension of disbelief among these spectators. Disbelief did not exist. Though the matches were as closely stage-managed as a production of Richard III, these rubes accepted every feigned punch and bogus drop kick as the McCoy.

Pro wrestling is the eternal contest between virtue and evil, and the wrestlers were identified in equal number as good guys and heels. Most of the good guys on the undercard – there were usually half a dozen matches, with one main event – were young “scientific” wrestlers whose Greco-Roman moves were no match for the brazenly illegal play of the dirty heels, who almost invariably won their bouts with tactics that would not pass muster with an elementary school playground monitor, let alone a legitimate referee. About the only one of these “babyfaces” (or, alternatively, “chumps”) who was vouchsafed an occasional victory was Greg Gagne, son of the promotion’s star attraction and part owner.

By the early ‘70s, Verne Gagne had been wrestling professionally for more than two decades; drafted by the Chicago Bears and then rebelling against team owner George Halas’ prohibition of a sideline on the mat, he had chosen the ring over the gridiron. He was 46 years old when I started working for Luce; he was still in decent shape, and, unlike almost all of his opponents, he still had all of his teeth.

I only managed to spend time with him once. For some reason now lost in the dense fog of time, Luce dispatched me to meet Gagne at the elegant Pump Room of the Drake Hotel near Lake Michigan. There, as cabaret star Dorothy Donegan serenaded us on the piano, the 16-time world heavyweight wrestling champion of the world got me brain-dead drunk, and then poured me into a cab home. He was an excellent guy.

Many of the other good guys on Luce’s undercards were reliable patsies for the baddies. Pepper Gomez, one of the domestic game’s few Mexican stars, was a venerable attraction who was allowed the rare triumph; billed as “the Man with the Cast-Iron Stomach,” he once allowed a Volkswagen Bug to be driven over his gut on Luce’s TV show, where he was a frequent guest.

One of my favorites was Yukon Moose Cholak. Then a veteran of 20 years on the mat, Moose owned a bar not far from the Amphitheatre, but he still worked regularly for his close pal Luce in the AWA. Huge, pot-bellied, and benign, he boasted a ripe Sout’ Side accent rivaled only by Dennis Farina’s. He was hardly an exceptional combatant: He moved around the ring with the fleetness of a dazed sloth. He was a regular on Luce’s show, and often appeared with the host in his TV spots.

The only time I appeared as a guest on All Star Championship Wrestling, Moose was the victim of the on-camera carnage that was a requisite feature of the show. At the time, conflict of interest be damned, I was writing a column about wrestling for a short-lived local sports paper called Fans, and was brought in to lend something like legitimacy to the proceedings. Luce offered me a chair on his threadbare set to push a forthcoming match between Cholak, who appeared on camera next to me, and Handsome Jimmy Valiant, a new heel on the rise in the market.

I figured something ugly was going to happen, but I went about extolling the virtues of Moose’s nearly non-existent mat skills in the front of the camera. Suddenly, Valiant crept up from behind the black scrim behind us and whacked Cholak over the head with a metal folding chair. To this day, I believe my expression of outraged surprise was worthy of a local Emmy, but a nomination eluded me.

I was actually very fond of Valiant, whom I interviewed with his “brother” and tag team partner Luscious John Valiant for Fans. Jimmy was a peroxided, strutting egomaniac in the grand Gorgeous George manner, and he had some classic patter: “I’m da wimmen’s pet and da men’s regret! I got da body wimmen love and men fear! And you, you’re as useful as a screen door in a submarine, daddy!” A rock ‘n’ roll fan, he went on to a very successful solo career, appropriately enough in Memphis, the capital of all things Elvis.

After Gagne the elder, the AWA’s biggest attraction was the tag team of Dick the Bruiser and the Crusher. Bruiser had gotten his competitive start as a linebacker for the Green Bay Packers, but had been a top wrestling draw since 1955. Somewhere along the way, he had been converted from heel to hero, and the Chicago fans adored him. Among the merch sold at the Amphitheatre were Dick the Bruiser Fan Club buttons; measuring six inches in diameter, they could either be pinned on one’s chest or, with the aid of a built-in cardboard stand, be displayed as a plaque. I kept mine on my desk at my straight job to freak out my co-workers.

Early in my gig with Luce, I was taken to meet Bruiser in the locker room. He sat on a table smoking a huge cigar. When I was introduced to him, he exclaimed, “Hey, you’re Ed Morris’ kid? You got more hair than your old man!” My father, who was in fact almost completely bald, had been known to associate with winners of the Nobel and Pulitzer Prizes. I was a little surprised that he ran in Bruiser’s circle.

The Crusher’s career in the squared circle dated back to the late ‘40s. I was even more impressed by him than I was by the Bruiser, for he had been the inspiration of the Novas’ wrasslin’-themed single “The Crusher,” a huge 1965 radio hit in Chicago for the Minnesota garage band the Novas (and later eloquently covered by the Cramps). Bruiser and Crusher were a unique combo: They were “good guys,” but they earned their keep by being badder than the “bad guys” they gutter-stomped.

The villains in that era of pro wrestling were often the object of atavistic xenophobia and hatred. Long before the U.S.’s conflicts in the Middle East, the Sheik (né Ed Farhat in Lansing, Michigan), who took the ring wearing a burnoose, was among the most reviled of heels. Some of the older fans were World War II vets, and they lustily booed Baron von Raschke, who climbed through the ropes with a monocle in one eye, draped in a Nazi flag. He was actually a U.S. Army vet born Jim Raschke in Omaha, Nebraska. His fake German accent was utterly feeble.

The AWA’s all-purpose villain, who would go on to bigger things as one of McMahon’s first WWF stars, was “Pretty Boy” Bobby Heenan, dubbed “the Weasel” by the Bruiser. Heenan was featured in his own matches, but he was most reliably entertaining as a manager, of the most duplicitous and cowardly variety, in another villain’s corner. You didn’t need a script to know what was going to happen: Just as it looked like the good guy was going to triumph, Heenan would leap into the ring and smash the apparent victor’s head into a turnbuckle or hit him over the skull with a water bucket.

Heenan featured in the most outrageous story I heard during my brilliant career in wrestling. One night I was sitting with the film crew when Al Lerner, the mustachioed, shaggy-haired, bespectacled WSNS sports reporter, entered the press box with a portable tape machine on his shoulder and a stunned look on his face. “I’ve interviewed people in front of burning buildings,” Al said. “I’ve interviewed people as they were jumping out of airplanes. But I’ve never interviewed anyone while they were getting a blowjob.”

It seems that while Al was in the locker room recording some audio bites from Heenan, a voluptuous girl standing nearby walked over to the wrestler, kneeled down in front of him, pulled down his trunks, and began giving him the kind of pre-match service Mickey Rourke probably dreamed of but never received. As she went about her business, Heenan continued to spout invective to Al as if nothing extraordinary was transpiring. With that moment alone, Bobby Heenan earned his place in the Professional Wrestling Hall of Fame.

I visited Heenan in the locker room on a somewhat less eventful evening, but that night I learned the secret of many pros’ mat success. As I was talking to him, I noticed that his forehead was crosshatched with tiny scars, some of them new and still livid. I later mentioned this to one of the crew, and was told that these wounds – referred to as “juicing”  -- were actually self-inflicted, so that the wrestlers could easily draw blood during critical moments of violence in their matches.

As Heenan said in a later interview, “If you want the green, you gotta bring the red.” Gore was a staple of pro wrestling, and there was nothing like sitting in an arena filled with 10,000 or 15,000 crazed spectators and hearing a drunken chant go up as a good guy pummeled a heel to the mat: “WE WANT BLOOD! WE WANT BLOOD! WE WANT BLOOD!”

My last hurrah in pro wrestling was one of Luce’s rare alfresco promotions, a multi-bout 1974 card at old Comiskey Park, the White Sox’s stadium, which climaxed with a 16-man battle royal. I don’t remember who triumphed in the main event, but I do remember that someone on the crew brought a bat and some softballs along, and we ended the evening shagging fly balls under the lights where Nellie Fox and Luis Aparicio once played.

The outlaw era of regional pro wrestling is a dim memory for most. The racket would get wilder after I left it: In an interview with Nashville wrestling figure Jimmy Cornette, Heenan said that a fan at a 1975 Amphitheatre match pulled out a pistol and began firing at him, but the shooter only managed to wound four people in the rows in front of him.

McMahon’s WWF brought the regional promoters’ day to a close, pillaging most of the big names in the game in the process. Today, the WWE has been displaced in popularity by the even gaudier UFC contests. Most of the stars I met – including Bruiser, Crusher, and Cholak – are dead now. Heenan, a throat cancer survivor, has been in poor health for more than a decade. Verne Gagne died this April; in 2009, suffering from dementia, he accidentally killed a 97-year-old fellow resident in a Minnesota assisted living facility. Even the old stomping grounds are gone: The Chicago Amphitheatre was razed in 1999.

Bob Luce passed away in 2007, but his wild-ass legacy may live on via an unlikely champion. There are many analogs between pro wrestling and rock ‘n’ roll, and this April, mat mega-fan Billy Corgan of Smashing Pumpkins announced on Twitter that he had bought Luce’s memorabilia and an archive of 9,000 vintage wrestling photos. Maybe he and former Hüsker Dü front man Bob Mould, a fellow wrasslin’ aficionado who once worked for McMahon as a writer, can make something of it. That would rock. 

[mirkwoodshewolf]

My twin brother is Spiderman!?; Peter Parker x twin sis reader

*Author’s note*

Okay so this is completely different from the last twin sister fic that I done but this one also needed to be posted up. Now in this one you are just a normal person, no special powers this time around. BUT like the other one there is SUGGESTIVE THEMES HERE, MUGGING, ATTEMPTED SEXUAL ASSAULT SO IF THAT MAKES YOU UNCOMFORTABLE, DON’T PUSH YOURSELF TO READ THIS!!!! OR IF YOU DO READ. AT. YOUR. OWN. RISK! Other than that, I hope you all enjoy this fic. My last Peter fic is coming up in just a moment.

Taglist:

@waddles03​

@psychosupernatural​

@plethora-of-things​

@ixchel-9275​

@jd-johndeacon-or-jackdaniels​

@platawnic​

__________________________________________________________

I was currently in art class working on my project when the bell soon rang and my teacher told us to wrap up our projects and get on out of here. I sealed my sculpture in plastic wrap and took off my gloves. I packed up my supplies and walked with some of my friends as we all said goodbye to our Professor.

"So will I see you at the gala tomorrow (y/n)?" asked my friend Judy.

"Unfortunately no, lately my aunt's been going crazy due to the fact that Peter's been sneaking out at late hours of the night".

"Ahh I can understand that, little brothers can be such pains, my brother Doug is the same way". She stated over dramatically.

"Tell me about it, you know I have been dying to go to that Van Gough show that's at the MET tomorrow, but all because of Peter, Aunt May won't let me go because she's worried that I'm sneaking around like Peter".

"I'm sorry (y/n), I really wish I could help you out".

"Yeah I know, well see you Monday".

"Ciao (y/n)". She then left with hopped into our other friend Frank's car and inside I noticed Alicia, Jamie, George and Jerry and Frank drove them off. I then walked up to my motorbike and got on and revved it up before speeding out of the parking lot.

Once I got home, I was immediately bombarded by Aunt May asking me if I had seen Peter at all while I was coming home. I told her that I hadn't seen him at all and that's when she went in full on panic mode and started calling five police stations begging for their help but I tried to assure her that he's probably with Ned or something and just forgot to call (as usual lately).

2 and a half hours later, as I was walking by Peter's room I heard movement going around in his room. I leaned up against the door and also heard shuffling so I immediately opened the door and there I saw my younger twin standing like a deer in headlights and boy was I livid at this moment.

"Oh hey (y/n) what's up sis?"

"What's up? What's up!? Peter you have got some serious balls to say that to me right now. Do you have any idea how worried May was about you? She barely listened to me and she's been out in the streets for a half hour now looking for you!"

"I'm—I'm sorry (y/n) I......"

"Oh sorry don't even cut it Pete". I sneered. I gripped my younger twin by the shoulder and led him out of his room and we both sat down on the living room couch while I facetimed May and showed her who was here and she immediately said she'd be over.

Now thanks to Peter the Sneaker, the two of us were officially under May arrest which meant that neither of us could leave the apartment for the entire weekend. If we wanted to go out for groceries or if we needed research at the library, then she was to be our escort and she said she would actually walk in with us like we were children to make sure we were doing on what we said we would be 'doing'.

A week later, May finally let go of our punishment and I was still pretty pissed at Peter for making me miss the Van Gough exhibit. So to punish him, I didn't once talk to him for anything and gave him the silent treatment plus the cold shoulder.

Currently I had finished my long awaited project for my art class and it was starting to get pretty dark out. I walked out of the art building and headed to the parking lot to start up by bike when suddenly I felt something push against the back of my head and a voice said.

"Give me the bike and I won't shoot you". I was frozen in fear. I slowly raised my hands up and said.

"Please you—you don't have to do this".

"Step away from the bike and hand over the keys or I will blow your brains out!" the man demanded. Before I could even do as he said, I was taken in a choke hold and forced away from my bike and tossed down onto the ground and that's when I heard the gun cock telling me it was getting ready to fire.

I tensed up and curled up into a ball begging with the guy to not kill me when the gun didn't go off.

"Didn't anyone ever tell you not to steal from girls?" another voice said. We both looked to left and there standing right underneath the street lamp of the parking lot was the famed superhero, Spiderman. I was then grabbed by the mugger and I felt a sharp blade at my neck, the cold steel ready to slice my neck open and I whimpered in fear as tears began rolling down my face.

"Well, well if it ain't the eight-legged freak spiderboy" I whimpered as the blade came closer to my skin almost nicking it.

"Spiderman actually, now I'll give you five seconds to let the girl go and you can walk away".

"Sorry shorty can't do that. And as a matter a fact, I think I may just take this girl home with me, she seems like she knows how to have a good time" the perverted mugger said as he leaned closer to my face and actually sniffed my hair which made me squirm uncomfortably but he kept the knife right at my neck and almost sliced it opened if I failed to submit to him.

"Okay first of all you're a sick pedophile, and two nobody call's me shorty!" Spiderman then flung his webs at the mugger's face which blinded him. He stepped away and as soon as I was free, I ran as far away from him as I could before Spiderman caught me in his arms and he asked me, "You okay?" shakenly I nodded and he said, "Good, come with me".

He then picked me up and took me towards another street lamp and told me not to move and just wait for him there. I agreed to his terms and I saw him race back towards the mugger and he leapt up in the air and fired some more of his webbings but some of them I've gotta say I've never seen before.

Like one web shooting he did, actually exploded beneath the mugger's feet, another one was like a taser gun which sent him down to his knees, and after getting a few good punches and kicks in, his last webbing exploded at him and trapped him in a straight-jacket like manner against the lamppost he had once stood under.

Once the fight was done, Spiderman came up to me and took me in his arms and said.

"Hold on tight". I wrapped my arms around him and he shot a web sling up and soon we went flying through the city. As we swung from building to building, he made sure to keep one protective arm around me and I held onto him by the neck. We soon came to my Aunt's apartment and he landed us safely on the rooftop and he asked me.

"There we go, safe and sound and home again, you sure you're okay?" I nearly collapsed to the ground with my adrenaline now deflated like a balloon and if it hadn't been for Spiderman, I would've collapsed to the floor. "Whoa, whoa, whoa easy, easy (y/n)". At saying my name, my head shot up as I looked at him.

"How do you know my name?"

"Wha? Ahh shit I—I mean uhh....." he sighed heavily and continued, "I guess the cat's out of the bag". He then removed his mask and there kneeling beside me was my younger twin Peter.

"P-Peter?!" I choked out.

"Yeah, guess you finally know the big secret".

"So.....all this time—those videos on YouTube of Spiderman that-that-that was you?"

"Yeah".

"How?" He then went on to explain about how nine months ago when his class went on that fieldtrip to Oscorp Industry, he got bit by a radioactive spider and he soon began developing these powers and that ever since then especially after Uncle Ben died, he vowed to try and keep the city safe. He also explained that he's an Avenger *that part I don't believe* and that all those trips on the STARK internship, were actually missions or meeting with the Tony "Ironman" Stark himself. After his story I began to try and process everything that he's told me.

"Now are you sure you're okay? I can take you to the hospital if you need—"

"No, no I'm fine Pete, really. I'm—sorry for the way I've been treating you these past few days, I thought that—with all that I've done to you....."

"Hey, you're my sister (y/n). You're more than that, you're my twin sister, my best friend. No matter what I'm always gonna be there for you, even when you get mad at me, I'll always be there like a spider on the wall". We both laughed at his pun and then I said to him.

"Thank you Peter, if you hadn't saved me back there I—I don't even want to think about what they guy would've done to me".

"You're welcome, like I said, I'll always be there for you, whether you want me to be or not". I smiled at him and embraced my younger twin and he hugged me back and the two of us sat there for a bit before heading inside.

Brothers, especially your youngest twin, they can be a pain in the butt at times but sometimes for good reasons too. While it is said to be written that the older sibling must always be there for their younger siblings, I think that it's both siblings responsibility to watch out of the other. No matter whether you're the oldest or youngest, siblings always need to watch out for each other, and even when you don't want them to, they'll always be there for you.

Sometimes in more ways than one, and I know I've got the best little twin of all. I mean what other person can say my little brother is Spiderman?! But I also know he's more to me than that, he's my twin brother Peter Parker.

[healthycoffeeguy]

Check out what I just listed on Mercari. Tap the link to sign up and get $10 off. https://item.mercari.com/gl/m17980214264/

Did you ever wish that you really understood money? Well, Dave Barry wishes that he did, too. But that hasn’t stopped him from writing this book. In it, Dave explores (as only he can) such topics as: 

• How the U.S. economy works, including the often overlooked role of Adam Sandler 

• Why it is not a good idea to use squirrels for money 

• Strategies that will give you the confidence you need to try for a good job, even though you are—let’s be honest—a no-talent loser 

• How corporate executives, simply by walking into their offices, immediately become much stupider 

• An absolutely foolproof system for making money in the stock market, requiring only a little effort (and access to time travel) 

• Surefire tips for buying and selling real estate, the key being: Never buy—or, for that matter, sell—real estate 

• How to minimize your federal taxes, safely and legally, by cheating 

• Why good colleges cost so much, and how to make sure your child does not get into one 

• How to reduce the cost of your medical care by basically not getting any 

• Estate planning, especially the financial benefits of an early death 

• And many, many pictures of Suze Orman 

But that’s only the beginning! Dave has also included in this book all of the important points from a book written by Donald Trump, so you don’t have to read it yourself. Plus he explains how to tip, how to negotiate for everything (including bridge tolls), how to argue with your spouse about money, and how much allowance to give your children (three dollars is plenty). He also presents, for the first time in print anywhere, the Car Dealership Code of Ethics (“Ethic Seven: The customer is an idiot”). Also, there are many gratuitous references to Angelina Jolie naked. You can’t afford not to buy this book! Probably you need several copies. 

What kind of financial shape are you in right now? This scientific quiz will show you. 

Be honest in your answers: If you lie, you’ll only be lying to yourself! The place to lie is on your federal tax return.

What is your annual income? 

1. More than $50,000. 

2. Less than $50,000. 

3. However much I get when I return these empties. 

Not counting your mortgage, how much money do you currently owe? 

1. Less than $10,000. 

2. More than $10,000. 

3. Men are threatening to cut off my thumbs. 

How would you describe your portfolio? 

1. Conservative, mainly bonds and blue-chip equities. 

2. Aggressive, mainly options and speculative stocks. 

3. My what? 

When analyzing an investment, what do you consider to be the most important factor? 

1. The amount of return. 

2. The degree of risk. 

3. The name of the jockey. 

How do you plan to finance your retirement? 

1. Savings. 

2. Social security. 

3. Sale of kidneys. 

—from the Introduction: “Why You Need This Book” 

"A book so funny it may be dangerous to your health." 

– Janet Maslin, New York Times 

“Read this book. It will make you laugh.” 

— Washington Post

Dave Barry has been awarded the Pulitzer Prize for commentary. His columns for the Miami Herald were syndicated worldwide, and he is the author of a number of bestselling books, including the recently publishedPeter and the Starcatchers with Ridley Pearson. He lives in Miami, where he drives very nervously.

Chapter 1 

How Money Works 

Or: Everybody Clap for Tinker Bell! 

Why is money valuable? Why are people willing to work so hard for it, lie for it, cheat for it, go to prison for it, fight for it, kill for it, give up their children for it . . . even marry Donald Trump for it? 

I mean, look at the dollar bill. What is it, really? It’s a piece of paper! What’s more, it’s a piece of paper that appears to have been designed by a disturbed individual. On one side, you have a portrait of George Washington, who, granted, was the Father of Our Country and a great leader and everything, but who looks, in this particular picture . . . 

. . . like a man having his prostate examined by Roto-Rooter. And then on the other side of the dollar you have: 

What is that about? Why is there a picture of a pyramid, instead of a structure traditionally associated with the fundamental values of the United States of America, such as a Wal-Mart? And why is the pyramid being hovered over by an eyeball the size of a UPS truck? 

Whatever the explanation, the design of the dollar would not seem to inspire confidence in its value. And yet if you drop a few dollars from an overpass onto a busy freeway at rush hour, people will run into traffic and literally risk their lives in an effort to grab them. Try it! 

What does this tell us? It tells us that people are stupid. But it also tells us that money is more than just pieces of paper. But what makes it valuable? To answer that question, we need to consider: 

The History of Money 

In prehistoric times, there was no such thing as money. When people needed to buy something, they had to charge it. And then when the bills came, nobody could understand them, because there was also no such thing as reading. This led to a lot of misunderstandings and hitting with rocks. 

The first form of money that we are aware of by looking it up on the Internet was animals. From the start there were problems with this type of money, particularly the smaller denominations, such as squirrels, which were always biting the payee and scampering away. 

By 9000 b.c., the most commonly accepted form of animal money was cattle. When you bought something, you would give the other person a cow, and the other person would give your change in calves. This was better than squirrels, but still not an efficient system. The cash registers were disgusting. 

By 3000 b.c., the Mesopotamians had invented two concepts that revolutionized economic activity: (1) writing and (2) banking. This meant that, for the first time, it was possible for a Mesopotamian to walk into a bank and hand the teller a stone tablet stating: 

GIVE ME ALL YOUR COWS AND NOBODY GETS HURT 

These robbers were captured quickly, because they had to make their getaways at very slow speeds. Still, it was clear that a better medium of exchange was needed. 

The ancient Chinese tried to solve the problem by using seashells as money. The advantage of this system was that seashells were small, durable, clean, and easy to carry. The drawback was that they were, in a word, seashells. This meant that anybody with access to the sea could get them. By the time the ancient Chinese had figured this out, much of their country was the legal property of gulls. 

And so the quest continued for a better form of money. Various cultures experimented with a number of commodities, including tea, grains, leather, tobacco, and Pokémon cards. Then, finally, humanity hit upon a medium of exchange that had no disadvantages—a medium that was durable, portable, beautiful, and universally recognized to have lasting value. That medium, of course, was beer. 

No, seriously, it was precious metals, especially gold and silver, which—in addition to being rare and beautiful—could be easily shaped into little disks that fit into vending machines. 

Before long, many cultures were using some form of gold for money. It came in a wide variety of shapes and designs, as we see in these photographs of ancient coins unearthed by archeologists: 

The problem was that gold is too heavy to be constantly lugged around. So, to make it easier for everybody, governments began to issue pieces of paper to represent gold. The deal was, whenever you wanted, you could redeem the paper for gold. The government was just holding your gold for you. But it was YOUR gold! You could get it anytime! That was the sacred promise that the government made to the people. That’s why the people trusted paper money. And that’s why, to this very day, if you—an ordinary citizen—go to Fort Knox and ask to exchange your U.S. dollars for gold, you will be used as a human chew toy by large federal dogs. 

Because the government changed the deal. We don’t have the gold standard anymore. Nobody does. Over the years, all the governments in the world, having discovered that gold is, like, rare, decided that it would be more convenient to back their money with something that is easier to come by, namely: nothing. So even though the U.S. government still allegedly holds tons of gold in “reserve,” you can no longer exchange your dollars for it. You can’t even see it, because visitors are not allowed. For all you know, Fort Knox is filled with Cheez Whiz. 

Which brings us back to the original question: If our money really is just pieces of paper, backed by nothing, why is it valuable? The answer is: Because we all believe it’s valuable. 

Really, that’s pretty much it. Remember the part in Peter Pan where we clap to prove that we believe in fairies, and we save Tinker Bell? That’s our monetary system! It’s the Tinker Bell System! We see everybody else running around after these pieces of paper, and we figure, Hey, these pieces of paper must be valuable. That’s why if you exchanged your house for, say, a pile of acorns, everybody would think you’re insane; whereas if you exchange your house for a pile of dollars, everybody thinks you’re rational, because you get . . . pieces of paper! The special kind, with the big hovering eyeball! 

And you laughed at the ancient Chinese, with the seashells. 

So what does all this mean? Does it mean that our monetary system is a giant house of cards that would collapse like, well, a giant house of cards if the public stopped believing in the pieces of paper? Could all of our “wealth”—our savings, our investments, our pension plans, etc.—suddenly become worthless, meaning that the only truly “wealthy” people would be the survivalist wing nuts who trade all their money for guns and beef jerky? 

Yes. But that probably won’t happen. Because, fortunately, the public prefers not to think about economics. Most people are unable to understand their own telephone bills, let alone the U.S. monetary system. And as long as we don’t question the big eyeball, Tinker Bell is safe. 

OK, now you know what money actually is. (Don’t tell anybody!) The next question is: How come some people have so much money, while others have so little? Why does the money distribution seem so unfair? Why, for example, are professional athletes paid tens of millions of dollars a year for playing silly games with balls, while productive, hardworking people with infinitely more value to society, such as humor writers, must struggle to make barely half that? And above all, how can you, personally, get more money? 

We’ll address these questions in future chapters,3 which will be chock-full of sure-fire, can’t-miss, no-nonsense, common-sense, easy-to-apply, on-the-money hyphenated phrases. You’ll be on your way to riches in no time! All you have to do is really believe in yourself! Come on, show that you really believe! Clap your hands!

Also, just in case, you should get some jerky. 

Why Does the Back of the Dollar Have a Pyramid and a Giant Eyeball? 

There is actually a simple explanation for these two seemingly odd symbols: 

Back when the Founding Fathers were designing our currency, they were looking for an image for the new nation, an image that would symbolize the concept of something strong and massive being watched over by something all-seeing and wise. After much discussion, what they came up with—as you have probably guessed—was a picture of an owl standing on an elephant. 

The Founding Fathers passed this idea along to the artist hired to do the engraving of the printing plates for the dollar, whose name was Phil. As it happened, the day he did the dollar, which was his birthday, Phil consumed what historians now believe was at least two quarts of whiskey, and for whatever reason—the only explanation he ever gave was “the squirrels made me”—he engraved a pyramid with a giant eyeball on top of it. Unfortunately, the Founding Fathers, who were in a hurry to get the dollar printed so they could spend it, failed to notice this until it was too late. Fortunately, however, they did catch the error on the front of the dollar, where, instead of George Washington, Phil had engraved a fish playing tennis. Otherwise we might live in a very different nation today.

[marymosley]

The Life and Legacy of John Paul Stevens

Below is my column in the Washington Post Sunday on the legacy of Supreme Court Justice John Paul Stevens. With roughly 35 years on the bench, he was the nation’s second oldest and third-longest serving justice.

Stevens will lie in repose at the Supreme Court on Monday. On Tuesday his funeral will be held and he will be buried at Arlington National Cemetery. I expect he would have preferred center field at Wrigley but this is a strong second option.

Here is the column:

After 35 years on the court, John Paul Stevens remained one of the most difficult justices to interview. Stevens was old school, and tended to avoid public speeches and discussions of his legacy. In 2010, as rumors of his retirement were spreading, I tried every angle to land an appointment. I phoned his office and invoked the fact that we were both Chicago natives who attended the University of Chicago and Northwestern. No dice. We were both die-hard Cubs fans. Nope. I finally resorted to the lowest possible approach. When I saw Stevens at a legal gathering, I told him that I doubted that Babe Ruth really “called the shot” before his famous home run, into the bleachers, off Cubs pitcher Charlie Root in the fifth inning of Game 3 of the 1932 World Series. Stevens pounced, describing what he’d seen from the stands as if it were still Oct. 1, 1932, and he was that 12-year-old kid with his dad at Wrigley.

While some claim that the Babe might not have actually been pointing but was just swinging his bat, Stevens insisted that he “was pumping the bat” at his intended destination. I immediately relented, of course, and then asked, “Okay, now how about your retirement?”

I can’t say I got anything earthshaking out of that brief conversation, but my desperate bait-and-switch was not entirely random. Stevens, as I’ve written before, was the “uncalled shot” of the Supreme Court. Entering the court as a conservative appointed by President Gerald Ford, Stevens would finish his tenure as the indisputable leader of the liberal wing. He is an example of how a jurist can find not just his voice but his vision on the court.

While most Americans may not recognize Stevens’s name, he changed this country in fundamental ways with dozens of historic rulings. Those opinions were written in direct and unadorned language. He was also crafty. As the center of the court shifted to the right, Stevens repeatedly found ways to forge majorities or avoid review in critical cases.

Born into a wealthy Chicago family, Stevens was headed for an advanced degree in English before he took a detour into naval intelligence. He joined the Navy the day before Pearl Harbor was bombed and would receive the Bronze Star for his role in a code-breaking operation that led to the downing of the plane carrying the leader of that attack, Adm. Isoroku Yamamoto. When he returned to Chicago, he opted for law school and graduated with the highest average in the history of Northwestern University School of Law .

After a clerkship with Justice Wiley B. Rutledge Jr., he turned down an offer to teach at Yale and went into private practice, specializing in antitrust law. He investigated possible corruption in the Illinois court system, a complex enterprise that led to the resignation of two state Supreme Court justices. After Watergate, Ford wanted to appoint someone to the court with impeccable ethics and unimpeachable standing in the legal profession. He chose Stevens, who succeeded the liberal stalwart William O. Douglas.

Stevens left a legacy that transcends those of all but a handful of justices, and his shift from the right to the left of the court is one of the most striking in the institution’s history. He would come to regret some of his earlier votes, such as one reinstating the death penalty (in Gregg v. Georgia, in 1976). In 1978, Stevens wrote a strong dissent against affirmative action in University of California Regents v. Bakke . Yet he would finish on the court as one of the great supporters of the practice, upholding race as a criterion in university admissions in a series of cases. He would also emerge as one of the most consistent and strongest voices supporting abortion rights, gay rights and women’s rights.

His most consequential decision may have been in Chevron U.S.A., Inc. v. Natural Resources Defense Council, Inc. (1984). There, Stevens laid out the standard for the review of agency decision-making, an opinion that would create great deference to administrative decisions. Stevens held that, when a statute is ambiguous and an agency acts, the only question courts must resolve is “whether the agency’s answer is based on a permissible construction of the statute” – a standard that largely insulates agency decisions from challenge. Chevron greatly magnified the role of agencies in U.S. governance and remains among the most-discussed court rulings.

His voice on the court became more distinctive and powerful as time went on – and this was particularly true after such towering figures as Thurgood Marshall and William Brennan left the court.

The style as well as the content of Stevens’s opinions evolved: His early decisions tended to be not just more conservative but also shorter and somewhat underdeveloped, in the vein of his appellate decisions. Years ago, Stevens and I flew to Milwaukee to speak at a judicial conference. He mentioned that he probably wouldn’t be able to attend my speech (which was frankly a bit of a relief since I was speaking about the Supreme Court). During the discussion, a judge asked about my proposal to expand the court and whether I would also support term limits for justices or mandatory retirement ages. I answered no, and said I could explain why in three words: John Paul Stevens. I said that Stevens’s early opinions were sometimes incomprehensible or incomplete, while his later opinions were profound and transformative. That is when I spotted Stevens. He later approached me with his signature grin and said, “Incomprehensible?”

The fact is that Stevens came into his own on the court. I disagree with some of his decisions – particularly one supporting sweeping eminent-domain powers ( Kelo v. City of New London , 2005). Yet he always wrote not out of hardened ideology but an innate sense of fairness, equality and inclusion.

He would truly emerge as a leading voice on the jurisprudential left a decade into his tenure. In his dissent to Bowers v. Hardwick (1986), Stevens vehemently disagreed with the upholding of a Georgia statute criminalizing sodomy between consenting adults. It was one of the worst decisions in the history of the high court, and Stevens denounced the analysis. His views would later prevail in the landmark Lawrence v. Texas (2003), which struck down anti-sodomy laws.

Stevens authored one of the most powerful defenses of the First Amendment in Reno v. ACLU (1997), writing the opinion striking down the criminalization of “indecent transmission” of “obscene or indecent” messages under the Communications Decency Act of 1996. The vagueness of the law was clearly incompatible with the guarantees of the First Amendment, and Stevens held that the law “threaten[ed] to torch a large segment of the Internet community.”

Stevens was also a critic of expansive interpretations of the Second Amendment. He wrote a stinging dissent to the decision in District of Columbia v. Heller (2008), which recognized, for the first time in U.S. history, an individual right to bear arms. He wrote a comprehensive account of the origins of the amendment and argued: “The Court would have us believe that over 200 years ago, the Framers made a choice to limit the tools available to elected officials wishing to regulate civilian uses of weapons, and to authorize this Court to use the common-law process of case-by-case judicial lawmaking to define the contours of acceptable gun control policy. Absent compelling evidence that is nowhere to be found in the Court’s opinion, I could not possibly conclude that the Framers made such a choice.”

Despite sharp disagreements, Stevens rarely used the kind of hyperbolic or dramatic language that characterized the opinions of some of his colleagues. But he was both direct and forceful in his dissent to the decision to stop the recount in Florida in the 2000 presidential election. In Bush v. Gore , Stevens warned that the court had crossed a dangerous line, putting its own legitimacy at risk. He expressed hope that “time will one day heal the wound . . . inflicted by today’s decision,” adding: “Although we may never know with complete certainty the identity of the winner of this year’s Presidential election, the identity of the loser is perfectly clear. It is the Nation’s confidence in the judge as an impartial guardian of the rule of law.”

Likewise, Stevens was ardent, in 2010, in dissenting from Citizens United v. Federal Election Commission , which struck down limits on political contributions by corporations as an unconstitutional denial of free speech. “While American democracy is imperfect,” he wrote, “few outside the majority of this Court would have thought its flaws included a dearth of corporate money in politics.”

Such opinions are like the man himself: impassioned yet direct; honest and unpretentious.

When I received the first call informing me of Stevens’s death, I was watching our Cubs play the Cincinnati Reds. I left the game on as I started to write about his exemplary life and work. The Cubs won in extra innings, with Kyle Schwarber hitting a long ball at Wrigley into the bleachers, the same area where Babe Ruth once made history in front of an awed 12-year-old named John Paul Stevens. Schwarber’s home run was no “called shot.” But some great players, like great justices, just make the play, without the fanfare or the theatrics.

is the Shapiro professor of public interest law at George Washington University.

The Life and Legacy of John Paul Stevens published first on https://immigrationlawyerto.tumblr.com/

[templeofgeek]

Artist Caleb King, sat down with us and spoke about art, cons, books, and all things Geek!

  When did you first realize you had a talent for art? 

My father wanted to be an illustrator. Growing up, I would see him draw and paint tanks, and airplanes, and World War II vehicles. I thought it was awesome watching him draw an paint. Around 1993, I met with a friend who introduced me to comics for the first time. I had heard of characters like Batman and Superman, but had never read a comic. Suddenly, I wanted to draw like that. I wanted to make characters as cool as the ones I saw on the pages of these comics. Combine that with the wonder I felt watching my father paint in watercolors for a little project he had to do, and the spark was lit. I started sketching all the time. I rarely went anywhere without a sketchbook and pencils. I would copy panels out of comics, or trading cards I collected. I started devouring anything I could find that was in the comic book realm. Flash forward several years, and I had been touring with my band for a number of years, and we were beginning to wind down our touring schedule. We had been playing 200+ shows a year, and were burning out. But through all that time on the road, all those tours, I had been sketching, and drawing. I began making up stories and creating characters, and wanting to bring them to life. I decided to use the down time from touring to go study at the American Academy of Art in Chicago. Four years later, I walked away with a BFA in Illustration, and began sketching the characters, and writing the story that would become Surreality, my first comic. So, long answer to a simple question. Ha! I guess I never really thought I had a talent for art, but I had a determination to make it happen. I work hard at my craft, and I desire to be better. I’m always chasing that elusive image in my head. Hopefully I never catch it.

  When did you realize you could take you talent and turn it into a career?

I learned in school that we need to be driven to succeed at being an illustrator. We needed to go out in search of clients, as they were extremely unlikely to come to us, especially as new artists in a market like Chicago. I had mentioned my travels with my band. I spent the years between 1998-2005 on the road with them. It started slowly, with maybe 25 gigs in a year, and then blew up into a full blown 220+ days on the road for 3-4 years solid. It was nuts. We had a tour bus with beds, television, fridge, the works. We would drive to a gig, load in and set up, play, tear down, and drive to the next gig. We slept in the bus, and had hotels for the down days between gigs. It was awesome and terrible. I saw so much of the country in those years. Met a lot of cool people. I figured out who I was on the road. Part of the gig was hanging out at our merchandise table after the show to meet fans and sign autographs. I learned how to interact with people, how to talk to them. I learned how to be a real person, and still be a professional. I learned the ropes of making a merchandise display, and a bit of retail flair. When I graduated from the Academy, I took those same skills and applied them to my convention display. I had to learn the ropes of the convention circuit, but that was easy enough. Selling CDs and t-shirts at gigs was essentially the same thing as selling illustrations at a comic con.

Were you always into geeky things?

As far as I can remember, I’ve always had a love affair with Star Wars. I’ve never known a time when I didn’t love it. My father introduced me to all kinds of things growing up. Star Wars, Star Trek, George Romero’s movies, Mad Max. The list goes on and on. I’m grateful for those things.

Which Characters/Universe do you prefer painting the most?

I tend towards drawing Star Wars characters, and the Endless from The Sandman comic series, my all time favorite comic series, by the way. I can always find something new and exciting to draw from these sources. It usually sparks my creativity to work on something original.

You’re also working on a couple books, like Verse/Chorus and Cradle, which comes more naturally for you writing or painting?

I’ve always been a natural storyteller. I’ve been making up stories since I was a kid. In a way, it’s my first artistic language, though I have had no real training as a writer. I’ve read a lot, and I still read a lot, so I feel I’ve learned by absorbing the work of other storytellers. Hopefully it informs my writing on a subconscious level as well as in a tangible way. Drawing and painting is another natural language, but one that came from more work and focus. Music/Writing/Painting, they all seem to have chosen me.

illustrated by Nicolas R. Giacondino

Tell us more about Verse/Chorus and Cradle, where did it all start, where did the vision for each come from?

Verse/Chorus is a collaboration between myself, and my good friend Nicolas R. Giacondino. Nic and I met several years before while he was working on a creator owned project with fellow creator David Pauwels called Free Mars. David and I met at a comic con in Chicago, and he had asked me to do some work on Free Mars, though that never came to fruition. What did come of that, however, was a collaboration between Nic and myself that eventually led to him being the full time artist on Surreality, and the beginning of our first creator owned project, Verse/Chorus. Nic had posted an image he created on Facebook one night that was inspired by the Guns N’ Roses song “Estranged.” I loved the image, but also loved that he and I had a common musical interest. The chatted about bands for an hour or more, and Nic then made the comment that we should make a story about a rock band in that late 80’s, early 90’s period. Almost immediately, I came up with the concept of the book: A rock band that sells their soul to the devil for fame and fortune, only to lose it, and their lives, as fast as they got it. It is slated to come out in early 2018 from Source Point Press.

Cradle is a collaboration between myself and fellow creator Andrew Day. We both love outer space. We can talk stars, planets, black holes, and all manner of heavenly objects for hours. I had this concept that is based partly upon Fermi’s Paradox, which simply asks that if the universe is teeming with life, then why can’t we see evidence of it in space? Where are the colonies? Where are the structures? We could argue about the “evidence” of alien life, but that’s not the point. I like that question. I like that concept. I also had been reading about the concept of The Great Filter: a moment in the evolution of life/a species/a civilization whereby said life/species/civilization must pass through this filter and come out on the other side, or else perish. This filter can be many things, but it is a theoretical moment that all must pass through. The reason that we don’t see evidence of life in space, as one theory states, is that the have all failed to pass through this great filter. They all died out before they could become anything. Life failed the test. Cradle takes place in the far distant future, where humanity has colonized a majority of the Milky Way. They have long forgotten Earth, and out little part of the galaxy is empty. Cradle details the last days of mankind in a universe devoid of all other life forms, save humans. They only wish they could have seen it coming.

#gallery-0-5 { margin: auto; } #gallery-0-5 .gallery-item { float: left; margin-top: 10px; text-align: center; width: 33%; } #gallery-0-5 img { border: 2px solid #cfcfcf; } #gallery-0-5 .gallery-caption { margin-left: 0; } /* see gallery_shortcode() in wp-includes/media.php */

illustrated by Nicolas R. Giacondino

illustrated by Nicolas R. Giacondino

illustrated by Nicolas R. Giacondino

You also have “Surreality” your on going web-comic, about a daydreaming slacker.  Did the inspiration for Sydney come from someone you know?

Surreality is the most personal story I’ve ever told. It is based on life experiences, fears, situations, and hopes I’ve had. All of the characters are based on aspects of my personality. Each of them are true parts of myself. When telling a story, you have to selectively edit reality, and distill it into something meaningful. It needs to flow better than reality does. I a very real and tangible manner, Surreality is my life. It’s also your life, and the lives of the readers. That. To me, is the essence of telling a tale based in reality. Most of the time I am selling copies of Surreality to people who have never heard of it before, and they are taking a chance on it. Often, they come back to me, or email me later, and tell me how personal the story seems to them. They feel like I’m writing their life. That, to me, is the power of storytelling. The power of story.

You are on the road going to a lot of cons, what do you love about con life? 

Con life is awesome. I love traveling and meeting new people, and fans. The road never truly leaves you. The community, the fellow artists, the crowd, this things are always good. I love it, even when it’s bad.

And what do you hate about it?

Con life is terrible. Con life is a lot of work. Booking shows, booking hotels, flights, managing expenses, renting cars, or arranging for transportation, etc. The actual exhibiting and selling your work is always a work in progress. I’m never truly satisfied with how my table is set up, so I’m always tweaking and re-working how I set it up. All of this distracts from, and often plays too big a role in, the development of my work. I am often basing what I’m creating around a con tour schedule, and that even dictated the content on some level. The two sides need each other, however. Without the pressure of having shows to have new work for, I might not be creating or working as hard as I am. It’s good to have pressure like that. I thrive on it, even when I dislike it.

Is there a con that you look forward to more than the others?

There are a few conventions I love attending. WonderCon in Anaheim, California is a personal favorite. The atmosphere, the crowd, the people, Disneyland (I’m a HUGE Disney nerd). It’s hard to beat. New York Comic Con, C2E2 in Chicago, and the New Orleans Comic Con, but I must confess, I go more for New Orleans than for the convention itself. Ha!

Are there any other projects you have lined up?

I’m currently finishing up some work on the Star Wars Masterwork trading card set for Topps, and continuing to work on Verse/Chorus, Surreality, and Cradle. It’s a lot of juggling, but I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Check out Caleb’s work and all updates here and Caleb’s Patreon. 

  Artist Spotlight: Caleb King Artist Caleb King, sat down with us and spoke about art, cons, books, and all things Geek!

[thechasefiles]

The Chase Files Daily Newscap 1/22/2019

Good MORNING #realdreamchasers! Here is The Chase Files Daily News Cap for Tuesday 22nd January 2019. Remember you can read full articles for FREE via Barbados Today (BT) or Barbados Government Information Services (BGIS) OR by purchasing by purchasing a Daily Nation Newspaper (DN).

UPP NOT DAUNTED BY DEFECTORS – The United Progressive Party (UPP) may now be left licking its wounds after three of its former candidates left to join the Opposition. However, the relatively young political party said it was not daunted and would continue to “build strong” and represent the interest of Barbadians. In a Facebook post the UPP, which failed to capture a seat in the last election, in which the Barbados Labour Party (BLP) took all 30 seats, said it expected that Opposition Leader Bishop Joseph Atherley would form a new political party. It was on Saturday that Atherley announced a team he said would speak on behalf of the Opposition on national issues. He stressed that the announcement was not the launch of a political party, but said that would come in due course. Maria Phillips, Bruce Hennis and Paul Forte, who ran under a UPP ticket in the last election, were part of the 13 members named among the Opposition team. The UPP described the move as an interesting one, stating that its members had the freedom of choice. “As expected, Joseph Atherley is forming a new Party. As you know Atherley contested the election under the BLP and in a surprise move crossed the floor to sit in the Opposition seat. Three of the individuals who appear in the media photograph contested the last election under the UPP banner. To the best of our knowledge and belief they have left the UPP. “The development is an interesting one for those who study politics as Barbados seeks to build a multi-party democracy. The UPP in a statement immediately after the last election gave its candidates the freedom to choose,” it said. The party, which is led by attorney-at-law Lynette Eastmond, said it would continue to build strong and continue to represent the interests of all Barbadians. “It is clear that there is a certain amount of discontent among Barbadians as they are not seeing the transparency and access which they were promised during the last election. “The UPP has made it its business to keep its channels of communication open with all parties and will continue to do so in the interest of Barbados,” the UPP added. Atherley, who was elected to the House of Assembly on a BLP ticket, formed a one-man Opposition mere days after the May 24 general election. He had named two Opposition Senators – Crystal Drakes and Caswell Franklyn, who were also named as spokespersons for the Opposition on issues of national importance. He said three more people would be added to that group of senators at a later date. His Opposition group also consists of former Solutions Barbados candidates Scott Weatherhead, Alan Springer, Irvin Belgrave, Rev John Carter and Paul Gibson. There are also Sylvan Greenidge from the Barbados Integrity Movement and lecturer Dr. Philip Corbin and Akil Daley. “This is, for me as Leader of the Opposition, a proud moment. I believe it is for our country a historic moment,” Atherley said on Saturday. (BT)

GUNS SEIZED – Less than 24 hours after Attorney General Dale Marshall announced measures to fight rising gun crime, police seized three guns and an undisclosed amount of ammunition from an illegal fete in Montrose, Christ Church. The NATION was reliably informed the operation took place in the very early hours of Sunday morning. In addition to the three revolvers and ammunition, knives and scissors were also seized and several men were detained for questioning in connection with the discovery of illegal drugs. When a NATION news team visited the area yesterday, residents said they were unaware of the incident. Stepped-up police patrols have become very visible since the upsurge in gun-related activity.  (DN)

BODY FOUND AT VAUXHALL SENIOR CITIZENS VILLAGE – Police are on the scene of another unnatural death. Initial reports indicate a woman was killed tonight at the Vauxhall Senior Citizens Village, Vauxhall, Christ Church. (DN)

UPDATE: POLICE INVESTIGATE HOMICIDE AT SENIOR CITIZENS HOME – Police have taken a man into custody for questioning as they commence investigations into the death of an elderly woman at a senior citizens home in Vauxhall, Christ Church. Police were called to the Vauxhall Senior Citizens Home just after 6 p.m. on Monday January 21 for reports that one of the residents there had been injured. Acting Senior Superintendent of Police at the Southern Division Bruce Rowe said on arrival, officers found the body of an elderly woman who had died of suspected stab wounds. “There is a person in custody assisting us with the investigation but we will not disclose any names at this time because of the fact that we have to notify family members,” Rowe said. The superintendent confirmed that the man in custody was also a resident at the home. (BT)

 BODY FOUND AT RIVER BAY – Around 5:40 p.m this evening police responded to River Bay St Lucy, where they discovered the body of an adult female. Investigations are continuing.  (DN)

POLICE CONSTABLE PASSES AWAY – On Sunday, 20 January about 8:40pm, police at Crab Hill, viewed the body of police constable Donette Cadogan, 41 years of Apartment #1, Josey Hill, St. Lucy. She reportedly complained to a sibling of feeling unwell and subsequently collapsed and died.  (DN)

TEEN MISSING AT ‘HOT POT’ – What began as a boys’ night out for three friends, turned into a night of tragedy. Teenager Lindy London, of Cottage Crescent, St George, is now missing after a trip to the popular “Hot Pot” area of the Brighton Beach in St Michael. The 18-year-old met up with his two buddies for a planned lime after his church’s evening service. The three friends, including St Auburn Blunt, of Hothersal Turning, St Michael, were enjoying the beach outing when London encountered difficulty with strong currents. He was reported missing around 8:30 p.m. on Sunday and members of the Coast Guard and Marine Unit have been searching for him since then. On Sunday as the search was underway, Blunt returned to the beach around 9 a.m. hoping for an outcome that would bring him closure before he left after 5 p.m.  (DN)

PETERS SUCCUMBS TO INJURIES – Barbados recorded its first road fatality. 24-year-old Mario Peters succumbed to his injuries around 11 p.m. last night.  Peters, was on his way home and was involved in an accident with a ZM van in front Harbour Lights on Bay Street on January 4. He leaves to mourn his three-year-old daughter, his parents and his four siblings.  (DN)

FAMILY MOURNS FOR MARIO PETERS – Gail Peters is trying to be strong for her family. But being strong is difficult after losing your 24-year-old son. In Bayville, St Michael, at the family home of the late Mario Peters, scores of family members and close friends gathered to lend support to his grieving parents, Junior and Gail Peters, who were forced to watch as their son’s life changed in a matter of seconds. “It is not an easy thing for the family,” said the deceased man’s mother, who told Barbados TODAY, “This is the first incident like this that has ever occurred in the family and we are really trying to support one another . . .” Mario’s head was severely injured when his motorcycle collided with a taxi on January 3 just outside the Harbour Lights Night Club while he and a friend were riding along Bay Street. He was knocked unconscious but remained alive and unresponsive for the next 16 days, until he quietly passed away just after 11a.m. on Sunday following days of treatment in the surgical Intensive Care Unit of the Queen Elizabeth Hospital (QEH). “We are all trying to cope with this very tragic news. It’s not a situation like he was ill and passed away. It was sudden death,” said his mother, who throughout the interview remained very composed. The grieving woman however admitted that the days following the accident had been very “traumatic” for the family, “even watching him in the condition that he was in from then,” she said. The “loving” man, a former student of Arthur Smith Primary and St Leonard’s Boys would battle for his life for more than two weeks as family and friends hoped and prayed that he would emerge from his comatose state. Although he did not, his mother told Barbados TODAY that while her son’s death was unexpected, it happened while doing what he loved. “His love was a motorcycle. At the time [of the accident] he was riding what they described as a Honda 80, a small motorcycle. But he always had a love for motorcycles,” she said. In fact, she revealed that Mario, “who could ride a bicycle, from before he could walk properly,” had proven himself a very adventurous person from a young age. “From as young as I can remember, Mario was always a person who was into activities. He always had a bicycle and by age five or six he was a member of DC Wheelers [a biker group based in the Pine, St Michael,” she said. Mario, who worked at his father’s electrical business, was said to have been very good with his hands and “could pick down and put up things very easily.” The 24-year-old father was described as having “a very strong but a loving personality,” especially for his family and his daughter, three-year-old Kamaria Peters. “He loved his daughter and I know his greatest wish would be for us to take total care of his daughter until she reaches adulthood and we are going to make sure of that,” his mother promised. Mario also leaves to mourn his three brothers – Dale, Denny, and Theo Peters along with his sister, Christiana Peters. (BT)

INFRARED THE COOL WINNER – The Caribbean’s most celebrated female trainer Liz Deane dominated the Coolmore Home Of Champions Raceday yesterday at the Garrison Savannah by delivering three winners. In the process, Deane etched her name in the history books as Sir David Seale’s Brigadier Wood gave herwin No. 600 in a stellar career. However, that feat would play second fiddle to the results of the 20th running of the Coolmore Home Of Champions Stakes And Trophy won by Infrared. The Raizman brothers’ horse, six-year-old Infrared, under jockey Jalon Samuel, brought much-needed joy to the hearts of his supporters as he easily cantered home. Ceroc and Voldemort went to the lead leaving the 1 800 metres starting point as Infrared gradually got into gear. He easily gained control midway down the homestretch first time around and opened a gap on Ceroc and Voldermort.  (DN)

PACKED OVAL – There will be bumper crowds at Kensington Oval for this week’s opening Test between West Indies and England. That’s because few tickets are left for the first three days. Barbados Cricket Association president Conde Riley said tomorrow’s opening day had already been sold out. “The demand for tickets is huge. I spoke to Cricket West Indies commercial manager Dominic Warne, who confirmed that the first day has been sold out. I can tell you that the second and third days are 90 per cent sold. I am really happy with the enthusiasm surrounding this Test match. “As you know the last Test between the two teams at Kensington, we won in three days so I am cautiously optimistic we can do well,” he said. Riley says there are thousands of British visitors here for what will be the 54th Test match at the world famous ground. (DN)

‘WI CAN DO IT’ – Defeating the third-ranked cricketing nation would be a feather in West Indies’ cap. That was the view of both Shai Hope and Kemar Roach during a media briefing ahead of tomorrow’s opening Test against Englandat Kensington Oval. Speaking at the Oval yesterday, Hope said he was aware they were viewed as having little chance of winning but were capable of doing so as long as they made the effort. “We know that we are so-called underdogs but if we play our cricket we are going to beat these guys. It’s about using my experience and trying to put my best foot forward. “I think coming off of that loss weeks before and knowing the series was at stake and what they were saying about us, we just motivated ourselves and used that as a big motivator to put up a big performance,” he said. Hope, who made his debut in Barbados back in 2015, was eager to play in front of his home crowd, including family and friends with a personal goal to make as many runs as possible to ensure the team is in a good position. (DN)

TRAIN ATTRACTION LAUNCHED – Barbados’ first train pulled out of the St Nicholas Abbey station after the last train blew its whistle 81 years ago. Approximately 100 tourists and visitors filled the three covered open air cabs earlier this morning on board the Badger, a diesel operated locomotive. Following the hour-long trip, many of the patrons said they were thrilled with the attraction and hoped to return when the steam engine will be added to the train next month. (DN)

CENTENARIAN: DROP THE GUNS - Barbados’ newest centenarian, Tabitha Maynard, is pleading with the youth to put down the guns. While celebrating her milestone yesterday at the Ebenezer Pentecostal Church in Airy Cot, St Thomas, the birthday girl made an impassioned plea for an end to the recent rise in gun violence. “I beg them to stop the shooting, put down the guns and stop the stabbing up [of] each other and turn to the Lord. It’s not worth it. Learn to live in love,” she implored. Maynard, who offered up much praise and thanks to the Lord for allowing her to reach 100 years, said Jesus was the secret to her long life. (DN)

For daily or breaking news reports follow us on Instagram, Tumblr, Twitter & Facebook. That’s all for today folks. There are 343 days left in the year. Shalom! #thechasefilesdailynewscap #thechasefiles# dailynewscapsbythechasefiles

[strainingfororiginality]

Chapter 16

Part 3

Inspiration: Angels Among Demons - Instrumental Core, Really Slow Motion

When she came out of the tent, Gus was missing.  She spun around looking for him, but he was absent.  There was only an older woman standing with her back pushed up against one of the neighboring tent’s posts as she lit the cigarette that dangled loosely from her mouth.

She was easily in her 60’s, not necessarily thin, at least 4 inches taller than Dawn and most of her hair was gray while the rest was raven black.  She was dressed practically and modern, sporting loose jeans, boots, a blue cotton undershirt and a plaid button up flannel pulled over it.  She took a deep puff of the tobacco before finally speaking, “Your friend went to get something to eat with George.  He’ll be fine.”

Dawn was notoriously bad when it came to meeting new people and rather than trying to introduce herself like a normal person might, she simply stood there and glared at the woman quietly.  The guards seemed to be gone from the front of the tent as well and the woman noticed her survey for them quickly.

“Eh, that was mostly for show.  Jack and Bill went to get dinner too.  You hungry too?  We’ve got plenty.”  Dawn shook her head and the woman smoked a few more times as she stared and waited to Dawn to say something … anything.

“Talk to her.  Do something.  Say something.”  Hathų urged, but Dawn would not comply.

“Well, I’m Star Giver … Or Barb.  I think I prefer Barb.”  She thrust a hand out and Dawn took it and shook it strongly.  “Good grip.  I like that.”

“My name is--”

“D-.”  Hathų urged again.

“Dawn.”

“UGH.  Why do you keep--”

Dawn’s frustration with being told what to do by everyone abruptly hit a breaking point and in her mind she pushed Hathų away forcefully as the voice went silent mid-sentence.

Uh oh.

“Well, it's nice to meet you.”  She shifted back and forth, obviously unsure which way she wanted to go, but finally pointed back the direction that they had originally been led through the tents, “Let's go for a walk then.”

Dawn considered staying there as Quinlan had instructed.  ‘Do not wander off.’  His words replayed in her mind.  Psh … she said to herself.  She can take care of herself, right?  The gun was still stuffed into her jeans and she had her baton.  Also, she did save everyone of them just now.  The lady seemed nice and she shrugged.  Why not.

“Sure.”  Dawn followed beside her for a ways and at one point, the woman blew smoke towards her and the Poet waved it out of her face.  She hated cigarette smoke and she had to resist with every ounce of self control she possessed from pulling it out of the woman’s mouth and stomping it out.  The woman took note of her exaggerated and annoyed action.

“Yeah, I know.  Coffin nails, right?  Nasty habit.  I gave it up years ago … but seeing as everything is going to shit, I figured what the hell.”  Fair enough.

She opened the flap on a seemingly nondescript tent and held a hand out for Dawn to enter it, tying it shut securely from the inside before she stamped out the remainder of her cigarette in the dirt and joined the small woman within.

“What’s this about?”  Dawn pressed, noticing they were completely alone.

“Just a quick chat.  We haven’t gotten visitors here since … ever.”  She smiled and waved to a spot on the ground covered with folded blankets.  Seems like they were out of chairs unfortunately and Dawn sat down quickly, crossing her legs Indian style before she had a minor panic attack of whether that was insensitive and uncrossed her legs immediately.

The old woman sat down clumsily, trying to ease her old frame down before giving up mid movement and letting herself just fall the rest of the way.  She fished another cigarette from her pocket and Dawn cringed until she realized it wasn’t a cigarette at all, but a rolled joint and Barb raised her eyebrows to her, “You mind?”

Dawn shook her head, “Go for it.”  Barb smiled and sparked the herb, taking a long and deep huff of it.  Dawn took the moment to ask the first question, “So, who are you guys?  Why are you here?”

“Me?  Or all of us?  Cause, I’m not really sure anymore.  The shit hit the fan and I was livin’ in Bangor.  By the time I got back down here, the tribe was already hit pretty rough with the feeders.  My mom was the Deer Clan Mother.  She didn’t make it past the second week, they say.  So here I am.”

“I’m sorry.”  Dawn offered her condolences and the woman shrugged it off as she offered her the joint.  “I really shouldn’t.”  Dawn shook her head.  It probably wouldn’t be the best if she was getting high right now.  She could just imagine the lecture now and suddenly the thought of being defiant trumped any amount of reason that crossed her brain.

“There ain’t no judgements here.”  She smiled and Dawn stared at the little rolled paper before grabbing it and inhaling from it.  She was gonna be in so much trouble.  She could just feel it.  Some part of her smiled about it as she replayed his words in her head: ‘Do as I instruct.’  Psh.  She took another dragging breath of it while the woman continued to talked.

“It ain’t that big a deal.  We hadn’t talked in years and years.  I wasn’t big on tradition, you know.  Keep it in the family, protect the lake, secure the Fire, blah blah.  Someone always tellin’ you what to do.”  Dawn nodded eagerly with understanding.  “You grow up on stories, you know.  And in this day in age, you don’t believe them anymore.”  They passed the smoking herb back and forth regularly now.

“Yeah, and then BAM.  Vampires right in your face.”  Dawn chuckled.

“Exactly … Exactly.”  Barb stared into the ember of the joint as she flicked ash free from it, “Vampires, Thunders, People bein’ given animal powers and shit … weird shit … ya know.  Like … A white woman showin’ up, speakin’ an almost dead language type of weird shit.  You know there are less than 100 people in the world that speak our language?”  Dawn gulped at the revelation this was an interrogation, “I imagine it's much less than that now.  Most of the elders are already gone, after all.”

“I…” She offered Dawn the herb again and Dawn shook her head, suddenly uncomfortable.

“Come on.”  She shoved it into Dawn’s hand and smiled, “We’re just havin’ a friendly conversation, right?”  Barb spoke the language now to Dawn and she only returned wide eyes to her.

“I… “  Shit, why did she have to push Hathų away!?!  Dawn shook her head, “I’m sorry … I don’t actually speak your language.”

Barb blinked at her, “That’s not what Three Paws said.”  She toked and handed the joint back to the short woman, who reluctantly took it and inhaled deeply.  Her head had started to swim a bit finally and she found herself staring into the dirt below, almost getting lost in her thoughts momentarily.

“I … “  Fuck.  “It wasn’t me … it was my genii.”

“Your genie?  Like the one we got in the tent over there?!”  The woman stared at her with shocked bewilderment.

“No no no.  Not like him.  No.  My guardian spirit.”  Dawn flushed suddenly as she realized she’d never quite verbalized it like that before.  Those were the words that Quinlan had used and this was the first time she’d ever talked about it without feeling like she was CrAzY.  He had told her not to be ashamed and god damn … that felt good.

The thought of his words shook something loose in her fogged mind as she abruptly remembered.  Oh god, Quintus.  What was she doing here?  What if that Djinn was hurting him?  Why had she just walked away?!  Oh god, she’s gotta get back.  Dawn tried to scramble to her feet quickly as her high-driven paranoia seemed to grab control of her consciousness.  “I should get back.”  She said hastily.

“Hey … everything is cool.  We’re just chattin’  Your friend is fine.  Two Thunders isn’t gonna hurt him ... I don’t think.”  She waved for Dawn to reclaim her seat on the tent floor and she did.

“Psh, I doubt that guy could take Quintus.”  She mused to herself quietly as calmness slowly set back in.

Another puff.  “So what did you do before everything went to shit?”  Dawn asked, trying to divert the conversation and Barb laughed.

“To the Iroquois, I was a dream guesser, but after I left, I joined the force, eventually became a detective … retired now though.  Well, was retired.”  For some reason that made total sense as Dawn laughed out loud and the woman was pleased with her amusement of it.  “You?”

She thought about how to answer that question.  Was there simply one word that could absolutely describe her and what she had been?  Had she been so completely two dimensional before all this?  No, not really, but it was so strange that society focused one’s entire character and purpose as being definable by an occupation.  She hesitated in answering, but finally complied, being as generic as possible, “I was a scientist.  But … retired now.”

Barb nodded and considered her next words briefly with a pause before she spoke, “So, if your spirit isn’t a Thunder, what is it then?”

Damnit.  She wished she hadn’t dismissed Hathų now.  Should she tell her that her spirit was Iroquoian?  Should she trust this woman at all?  “She said she was a woman.”

“Was?”

“She died a long time ago.”  She shrugged as she took the tiny piece of the joint for one final inhalation as the woman stared at her with shocked and big eyes.

“You …”  Barb paused first, then continued, “You speak for the dead, child?”

That was an interesting way to put it, but perhaps that was accurate?  “I guess so?  But only that one.  I can’t just pick and chose.”  Dawn laughed.  “Although, that would be pretty cool.”  She considered who she would want to channel if she had the choice.  Hmmm … Freddy Mercury?  Hell yeah.  Her head swam in growing fogginess over the thoughts that playfully danced across her mind and she had nearly forgotten she was still talking to the woman until she spoke again.

“There were stories of a woman of our tribe who could do the same.  But she only spoke to her ancestor, the Great Peacemaker.  She was the last prophet the Great Spirit gave us before we were pushed from our lands.”  Barb thought for a moment in silence as Dawn watched her carefully, “Her name was …”

She couldn’t hear all of the sounds that flooded out of the older woman’s mouth next, but she knew she didn’t need to.  She recognized just a piece of it, a potent piece of it, and she felt her mouth drop open a bit at it, “Hathų’”.

Barb finished up the rolled piece of paper and snuffed it out in the dirt, putting the roach into her pocket as she continued, “She Who Hears her Ancestors.”

Dawn squinted at the woman as she gulped the word, “Ancestors? … you said she was a … prophet?”

“Yup.  That’s the story, at least I think.  I didn’t pay much attention to be honest.”

“But … what does that mean?  Prophet?”

“Well, to the Iroquois, there is no greater divinity than the Dream.  Prophets were given visions of the future by The Great Spirit through them.”  Barb stood and visited a small table on the side of the tent, returning with a bottle of water which she opened, and unfortunately for her, shared with Dawn.

She had no idea how thirsty she actually had been and she drank nearly the entire bottle greedily, before she wiped her mouth, giving it back as she apologized, “Sorry.”

“S’okay.  I got plenty.”  She sat back down and looked at Dawn carefully as she asked, “So, tell me Dawn.  How is it that your dead lady speaks Onondagan?”

She ignored her question entirely as she was actually eager to talk about the previous subject, “Dreams?  And these dreams can be prophetic?”

Barb cocked her head to the right as she stared at the wide eyed woman, “Are you havin’ dreams, Dawn?”

Dawn nodded.

“What’re you dreamin’ about?”

Dawn whispered, “Four snakes.”

Michael stepped back into form in his office and he paced for a moment as the suffocating gravity of the real situation began to set in.  He closed his eyes and called his brother forth.  It was mere seconds before Raphael had knocked and now stood before him.

Michael was grave, “Tell Gabriel to prepare them for battle.”   He could have called for Gabriel directly, but he did not wish to see the smug look on his little brother’s face when he told him that he had been right all along.

“Brother?”  The sudden revelation shocked his little brother and Raphael pushed for a reason, “Why now?  I felt the travel.  What has occurred?”

“The humans are losing this battle.”

“But, I thou--”

“DID I STUTTER, RAPHAEL?”  Michael was in no mood for his brother’s inquisitiveness and Raphael shook his head in response.  “Then tell Gabriel.  We march on Earth in three days time.”

The order was accepted and Michael found himself alone again, as he slid down into his favorite chair, he placed his head in his hands in sad defeat.  It was all coming apart now.  His self-inflicted misery was suddenly cut short by a tiny knock at the door.  Had Raphael come back for more questions?!  GOD DAMN IT.

“WHAT IS IT NOW!?”  He screamed as the door creaked open and his favorite brown eyes in existence stared back at him.  What?!?  What was she doing here?!  She should not be visiting him like this!  His eyes flew wide with concern as she stepped in, closing the massive door behind her before she started to sneak over to him.

“What are you doing here?!?”  He stood up as soon as the door shut and rushed to her side.  He had never quite seen her face as … guilty as this.  She never felt guilt about any of her actions, regardless of what they were.  “You should not be here!”

“I know … I know.”  She placed a hand on his chest to calm his growing fire and she looked up at him with the fakest smile he’d ever seen out of her, “But, it's important.”

“What is it?”  His concern was only growing with her reluctance to be candid.

“Ok.  Ok.  But first … You must promise you won’t get mad?”  She put on her most adorable smile next.

Quinlan quite liked him, actually.  He’d never met another that was so like-minded in militaristic tactics.  He stared at this demon for a moment and then caught himself.  If this man was a demon, then so was he.  No, he was not a man exactly, but he was not evil.  He was exalted; he was different, just like Quinlan.

“كم قوية أنت؟”

(How many strong are you?)  Quinlan asked, staring at the board that they had just readjusted for the fourth time.

“ما يقرب من ستمائة، ولكن نصف فقط من الذي أنصح المعركة. بقية قديمة جدا أو صغيرة جدا.”

(Roughly six hundred, however only half of which I would recommend for battle.  The rest are too old or too young.)

“وكيف كبير هو الجيش الأفعى حاليا؟”

(And how large is the Snake army currently?)  The Snake seemed to be Barqan’s terminology for his Father, so he followed suit with using the name to ease communication.

“أقدر ما لا يقل عن عشرة آلاف أضعاف هذا العدد. رغم ذلك، من المرجح حتى الآن.”

(I estimate at least a ten thousand fold as many.  Though, likely far more.)

Quinlan found himself gawking at that revelation and then he realized it was indeed likely true.  The Master had taken most of New York under his control and that city was massive.

“لقد ... لم يفز مع هذه الصعاب.”

(I have … never won with such odds.)  He admitted to the man and Barqan laughed as he slapped his shoulder with impressive force.

“لا؟ أبدا لقد قاتلوا معي بعد ذلك!”

(No?  You have never fought with me then!)

“ولكن، هل من الممكن؟”

(But, is it even possible?)  Quinlan thought not.  They had been using guerilla tactics and keeping the monsters at bay and confused.  Leading them around and away from their target location, which Barqan had already admitted to him, was exactly where he thought: The Frozen Lake.

“انا لا اظن ذلك. ولكن الهدف ليس الفوز. ذلك هو تأخير. لقد دعوت الآخرين.”

(I do not think so.  But the goal is not to win.  It is to delay.  I have called the others.)

Quinlan cocked his head.

“الآخرين؟”

(Others?)

“نوع بي.”

(My kind.)

“لا أعتقد أنها موجودة لفترة أطول.”

(I do not think they exist any longer.)  Quinlan shook his head as he thought he was breaking terrible news to the Black King.  If Djinn still existed, then he would have surely seen them at some point in his lifetime but Barqan laughed wildly at this.

“يوجد؟ يا الأمير، ونحن تزدهر!”

(Exist?  Oh Prince, we flourish!)

“ولكن، لم يسبق لي أن رأيت آخر ... مثلك.”

(But, I have never seen another … like you.)

“وأود أن لا يتصور ذلك. نحن جيدة جدا في الاختباء، و... ويمكنني أن تشعر بأنك القادمة بعد ميل واحد، طفل من الثعابين. إذا لم يكن بد لي أن مساعدة هؤلاء الناس، وأود أن فروا بالتأكيد. عدد قليل جدا تشعر كما تفعل.”

(I would not imagine so.  We are quite good at hiding, and … I could feel you coming a mile away, child of snakes.  If I was not bound to help these people, I would have surely fled.  Very few feel as you do.)

“كما أفعل؟ ماذا يوجد هناك أيضآ؟”

(As I do?  What else is there?)  Quinlan pondered.

“في البداية، اعتقدت لك أن تكون سيرافيم. هل نصفق مثل الوليدة النار الطيور. أستطيع أن أشعر الشرارة التي تحرق في دمك حتى من هنا.”

(At first, I believed you to be Seraphim.  You rumble within like a fledgling Hennu.  I can feel the spark that burns in your blood even now.)

“وهي؟ ماذا قالت أشعر؟”

(And her?  What did she feel like?)  Quinlan gently brushed the subject and Barqan ignored his prod entirely, shifting the subject back to his mentioned kin.

“سيأتي آخرون.”

(Others will come.)

“حتى متى؟”

(How long?)

“ليس لدي أي فكرة. دعوت لهم قبل أسابيع. ولكن أردنا أن يصمد لدينا في الوقت الراهن.”

(I have no idea.  I called them weeks ago.  But we are to hold our ground for now.)  Barqan waved to the figurines on the map and Quinlan pursued it again, moving a group across to another spot.

“آه، ولكن هذا من شأنه أن يترك البوابة الشرقية المكشوفة.”

(Ah, but this would leave the Eastern gate exposed.)

“كان هناك نسيم الغربي المستمر ولطيف على الرغم من. يمكننا استخدام ذلك لجلب المزيد من النار.”

(There has been a constant and gentle western breeze though.  We can use that to bring more fire.)

“كنت ترغب في بإضرام النار في الأرض بأكمله؟ ولكن إذا كان لا يستمر؟ يجب نحرق أنفسنا إلى رماد.”

(You wish to set the entire land ablaze?  But if it does not continue?  We shall burn ourselves to ash.)

“لقد كان دائما حظا سعيدا مع الريح يجري على جانبي. ويمكن أن يكون حليفا مفيدا.”

(I have always had good luck with the wind being on my side.  It can be a useful ally.)  Quinlan shrugged as he pursed his lips together, biting the inside of his mouth as he considered other strategies.

He looked over to the Djinn now, noting that they were exactly the same height.  Though this man was obviously more muscular, Quinlan had already determined by pinning him against the tent post that he was still stronger and faster.

“ولعل الرياح يحب لك، المحرمة الأمير.”

(Perhaps the wind likes you, Forbidden Prince.)

He was unsure if he liked the new nickname or not, but it was quite different than what others usually called him.  The only other to call him Prince had been Ancharia.

“أو ربما أنها تخشى لي.”

(Or perhaps it fears me.)  Quinlan corrected and Barqan laughed at this.

“ثم تكون الرياح الذكية جدا.”

(Then the wind is quite smart.)

“فإنه قد عمل. أنا يمكن أن تساعد على ... مباشر ... الحرق.”

(It may work.  I can help to … direct … the burn.)

“يمكنك التحكم في النار؟”

(You can control fire?)  It seemed like a stupid question after it had escaped Quinlan’s lips, considering the man was inside of the fire after all.

"أنا يمكن أن تحفز ذلك. يمكنني أن أقترح عليه. أنا Eshim الأمير. أنا النار."

(I can motivate it.  I can make suggestions to it.  I am Eshim, Prince.  I am The Fire.)  Barqan laughed and nodded in agreement, leaving the Eastern Gate exposed for now.

Once they had pushed the pieces around in such a way that pleased him, Quinlan walked around the tent for a moment, staring at the small box first as an idea crept across his mind.

“هل هذا فضة؟”

(Is this silver?)

He picked it up and he noticed Barqan’s immediate nervousness as the dhampir handled it.

“رقم والصلب و...”

(No.  It is steel and … )

Quinlan opened it, immediately able to see and smell that the inside was lined with brass.  He understood at once the sudden onset of anxiety from the Marid.  This was his weakness and now Quinlan knew.

“نحاس.”

(Brass.)  Quinlan said and nodded.  Shame.  They needed another such cell for his Father’s worm after all.  He continued his perusal of the tent, looking at the animals that had been sacrificed and strung up.  Their dripping blood caused him to twitch suddenly and he sneered at his clear show of weakness, keeping his back to the Black King.

“أنت جياع، الأمير.”

(You hunger, Prince.)

“انا لست.”

(I do not.)  Quinlan lied.

“أستطيع أن أشعر عطشك من هنا.”

(I can feel your thirst from over here.)  Barqan laughed at his attempt at deceit.

“هل تستهلك الدم؟”

(Do you consume blood?)

“انا لست.”

(I do not.)

“ماذا بعد؟ ما يفعله الجوع الكريمة ل؟”

(What then?  What does your kind hunger for?)

“نحن لا المباركة مع الجوع الدنيوي. ومع ذلك، وأود أن لا ترفض حب امرأة أخرى. وكان أن وقتا طويلا.”

(We are not blessed with earthly hunger.  However, I would not refuse the love of a woman again.  That has been a long time.)

Quinlan turned to him and he found Two Thunders smiling sadly back to him, showing his brilliant white teeth as he clearly reminisced something pleasant in his mind.  Quinlan found himself grinning back.  Indeed.

“هناك نساء هنا. أنا متأكد من أنها سوف ... يعوضك.”

(There are women here.  I am sure they would … compensate you.)

Barqan laughed heartily for a moment.

“في حراسة المرمى من النار؟ كنت لا تعرف النساء هنا. هم متحديا جدا لهذا الغرض. هل تعلم أنهم هم قادة هذا الشعب العظيم؟”

(The Keepers of the Fire?  You do not know the women here.  They are too defiant for that use.  Did you know they are the leaders of these great people?)  Barqan was surprised by his own words.  He definitely came from older times.

“مؤسف بالنسبة لك، ثم.”

(Pity for you then.)

“لكن لا. حتى لو لم تكن كذلك. أنا لست بشرا. جسدي لا ببساطة ... يستجيب هذا القبيل ... بسهولة جدا.”

(But no.  Even if that were not so.  I am not human.  My body does not simply … respond like that … very easily.)  Barqan shook his head at the dhmapir’s suggestion.

His words would have been confusing to any man, but Quinlan understood them somewhat. While part of him was tempted to ask what exactly it meant, the other part did not wish to continue on with this subject given his own performance issues over the last four centuries.  So he simply nodded, turning back to the animals and staring into their blood bowls.

(You are our guest.  If you desire the blood, take your fill.  I will have more brought.)  Barqan offered him as he carefully watched Quinlan from across the tent.  Being this close to so much open blood was nearly maddening as he starved within for it.

“رقم الدم الحيوان لا ... تتفق معي. ومع ذلك، أعرب عن تقديره للعرض.”

(No.  Animal blood does not … agree with me.  However, the offer is appreciated.)  Quinlan placed his hand on his chest as he bowed his head towards the Black King.  He was now close enough that he could see the Enochian symbols that lined the bowls, and his intrigue grew.

“كيف يعمل؟”

(How does it work?)

“الدم؟”

(The blood?)

“السحر. كيف يمكن أن يكون لك جعلتهم أكثر من الرجال؟”

(The magic.  How is it that you made them more than men?)

“ومن الاقتراض، الأمير. فقد العالم هذه المعرفة منذ أن كان ... بعيدا؟”

(It is The Borrowing, Prince.  Has the world lost this knowledge since I have been … away?)

“على مايبدو.”

(Apparently so.)  Quinlan nodded.  Yes, he recognized it now.  The symbol in the bottom of the bowl was the Seal of Borrowing.

“كل ما في وسعنا حروق من خلالنا في دمائنا. لقد اقترضت من البرية وغرست هذه السلطة بدماء هؤلاء الناس.”

(All of our power burns through us in our blood.  I have borrowed from the wild and infused that power with the blood of these people.)

“يمكنك أن تفعل ذلك مع أي رجل؟”

(Can this be done to any man?)  Quinlan asked as he looked back to the Djinn.

“رقم كان هؤلاء الناس الهدايا المقدمة. وقد جعلوا لتكون خاصة.”

(No.  These people have been given gifts.  They have been made to be special.)

“في أي طريق؟”

(In what way?)

“قدمت فيها القبض عليه من قبل Hinon. وكانت عشيرة من تسعة وأعطيت كل هذه المواهب لتمرير على أطفالهم.”

(They were made receivable to it by Hinon.  They were a clan of nine and each was given this talent to pass onto their children.)

Quinlan felt a twitching in his hand as he gripped it tightly to avoid revealing the shaking of the limb to his companion.  The hunger tremors had started and he sighed.

“لذلك، دمهم حروق بدماء هذه الحيوانات؟”

(So, their blood burns with the blood of these animals?)

“كثير جدا هكذا. وسوف تستمر طالما أقف. وسأقف طالما أستطيع.”

(Very much so.  It will last as long as I stand.  And I will stand as long as I can.)

“هل هناك أي هنا الذين لا ... الملوث؟”

(Are there any here who are not … tainted?)

Barqan understood the root of his question as he said he could feel his hunger and the Marid shook his head in slow disappointment.

“لا، الأمير. لقد غرست جميعا هنا بالفعل. الوحيد الذي لا يشوبه هي تلك التي جلبت معك. إذا وجدت الحيوانات مقيت، ثم يجب أن تجد الغذاء في أماكن أخرى.”

(No, Prince.  I have already infused all here.  The only who are not tainted are those you brought with you.  If you find beasts distasteful, then you must find nourishment elsewhere.)

Quinlan sighed again as he looked down to his hand which had finally ceased its uncontrollable rattle and he considered things again.  If he did not drink, he would get weaker faster.  If he did drink this blood, then he could halt his impending weakness where it was and stave it off for another day or two at the most.

Regardless, he needed to find human blood if he wished to remain strong and useful.  Perhaps the redheaded Doctor might turn out to be useful after all.  He turned to the blood and picked up the bowl under the bear, cringing as he drank.  Animal blood made his stomach uneasy to say the least and actually caused him to be uncomfortably bloated.

Grotesque.

When he was finished, he cringed yet again and considered that it hadn’t been enough and he took the deers bowl next while Barqan watched in silent fascination.

“كنت لعن من الدم، تماما كما صانع بك.”

(You are cursed of blood, just as your maker.)

Indeed.  For the first time since he fought earlier, he felt clearer.  It had taken more out of him than he cared to admit and now his senses sharpened again suddenly as he realized … he couldn’t hear anyone standing outside the tent any longer.

Damnation!

Barb simply stared at her, not willing to part with any words for quite some time, until finally, “And you are cut free and this black snake catches you and transforms you?”

She kept going back to that part and Dawn would nod, “Yeah. Yeah.”

“And there is a crimson and silver snake?”

“Yes.  And the fourth one.”  How many times did she have to repeat this?  “Does it mean anything?”

“And this man you came with … you said he is the black snake?”

“Yes.”  Oh for heaven’s sake.  “Does it mean anything?  You said dreams are--”

“You’re pullin’ my chain, right?” Her skepticism ran high as she raised her eyebrow to the short woman, “This is a joke?”

Dawn blinked and she thought maybe they both had smoked too much.  It was a stupid dream, wasn’t it?  Yes, it was a stupid dream.  She grabbed and inhaled from the joint Barb offered her.  The older lady had sparked up another one after she looked troubled when Dawn had first started to recant the dream tale.  “I wasn’t trying to, no.  I’m sorry.”

Barb sighed and looked down to the ground.  “Alright. Cause.  You see … there is a dream prophecy among my people, child.  One that we believed had already come to pass.  One that the Great Peacemaker himself saw … one with a red, white, and black snake.  With a white woman and a powerful Iroquoian child who would bring peace.”

Dawn stared at the woman as she took another puff.  Huh … that sounded a lot like her dream.

Barb looked at her carefully, “What did you say your last name wa--”

The tent’s frame swayed suddenly as the door was ripped opened from the outside and Quinlan stepped through suddenly.  Uh oh.  Dawn’s eyes flew wide as she threw the joint to the ground attempting to hide it suddenly and she tried to stumble up to her feet as he spoke harshly to her.

“I told you not to wander off!!!”  His brows were furrowed while his words were rushed as well as angry and his hood was off which made Barb gasped suddenly, “Ok.  Black Snake.  I got you now.”

“Who are you?”  He spat at the older lady and Dawn put herself between them quickly, while she tried desperately to hold in a giggle.  Don’t laugh.  Don’t do it.

“Barb, Quinlan … Quinlan, Barb.  She’s a Clan Mother.  She just had a few questions.”  She looked at him with her own furrowed brows as she mentally struggled with acting normal.  He finally halted his glare towards the woman, taking notice of her and sniffing slightly while staring down into her eyes.  Dawn looked away, but she already knew it was too late.

Shit.

Quinlan grabbed her jaw gently as he tilted it up allowing him to see into her eyes better and he sniffed the air again, “Are you … are you intoxicated???”

Uh oh.

“No.”  She meekly lied before furrowing her brows at him, “Is that blood on your mouth?”

[fiartrialforhebert-blog]

Fair Trial for Hebert

My wife Carol Hebert, disappeared in the evening of April 11, 2001. Her body was discovered the following afternoon, miles away, in the trunk of her own car. There were only minimal clues at the car location, but the first detective at the scene mis-read scant clues (which had been altered by passers—by) and ordered “the husband” to be arrested, although he didn’t even know if there was a husband. Voila. Case closed. Right?

I loved my wife very, very much, never more than when she was killed. She was the finest person I ever met and I loved her life more than my own. I did not murder her.

After the initial detective’s rush to judgment, every other police officer assumed the first detective’s impression was correct——and therefore they had a license, even a duty, to focus entirely on convicting me while purposely ignoring other clues and information which would almost surely have led to the actual perpetrator. They made up and/or slanted facts, testimony and physical evidence, and lied under oath themselves. In connivance with prosecutors Kerri Lombardi and Stephanie Villafuerte (from your Denver District Attorney’s Office), police tampered with, coerced, suborned, lied to, and intimidated witnesses into false testimony for the prosecution.

The case was assigned to the corrupt and now—discredited detective Martin E Vigil. To discover what kind of policeman he was, go to: www.westword.com/…/how-to-convict-a-fourteen-year-old-of-a-… (he is currently the target of a 30 million dollar law suit Montoya v. Vigil because of his abusive tactics), or merely ask some of your agency’s employees who schemed with him such as Lombardi, VillaFuerte and D.A. Investigator Jeff Watts.

In December of 2001, my arrest was determined in Denver District Court to have been illegal as it lacked probable cause, But by that time, the prosecution team had contrived a mass of false physical evidence, false civilian testimony, misrepresentations of forensic evidence, and a completely false case theory to bring to a jury.

The prosecution had no eyewitnesses, no direct evidence, no history of violence (or even arguing), no motive (as they admitted to the jury) and no murder weapon. However, through artful and carefully rehearsed (but purposely misleading) presentation of false evidence, the prosecution team created a crime scenario which was persuasive even though they knew it to be untrue.

Prosecutor Villafuerte and detective Vigil concocted testimony for a particularly important witness, and then coached his false delivery. I had never seen him before and I was astonished as the prosecution used his perjury to put a “murder weapon” (which was never found) in my hand, and to establish the necessary element of premeditation by saying I had planned and practiced with “that gun” for six weeks prior to my wife’s death. The jury found me guilty with only a little hesitation and I was immediately sentenced, at the age of 60, to life in prison without parole. Why was this witness so cooperative?

In all the years since, I have waked up every day and worked in every way possible toward getting a court to grant a new (and fair) trial or at least an evidentiary hearing. I was not able to find out, until 2007, what Denver police discovered on September 10, 2003, just ten weeks after my trial: their key witness was a serial murderer, kidnapper, robber, burglar, and rapist. Even as he testified against me at my trial, he had victims secretly buried at various locations where he had transported them around Colorado—including two in the backyard garden of his Denver residence.

Since my trial, I have been represented by lawyers of uneven skills (but uniform relentless expense) to take various motions into district court, appeals court, State Supreme Court, federal district court, 10th Circuit Court–and back down—-etc., etc. I have been trying to simply get an evidentiary hearing where I can present the evidence that will prove my trial was no more than a two week exercise in prosecution—produced violation of the U.S. Constitution’s guarantee of Due Process of law for every accused person.

The key witness quietly pleaded guilty (in a deal crafted by the same prosecutors who had created his perjury then used it so effectively against me) in 2004 to some old unsolved Denver murders and was sentenced to multiple life terms. Neither the Denver District Attorney prosecutors, nor the Denver police, nor the sentencing judge (R. Michael Mullins, who had also presided over my trial) bothered to volunteer this shocking momentous news to me or to any of my defense team as they are ethically obliged to do by the U.S. Supreme Court’s guidance in Imbler v. Pachtman, n. 25.

It took me years of active searching before I learned his actual background and his location (in a different section of the same prison as I was in), and he has happily since bragged and laughed about killing numerous more people, including my wife.

I can now prove all these facts (see www.fairtrialforhebert.com for details) but Colorado courts are purposely precluding me from receiving any hearing (let alone a new trial). The judges who have received my various post—trial pleadings have gone to craven and deceitful lengths to avoid any examination of the facts and merits of my case but have instead found technical or procedural grounds to deny relief on a basis other than the argument that was presented to them. In my latest appeal, Court of Appeals Judge Hawthorne dreamed up a new procedural rule on which to deny. He decided that my (then) lawyer made mistakes in her 2008 motion to vacate and those mistakes would forever prevent me from a right to a hearing—even though the rule she violated didn’t exist in 2008. As for the substantial newly discovered evidence found after 2008, including the numerous confessions by the key witness/secret serial murderer to having been actually responsible for my wife’s death? Judge Hawthorne ruled with exquisite logic that such evidence gathered from 2009 through 2014 should have been included in the 2008 motion.

Because of all the foregoing information and the many more details to be found in www.fairtrialforhebert.com, I think everybody except some insane people and judges would agree that my case should be immediately reviewed and examined in great depth by your agency’s equivalent of George Brauchler’s Conviction Review Unit. And of course if you have not yet created such a unit, I hope that when you do so my case will, by the egregiousness of the prosecutorial misconduct involved, be the very first to receive your full consideration.

I have been struggling to obtain a fair hearing for a long time. I am now an old man. I continue this fight because I want to be able to go and sit for a while beside my wife’s grave.

[accidental-memory]

A timeline of every original Facebook post I’ve made that uses the word “war.”

== 15.March.2012 ==

Complete nonsequitor, but the next time someone says that there is a war on Christmas, I will gladly point out that we didn't start this war but we're winning it.

== 29.March.2012 ==

I would like to put something in context. I was a 9/11 Truther for a period of about two months. During that two month stint, I thought that there was sufficient documentation and evidence to point the finger squarely at the US government and say, "You did this; you killed thousands of your own citizens to bolster support for war." And at that time, the thought of someone being willing to go to those lengths to get what they wanted was the most dispicable thing I had ever heard.

Obviously since then I have read, listened to, and watched the evidence provided by the scientific community that soundly trounces the conspiratorial claims of the Truthers and of the awful Zeitgeist film.

And this document is possibly the most disgusting thing I have seen since that brief two month period.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wZ8A9h_mVOY&fbclid=IwAR0itZxA-byAw-wyG5S46IjaXIRgYDEqZTTBchcbyqM9DuVgHh8yJE6_IYQ

== 25.November.2014 ==

[referencing the Wilson trial in Ferguson, MO]

The more I read about the trial the more I am getting angry. The prosecutor should be ashamed of himself for the lack of his ability to pursue even the most basic of interrogatory points.

So much of Wilson's testimony, esp. that which came from immediately following the incident, smacks of stereotypical cop cover-up language -- the "I thought he might have a gun" trope is used as soon as possible.

The explanation that "concentrated marijuana" could have caused Brown to be aggressive is laughably founded only in drug-war-era fearmongering, rather than evidence.

Though I am still presently of the opinion that Wilson is not guilty of out-and-out murder (manslaughter more like?), and that opinion may yet change, there's plenty more he may be guilty of -- perjury, to start with.

Regardless of any of that, there is nothing here that says to me that there is a "lack of evidence" to indict Wilson. I think that he should go to trial.

I did my best to withhold my own judgment of the situation until I had a lot more facts. This is what I've come to, based on the information I now have.

== 12.November.2015 ==

Russia: "Whoops look at that we have a gigantic nuclear torpedo specifically designed to wipe out coastal cities. We're *so* sorry, we totally didn't mean to scare the world."

Me: "Meh what's the difference? If a nuke is used in a war these days the world ends so I just don't care if you've come up with another one."

== 11.March.2016 ==

http://www.politico.com/blogs/2016-gop-primary-live-updates-and-results/2016/03/donald-trump-mexico-isnt-war-220497?cmpid=sf&fbclid=IwAR3lvGaRjPDi9E-FBCDIM9eCfydHoL33e2ER-NUQh5-P8f3t_AqhZj83ze8

So if you can't get Mexico to willingly build this wall for us, or pay for it, then you'll, what, strongarm the entire country with the threat of military action? Hold an entire country at gunpoint so it'll do your bidding? Wow. If that's how you'll treat Mexico, I can only imagine how you'll treat the US. Apparently that's what a "revitalized military" means to Trump. If the parallels between his foreign and domestic policies and Hitler's aren't clear at this point, then you're not listening.

But Trump is right. Mexico won't play at the idea of war with the US. But I'll bet NATO will.

== 20.October.2016 ==

[a big rightwing stink about Clinton referencing the nuclear response time of the United States during her debate with Trump]

Just read an article trying to peg Clinton with revealing classified information during the debate about our nuclear response time. Let me quote the second to last sentence:

"This four-minute figure may be 'out there,' but it's certainly alarming how casually Hillary Clinton talks about sensitive matters of national security."

... So, it's not a secret? In fact, most documentaries about nuclear warfare and the cold war talk about it? You can learn it from a Google search? It's not a secret about our national security at all? Huh! Imagine that. So then why the hell did you feel the need to make the article at all?

== 23.February.2017 ==

BTW if there's any question on what the war on drugs is about, look at the resurgence in the use of private prisons by the DOJ coming hand-in-hand with the White House telling feds to start going after marijuana in states that don't treat it as a crime.

I'm not one for self-promotion??? but spread this shit. Make it front and center. Make this as naked an issue as you can; there's no covering this.

== 30.July.2017 ==

[a man from the Danny Wright Show on 97.7 The River, holding up a sign that reads, "Tell me the first major news story you remember as a kid!"]

For me, it was about the burning oil fields in Kuwait during the Gulf War. I know there are other things I saw, with Reagan and George HW Bush and the Olympics on TV, but I don't remember those stories.

Beyond that one, it was "Read My Lips: No New Taxes"

== 22.August.2017 ==

Anyone else unsurprised about Trump actively seeking wars? He is probing one country after another seeing which country he could attack and get away with it. The reason that he's not attacking North Korea RIGHT THIS INSTANT is because China has said emphatically that if we attack first then China will declare war with us, and that's not a war we want. So now he's trying out Venezuela. And Afghanistan.

Because he's unpopular and needs a war.

== 06.December.2017 ==

Using English, a language that has multiple ways of being interpreted and whose words' meanings change with usage, as the means by which one writes laws, is irresponsible. It leads to the intent of a law or constitutional amendment being lost to the change of linguistic interpretation.

"A well regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear Arms, shall not be infringed."

Let's talk about just how many ways you can read this.

"A well regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State" -- What's a well-regulated militia? It was originally intended and interpreted as state militias. What are those militias for? "The security of a free State." State as in, the states? State as in, the nation (as the word is sometimes used)? A free state as in, a condition of freedom? Which one? The original intention, again, was for state-run militias (in other words, as part of state government) to be able to hold up arms in defense of themselves from the federal government, other state governments, or foreign governments. Imagine Virginia declaring war with Maryland to get an idea of exactly what kind of thing the founding fathers had in mind there. "The right of the people to keep and bear arms" -- in the context of the rest of the statement, the very clear meaning is that the people in question are those who are defending the state. It's now taken out of its context to apply to people generally, which is not even remotely what the original intention was. It's also used to support the idea of private militias, because if it's a militia then it must be well-regulated (which for some reason people now interpret to mean "it's got rules it follows, even if those rules are its own rules" despite regulations really being about the way the state regulates the militia). "Shall not be infringed" is referring to those standing state militias being free to operate without being impinged upon by federal oversight or regulation; but now it is interpreted to mean that any regulation by any government body is unconstitutional and private citizens should be able to own hand grenades and 50-cal sniper rifles.

The constitution, from the ground-up, should be rewritten with original intent in a more logically-aligned language that is not subject to reinterpretation due to the changing usage of a particular word or the changing grammatical syntax of a dialect.

== 12.December.2017 ==

So, you know how when a shitty person gets called out for doing something bad but there's no direct/immediate confirmation of it, so they create a story that contradicts the accusation? Like, "I don't cheat on my wife! In fact, this one time, my friend Steve several years ago was talking to me about how he wanted to cheat on his wife and I talked him out of it because I'm so upstanding!"

Apparently, yesterday, someone talked about "accidentally" going to a brothel in Vietnam during the war, with Roy Moore, where there were child prostitutes, and Moore, being the "upstanding" individual he is, got out of there.

Yawn.

== 06.June.2018 ==

Prediction: Trump will, in fact, try to pardon himself. He will remain in office as long as he physically can, shouting decrees and making unsound arguments as to why his orders should be followed. And it will be up to the judgment of not Congress, not the Courts, but the military, to forcibly remove him. And it will be the start of a war.

The military will split between the faction that primarily heads the Pentagon that views it as upholding the constitution, and the faction that is in power due to Trump's administration that views (read: sells) it as a military coup.

Trump will call the entire thing a coup attempt led by his leftist enemies and he will attempt to muster a military presence to enforce his position as president. This would be our Reichstag Fire moment, and those loyal to their assumed leader will stand in arms against those in the Pentagon that wish to enforce the Constitution. The man who enters the power vacuum of the legitimate presidency will be Mike Pence who, aside from now being the man in power, has no reason to not back Trump's assertions -- maybe even lending him a ... oh, I don't know, a chancellery position or something?

== 08.June.2018 ==

The single wildest thing I've ever heard is, "This war criminal deserves deference because he's extremely old." (see: Kissinger)

== 02.March.2019 ==

1 second is enough time to land two, maybe three, footfalls while jogging.

10 seconds is about how long it takes to wash a dinner plate.

100 seconds is enough time to read two pages in a typical paperback book. Or, if you're me, one page.

1000 seconds is the driving time from the Poplar Street Bridge to Lambert Airport.

10,000 seconds is the length of time most people work before they go to lunch.

100,000 seconds is longer than it would take to travel by plane from St. Louis to Australia.

1,000,000 seconds is longer than the duration of the Apollo 16 space mission.

10,000,000 seconds is an entire season of television.

100,000,000 seconds is how long ago Deadpool came out (note: it is presently March of 2019).

1,000,000,000 seconds is the length of time between the start of World War I and the end of World War II.